#and there IS a post about this if you want to go digging

[lorialia]

⋆ sweet temptation ⋆

pairing: best friend!han jisung x fem!reader

genre: smut, minors dni.

summary: you and your best friend accidentally devour an entire box of sex chocolates while watching a pirated version of the movie ponyo. now you're left to deal with the consequences.

a/n: this came about after i submitted a similar thirst for @daydreams-after-dark 's birthday month event . . . so if you're seeing this, hi :) thanks for the indirect motivation to start a skz blog and post this. i hope you all enjoy ♡

warnings: dom!hanji, sub fem!reader, accidental use of sex chocolates/aphrodisiacs, dry humping, unprotected sex, very messy and wet, creampie, pet names(baby), possessive language, multiple orgasms, technically there's no verbal consent but they're both enthusiastic

"This is bullshit. I swear it is."

“What do you mean?" Jisung says, staring at you accusingly from across the couch. His wispy black hair falls in front of his round glasses, and his fingers reach up to brush it away so he can give you a halfhearted glare. "I put Ponyo in B-tier. That means it's good."

Your nose crinkles in pure disgust, absolute horror at the dingy laptop placed on your best friend’s ottoman. The screen glitches every once in a while, but you see the brightly colored tierlist clear as day. There’s Ponyo—one of your favorite Studio Ghibli movies of all time, a masterpiece of visual art and fairytale storytelling—in B-tier. Middle of the road. Average.

“It deserves better than just good!” You insist, convinced that he has the worst taste on planet Earth. “C’mon. At least put it up a tier.”

“Next to My Neighbor Totoro? Fuck no.”

“Fuck you!”

“Woah woah woah, language,” Jisung replies cheekily, and you grumble, tipping back to sink your head into the cushions of your best friend’s couch. If he even is your best friend after this anyways.

You and Jisung have been hanging out at his apartment for hours, chatting about basically anything and everything. It’s an especially exciting night; his roommate is out visiting family for the weekend, meaning the two of you have the whole place to yourselves.

“Don’t make a mess,” Minho had said through the phone. “I don’t want to clean up once I get back home.”

So far, you’ve had halfhearted success in baking cinnamon rolls, little-to-no success cooking dinner, and full success in ordering barbeque chicken. The kitchen had barely survived through it all, but aside from an occasional utensil on the floor it’s pretty clean.

Aside from your cooking ventures, you two have taken it upon yourselves to rank all the Studio Ghibli movies on a tierlist. Some of his takes surprise you, maybe frustrate you— but none of them fill you with such rage as seeing Ponyo in B-Tier.

“When was the last time you watched this movie?” You ask, almost demand. Jisung pretends to think for a moment; his soft lips pursing together in contemplation.

“Uhh… when I was twelve.”

“Oh for fuck's sake,” You reach over to his laptop and grab it, typing furiously to find a pirated URL for the movie. “We’re watching Ponyo tonight. No buts.”

“Fine,” Jisung says, extending the ‘e’. Out of the corner of your eye you spot him picking up the empty plastic containers of your dinner. He pouts, lips jutting out exaggeratedly when he finds the tins utterly empty. “Aww man, no more food. I’ll go see if there’s any leftovers in the kitchen.”

“Okay,” You idly reply, too busy trying to bypass the stupid ad pop-ups on his computer. You mash a couple of buttons, open and close a few tabs, and boom, you’re in.

Meanwhile, Jisung has gone and returned from the kitchen. In his hands he holds a random box of chocolates that he tosses into your waiting hands. “Found these in the back of the pantry. Probably Minho’s.”

You open the cardboard flap and dig your hand inside, pulling out a rectangle-shaped chocolate wrapped in pretty red tinfoil. You don’t care to read the name—the room is too dimly lit to see anyway—and rip open the package, finding two square chocolates waiting for you.

“Huh,” You comment, holding up the two chocolate pieces. “I’ve never seen chocolates that come in twos before.”

A hand snatches one of the chocolates away and you turn to see Jisung chewing. His adams apple bobs as he swallows. “Mmm, cherry. You should try it.”

You glance at the singular square held between your fingertips, and shrug before popping it in your mouth.

An hour later, you and Jisung are curled up together watching Ponyo. From glances and little remarks here and there, he seems to be enjoying it, and thank god he does. You couldn’t stand seeing Ponyo be misplaced any longer.

During a particularly captivating underwater scene, you reach for the box of chocolates—only to find the insides empty. You blink for a moment, tearing your eyes away from the screen, and realize you and Jisung have eaten them all.

“Aww,” Your eyebrows furrow in annoyance, but you remove yourself from the pile of blankets to toss the box in the trash. Your best friend remains engrossed in the movie, only shifting to adjust his glasses.

You think to check the brand on the box before you throw it away. It would be nice to get again, after all. The chocolates tasted pretty good—

“Jisung.”

The serious tone of your voice jerks your best friend back into reality, and he hurries to pause the movie. His gaze flickers up to yours with a slight level of concern. “What’s up?”

“These chocolates…” You audibly gulp, and your mind swims from reading the label on the box. “I don’t think these are regular ones.”

“Then what are they?” Jisung crawls over from his side of the couch and leans over your shoulder. His breath tickles your neck as he speaks. “Weed?”

You point to the packaging. It’s sensually decorated, with elegant lettering and a good number of red hearts littering the front. Right in the center are two words: aphrodisiac chocolate.

Jisung’s eyes bulge wide open and he blinks several times. “Sex chocolate?!”

“Yeah,” You let out a breathless, winded chuckle. Your eyes are equally as wide as his. “How many did we eat?”

Over the next minute, you and Jisung rummage around the couch and collect as many wrappers as you can. With each find, you’re more and more flabbergasted—assuming you two had an equal amount, you can say that you probably had ten to twelve chocolates…each.

“Holy shit,” is the only thing he can say for the next minute. You check the back of the box and discover more lovely news: the recommended amount is one to three squares per person.

There’s silence for the next couple of minutes after that.

The two of you must look so stupid, crouching over copious candy wrappers, dumbfounded by your dual idiocy. What the fuck were you going to do?

Jisung attempts to answer that question in breaking the silence. “So essentially…we’re gonna get super horny.”

“Yeah,” You respond, wincing. “I’m kind of trying not to think about that right now.”

“Well- I mean- You- I- ugh,” Jisung rubs his temples sorely. For once he’s completely serious, no giggles, no jokes. It concerns you as much as it frightens you. “How long until it kicks in?”

“A few hours, it says.”

“Any way to reverse the effects?”

“We already ate the chocolates, Sungie. I don’t think we can get them out.”

“Fuck,” He stares at the empty container. “What are we gonna do then?”

You open your mouth to respond and find it dry. Suddenly you’re hyperaware that in an undisclosed amount of time, both you and your best friend will be incredibly horny. In an apartment together, with no distractions. Just you and him.

You’re tempted to run for the hills. Grab your bag and race home to deal with it all on your own, rather than face this volatile situation and the can of worms that is your undeniable attraction to a man you swore never to date. It feels like the better situation for a split second; enough for you to place one foot on the ground in an effort to stand up from the couch.

Jisung’s head whips up immediately, and the panicked, almost desperate flash in his eyes freezes you in place. It’s almost a plea, a look that stirs something deep in your gut: Please. Don’t go.

You sit back down.

“So…wanna watch the rest of Ponyo?”

By the end of the movie, Jisung moves Ponyo up to A-tier. Normally you’d gloat in his face and criticize his judgmental movie taste—but you can’t seem to get the thought of the chocolates out of your head. It doesn’t help that he's uncomfortably close, his hoodie brushing up against your shoulder with every breath.

He doesn’t say anything as he shuts the laptop, doesn’t look at you as he leans back on the couch. His eyes are distant. Unfocused, dazed like you’ve only seen when he’s dead drunk.

You only need to wonder why for a moment before you notice just how burning hot you are.

Your shirt tightly sticks to you like a vice, and your head fogs like smoke filling the air. The thick pulse in your chest can’t seem to subside, and you feel your skin heat up more with every second that passes.

One sensation rushes in even stronger, an ache from your lower half. Your thighs squeeze together involuntarily, feeling for some sort of relief, any sort of relief. God, you’ve never wanted a dick more in your entire life.

And your best friend happens to be sitting right across from you with one.

Shit. No. You can’t think that way about him; you shouldn’t look. He’s your best friend—but your gaze moves on its own and hones in on the very obvious bulge in his sweatpants.

You glance upwards. Jisung’s cheeks are flushed. A bead of sweat trails down his forehead. He can’t seem to stop swallowing. His pretty dark eyes are not trained on yours but on the way your thighs press against each other for friction. He stares as if he’s devouring you whole.

“Jisung?” You say softly, your voice almost hoarse in your throat. There is no need to whisper. It’s just you and him, in his apartment together, alone.

“…Yeah?”

“Are you feeling it too?”

Jisung still can’t seem to look you in the eyes. He nods, slowly.

You crawl closer.

“Fuck,” He sputters out breathlessly. His hand reaches up to shakily adjust his glasses. Sweat seems to drip down the side of his face and off his chin. He wipes it away.

You inch closer, and with every shuffle you hear Jisung’s breath grow more ragged. His hands move all over himself— adjusting the gray sweatpants you want to ruin so badly, make a mess all over and cum on, brushing away the same strand of hair over and over. He still can’t seem to look at you.

Finally, you arrive right in front of him. You sit with your legs spread wide, your shorts doing little to cover up the arousal starting to drip down your thigh. Your knees, planted on the couch cushion, brush against his legs. His breath stops.

You reach up and gently grab ahold of his chin. Slowly, you turn his head so he comes face to face with your equally flushed face.

“Oh my god.”

In an instant, Jisung’s lips press against yours; he practically climbs on top of you, pinning you down into the furniture. His arms reach and wrap around whatever he can as he drinks from the taste of your lips in a dizzying rhythm. It’s insistent, messy, desperate. Your mouths move in a tangled dance, hoping each to swallow the other whole.

His fingers find the bottom hem of your shirt and hook underneath it to tug it up. You oblige and revel in each and every touch you can get.

Your shirt is shoved above your breasts, and Jisung doesn't bother to unclasp your bra—opting to move the fabric aside instead. He breaks the kiss to ogle at your bare chest. His eyes are lidded and you swear that his pupils are heart-shaped, and he sighs, almost dreamily. Like he's seen a piece of heaven.

“God, you're fucking beautiful,” He mutters from above you. “I'm sorry, I just can't....”

His words send a rush of heat straight to your core, and you whine. Next thing you know, he has his hands on your knees and spreads your legs apart so he can slot himself between them.

The friction of his pants against your clothed clit makes you keen—usually you aren't so sensitive, if not for those chocolates. Every sensation seems to be heightened.

"Sungie~" You whimper as Jisung rocks his hips against yours, your legs wrapping around his waist. He leans down to capture your lips in his once more, hungry for the hints of chocolate he tastes.

Everything is sloppy and coordinated; he grinds into you like a bunny in heat, groaning at every bit of friction between his gray sweatpants and your cotton shorts. It's hot and stuffy, but you've never felt so good in your life.

"Feel so good, shit-" Jisung mumbles between messy kisses. His glasses are fogged and hanging half off his nose, but he couldn't care less. "Wanna fuck you so badly- you want that? Want me to fuck you- ah, god~ like you deserve?"

Jisung shoves his head down into your chest, burying himself between your two mounds as he presses up on you from below. He kisses your skin and moves slightly to suckle on your right nipple, making you keen. His soft boba eyes peek out to look up at you, dazed and sick with sticky desire.

Your cunt clenches around nothing, throbs under the way Jisung's clothed cock hits your clit repeatedly. You want him to fuck you so bad, need your best friend's dick to split you open.

"Fuck me please," You beg, your voice trembling and thoughts hazy with lust. You've never begged for a man before, but Jisung is simply different in every way. "Please, Jisung, Sungie, please-"

He audibly groans, as if the sound of your voice gets him any closer to heaven. He wrenches himself away from your cunt to slip down his pants just enough for his thick, veiny cock to slip out. Meanwhile, you can't resist slipping your hand under the waistband of your shorts, to your needy wet cunt. You rub your clit with two of your fingers, whining softly at the stimulation of your swollen bud.

Suddenly, Jisung's hands wrap around the hem of your shorts and panties—he tugs them down all at once, exposing your sobbing pussy to his greedy view. You look up and his eyes are hungry, lidded and clouded with want, zeroed in on your cunt. You think he might be drooling.

Jisung hurries to press his cock against your wetness. He's shaky, almost trembling as he guides his mushroom tip through your folds, his breath coming out in stutters.

Even with just the tip, it's big. You feel like you're split open, and every inch of his cock entering your pussy sends a shiver of pleasure down your spine. It doesn't even hurt with how wet it is, and he slides in like warm butter. He practically collapses onto you as soon as he bottoms out, his head buried in your neck.

His cock twitches inside you, and you realize through the haze that Jisung isn't moving. He's whining softly, breathlessly, but his hips do little more than tremble.

"Jisung-"

"Don't," He shushes you. His voice is raspy and desperate, and he mouths at your neck between words. "I-I'm trying not to cum."

You whine, wanting any sort of friction—but Jisung doesn't budge. Then you squirm a little, just to feel it a little more, and both of you let out audible moans. He grabs your hips roughly to hold you in place.

"F-fuck-" He swears, and there's a growl in the back of his throat. "Are you trying to get me to cum inside?"

The idea of his cum filling you up sends a rush through your bones. You inadvertently clench around him, and the grip on your hips becomes so strong it might bruise.

"Y-you want it that bad? Fine then. Fucking take it."

Jisung starts a relentless pace; he groans into your neck and holds your hips down so you take every inch of him with every thrust. His tip brushes up against your cervix sweetly, and you keen, your hands tangling into his black hair.

"You're so wet baby-" He mutters, stamping in a word between rough thrusts. "So. Fucking. Tight. God, bet no one has made you feel this good, huh? Say it."

You can barely find the words, letting punched-out moans every time his cock kisses your cervix. "Y-you're the only one, Ji!"

"That's it," He says, his pace speeding up impossibly faster. He's hardly going in a pattern, just bunny fucking into you like there's no tomorrow. "This pussy belongs to me, doesn't it? All mine~"

Jisung changes his grasp; he gets a hold of your thighs and spreads them so he can fuck you deeper. It's a welcome change—and you remove one hand from his hair to clamp over your mouth, your moans becoming unabashedly noisy. Your eyes squeeze shut and roll back behind your eyelids. "O-oh Jisung, that feels good-"

"Baby, baby please, I gotta cum- gonna cum inside, want that? You want that?" He says, and his hand shakily moves to rub his palm against your clit.

You cry out, about to tip over the edge. You want it more than you've ever wanted anything in your life. "P-please!"

Jisung groans loudly, not bothering to muffle the noise as he cums inside. You cum at the same time, whimpering into his tangled-up hair. His hips stutter but they don't halt; he fucks his cum into you lazily. You whimper at the sensation of his warm cream filling your insides. It's messy and deliciously wet.

"Jisung," You mumble out, still feeling a burning ache. You're addicted to the pull of his cock inside your walls. "I- I want-"

He interrupts you with a groan; then his hips begin to pound into you once more, moaning into the skin of your neck. He simply can't stop, even when you let out a high-pitched cry.

"I'm sorry baby- just had to. Your pussy is sucking me in-" Jisung grunts. His voice is nearly drowned out by the wet squelch of every thrust into your creamy cunt. "Just one more, one more, that's it~"

You feel like you're being folded in half from the way he presses you down, your thighs moving to rest on his shoulders. He ruts into you with reckless abandon, and his hands find themselves digging into the couch on either side of your head.

Jisung lifts his head up so it's right above yours, and you see him for the first time in what feels like ages. His glasses are long gone, and his lips are slightly ajar as he groans senselessly with every thrust. The pinkness of his round cheeks and the lidded pleasure in his eyes matches yours; he leans down to capture your lips in a sloppy kiss.

You moan into his mouth sweetly, and he hums in delight. There's no rhythm to the way he kisses you and fucks you—just pleasure-driven madness, desperation to feel you in every way.

"Mine," He mumbles, almost to himself as he pounds into you desperately. "Gonna cum in you again, fill you up~ my baby, all mine-"

You clench despite the tired ache in your thighs. You want him to cum in you over and over, spill his semen and let him fuck it into you again. You want him completely, irrevocably.

It's this thought that sends you over the edge for a second time; you wail, unable to make out any words as a wave of pleasure washes over you. Jisung messily kisses you throughout, muffling the sounds that escape your lips with his own.

He thrusts a few more times, groaning senselessly into your mouth before finally cumming again. Another warm sensation floods your insides and you sigh in satisfaction.

Jisung crumples onto your body and simply lays limp on top of you. Neither of you can bring yourselves to move.

"Best sex ever." He croaks out with a hoarse voice, and you laugh tiredly.

The next morning, you wake up on the couch. Jisung is laying next to you, his body tangled with yours. He stirs as you shuffle and pull yourself up from the cushions.

"Morning," You whisper, and he responds with a soft hum. His hair is adorably chaotic and worsens as he runs a hand through it. "Sleep well?"

"Yeah," He says, and sits up with a groan of pain. "God, my joints. I feel like I blew out my back."

You notice a similar soreness in your thighs, but you tease him regardless. "You old man."

"Shut up," Jisung replies with no real malice. He looks down at you with surprising affection, his boba eyes twinkling with joy. You can't help but smile at the sight.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" You say, an amused breath leaving your lips.

"Nothing," He grins cheekily. "Just that I got to have sex with my best friend who I've liked for an entire year."

You blink in shock, and Jisung giggles. "What? You're surprised?"

"No, I mean- yeah," You find yourself stumbling over your words, a pink blush appearing on your cheeks. "I mean, we did fuck yesterday, I just didn't expect you to say it so...bluntly."

"Well I did," Jisung lowers his voice to a soft whisper. He leans in close so his lips nearly brush against yours. "I like you."

"I like you too," You reply bashfully, and you can't resist kissing him. It's slow and saccharine sweet, nothing like the desperate messes you were yesterday. He sighs like a love-struck teenager as you pull away.

"Minho's gonna kill us," He mumbles dreamily. You burst out laughing.

[d-z20]

More Than You Will Ever Know (NSFW)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x Reader

Summary: For most of your time at college, you've been in a relationship with your sugar mommy, Agatha Harkness. Everything is going great except for the fact you are about to graduate and with that comes change

- OR -

What happens when you turn up at her door months later. It's sex, sex happens.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, alcohol, sugar mommy Agatha with a few grey hairs 😍, sugar baby Reader, established dynamic, Mommy kink, strap riding (R recv), squirting, angst, a little hurt/comfort, both Agatha and Reader are switches, fingering (R recv), oral (both recv), multiple orgasms, soft aftercare

Words: 5.9k

A/N: This probably isn't the fic y'all were expecting when I said I was doing a sugar mommy Agatha post... but I hope you enjoy it anyway my lovelies ;) requested fic

AO3 | Masterlist

The restaurant you were at was one of those exclusive places with no menu—just a personal chef curating a bespoke experience, each dish a masterpiece plated with precision. You weren’t sure what half the things on your plate were, but Agatha, ever composed, swirled a glass of deep red wine and explained each one with a knowing smirk.

She sat across from you, effortlessly elegant in a dark silk blouse, her silver streaks catching in the dim candlelight. You’d barely sat down before she leaned forward, her fingers brushing over yours, and said, “You look stunning tonight, darling.”

You did, of course, because she’d made sure of it. The dress you wore—a sleek, custom-made piece in a colour that suited your skin perfectly—was her gift. She had it delivered earlier that day, instructing you to wear it to your graduation as well. “Something beautiful for someone extraordinary,” she had hummed as she held it up against your body, assessing the fit before insisting on getting it tailored just a little more.

Throughout dinner, she was her usual indulgent self, ordering the best of everything and ensuring you never had to lift a finger. When the waiter poured more champagne into your flute, she merely tilted her head with amusement and said, “We’re celebrating, aren’t we?”

And celebrate she did—showering you with praise between bites of delicacies, her voice rich with something dangerously close to pride.

“I always knew you could do it,” she said, her thumb lazily tracing the stem of her wine glass. “You’re brilliant, and I’ve seen it from the very beginning. Your mind—fuck, it’s a wonder and a privilege to witness. I hope you know that.”

Warmth spread through you, not just from the alcohol but from the way she looked at you—as if you were the only thing worth admiring in this whole damn place. You ducked your head, feeling the heat creep up your neck, but Agatha wasn’t having any of that. She reached across the table, tilting your chin up with two fingers, forcing you to meet her gaze.

"None of that, baby," she chastised softly. "You’ve worked so hard, and now you're finally here. I am so proud of you."

Your heart squeezed, and before you could even form a response, she was placing a small velvet box in your hand. "Not yet," she hummed when you made to open it, her lips curling in amusement. "Save it for later."

You didn’t press, instead slipping the small box into your bag—another thing Agatha had insisted on buying for you.

And, in this moment, life was perfect.

—

Heat. Skin against skin. The soft rustle of silk sheets as your body moved against hers, your fingers digging into toned muscle. Agatha beneath you, her hands firm on your hips, guiding you, encouraging you, worshipping you in the way only she knew how. The air was thick with the smell of perfume and sex.

"You take me so well, baby," she rasped, her voice hoarse with want, nails dragging down your spine, leaving trails of pleasure in their wake.

Your head was spinning, pleasure pooling in your stomach, tightening unbearably. She always did this to you—reduced you to nothing but need, left you craving her touch even when she was already giving you everything. And right now, you could feel her inside you, the stretch of silicone filling you so perfectly it had you trembling, your body fluttering around the unyielding length with every slow, deliberate roll of your hips.

"Mommy," you mewled, your voice high and breathless, and Agatha groaned in response, her grip on you tightening.

"That’s right, baby," she purred, voice molten. "Come on, let me hear you. Let me feel you."

A desperate moan left your lips, your thighs shaking as she bucked up into you, her hands guiding your movements in a way that made you dizzy with need. Every stroke had you gasping, the friction deep and deliberate, hitting your g-spot over and over again. But it wasn’t just that—Agatha’s mouth was on you too, hot and wet, her lips closing around your nipple as she sucked, her tongue flicking over the sensitive bud, sending another sharp jolt of pleasure straight to your core.

"So fucking perfect," she praised, letting her fingers slide up to cup your jaw, tilting your head down until your lips were only a breath away. "You’ve been so good for me, haven’t you?"

"Y-Yes, Mommy," you gasped, barely coherent, but she swallowed your sounds with a kiss, deep and possessive.

The pressure coiled tighter, impossibly so, your body alight with sensation, every nerve ending sparking under her touch. You could feel another orgasm building, stealing the breath from your lungs, your nails sinking into her shoulders as you chased that final, devastating peak.

"That's it, my love," she groaned, her voice thick with satisfaction. "Cum for me, baby."

And you did. A shattered moan, body arching, the pleasure tearing through you like fire. The intensity was blinding, overwhelming; your entire body tensed, then gave way to the sheer force of your climax. A sharp gasp escaped your lips as the pleasure burst free, your thighs trembling violently as you soaked the strap buried deep inside you.

Agatha groaned low, feeling the warmth spread between her legs, the slick mess you had made drenching the harness, the sheets, and her own skin. “Fuck, baby,” she husked, her voice thick with satisfaction, her hands gripping your hips as if to steady you. “Look at you... so perfect.”

Your breath came in rapid pants, your limbs weak, your body still wracked with aftershocks. The evidence of your pleasure was undeniable—your arousal staining the sheets beneath you, glistening against Agatha’s stomach just above where the strap had pressed flush against her. She let out a pleased hum, her fingers tracing soothing circles on your back as you collapsed against her, utterly spent.

“There you go, baby,” she whispered, her voice softer now, almost reverent. “You did so well for Mommy.”

Her hands ran slowly, worshipfully, over your spine, grounding you as you shivered against her. She pressed lazy, lingering kisses to your temple, your cheek, your shoulder, anywhere she could reach, while both of you struggled to catch your breath. The world beyond these walls didn’t exist; there was only the warmth of her embrace, the way she murmured your name like a prayer, the soft hum of contentment vibrating against your skin.

You belonged here. With her. Always.

And yet, you didn’t notice the way her expression shifted, the way her hold tightened just a fraction, as if she were memorising the feel of you, as if she were already preparing to let you go.

—

The sun dipped below the skyline as you sat on the edge of Agatha’s expansive marble countertop, feeling a familiar weight in the air. Less than twenty-four hours ago, you had been wrapped in her arms, your body trembling with pleasure, her voice thick with praise as she called you perfect. She had spoilt you rotten—an extravagant dinner, a new dress, a reminder that she was proud of you, that she always knew you’d make it. Things had felt so whole, so right.

But tonight? Tonight felt like the cruellest contrast.

Agatha’s penthouse, usually brimming with her presence, warm and commanding, felt cold and distant. She was pacing the living room, arms crossed, her sharp blue eyes avoiding yours. There was no teasing smirk, no playful remark about how well you took her the night before. The tension in the air was suffocating, pressing against your chest like a vice.

Finally, she broke the silence with a laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“You’re about to graduate, Y/N,” she began, her voice smooth yet clipped. "I think it's time we stop pretending that this... arrangement... still serves either of us."

You blinked, your stomach plummeting. Just last night, she had held you so tightly, whispering sweet nothings against your skin. And now she was speaking as if the last three and a half years were nothing more than a fleeting indulgence.

"What are you talking about?" you asked, trying to keep your voice steady, but the words came out too sharp, too raw.

Her eyes flickered toward you, her lips twisting into a teasing smirk, but it didn’t carry the same warmth it usually did. “Oh, don’t look so surprised, darling. You have a great job lined up and a whole life ahead of you. You don’t need me to be your sugar mommy anymore."

The words stung. You swallowed against the lump rising in your throat, masking it with a hollow laugh. "I don’t need you? Is that what you think?"

"You don’t need a sugar mommy," she corrected, her voice carrying that sharp edge that cut deeper than you wanted to admit. “I’m saying it’s time for you to grow up. To live your life without being bound to anything—or anyone.”

The finality in her words left you breathless. This wasn’t a joke. There was no hint of her usual playful cruelty. 

She really meant it.

“I don’t want that, Agatha,” you said softly, your voice cracking just a little, but your pride wouldn’t let you break. “I’m not ready for it.”

“Oh, I know you’re not,” she replied smoothly, turning away to pour herself a drink. The sound of liquid hitting glass was deafening in the quiet room. “But you’ll be fine. You’ll forget about me and find someone more your speed. Someone young and eager to be your equal, not just someone who's... well, who’s old enough to be your mother.”

A sharp sting bloomed in your chest, a dull, aching wound. Three and a half years down had come down to this. It started as just a simple arrangement—she took care of you financially, and you gave her company and affection in return. But somewhere along the way, something deeper had blossomed between you two, something neither of you had been brave enough to admit. And now she was discarding it like it had never meant anything at all.

She turned back to face you then, and for a brief moment, there was something else in her eyes—something softer, maybe even hesitant. But then it was gone, masked by that familiar smirk, the one she always used when she wanted to hide her vulnerability.

“Look, sweetheart, I’m doing this for you. You don’t need me holding you back. Go out there. Find yourself. It’ll be better for the both of us.”

Your chest was tight, the weight of her words suffocating. “I don’t want anyone else,” you whispered, voice barely above a breath. “I only want you.”

She scoffed, but there was no real bite to it. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but like I’ve said, you'll get over it.”

You let out a hollow, defeated scoff of your own, staring down at your feet as you willed yourself not to cry. When you finally spoke, your voice was eerily indifferent. “Okay.”

You grabbed your bag, turned on your heel, and stormed out, slamming the door behind you with a force that rattled the walls.

The moment you stepped onto the busy street, the cold air hit you like a slap in the face, but it wasn’t enough to stop the sting behind your eyes. You blinked rapidly, forcing back the tears, refusing to let the world see you like this.

But when you finally made it back to your apartment, the second the door clicked shut behind you, everything crumbled.

Your bag slipped from your shoulder, hitting the floor with a dull thud, but you barely noticed as your knees gave out beneath you. You collapsed onto the hardwood, your entire body shaking, the weight of it all crashing down on you at once. The tears burnt as they spilt over, hot and unstoppable, rolling down your cheeks in thick, messy trails.

It wasn’t just crying—it was full-body, gut-wrenching, ugly sobbing. The kind that left your chest aching, your throat raw, and your limbs trembling. It felt like your heart had been shattered, and now it was cutting your hands to shreds as you desperately tried to gather the pieces.

You gasped for breath, curling in on yourself, hands clutching at your arms as if you could physically hold yourself together. But nothing could stop the pain or the gaping void that Agatha had left behind.

Your fingers reached for the armrest of your couch and found the hoodie she had bought for you last month, and you clung to it like a lifeline, burying your face into the fabric that still smelt like her. Just a few weeks ago, you would have never imagined this—never imagined she’d leave you, that she’d end things so cruelly.

You thought it would never end.

But it had.

And as you lay there, curled up on the floor, crying yourself to sleep in a hoodie that smelt like the woman who just broke your heart, you failed to notice how the small velvet box she had given you had slipped from your bag and slid under the couch, out of sight.

—

The days following Agatha’s decision felt like a blur. You tried to move on, to focus on your future. The job offer you’d received was a great opportunity, and Agatha had made a valid point about your independence. You told yourself this was for the best, that you could do this, that you could build a life outside of her.

But no matter how much you tried, every minute without her felt like a slow death.

Your apartment, once a sanctuary, now felt hollow. The bed was too big and too cold without her beside you. Mornings were the worst—waking up alone, reaching instinctively for her only to be met with empty sheets. You used to wake to the scent of her perfume lingering in the air, the warmth of her body pressed against yours, her voice teasing as she coaxed you into wakefulness with slow kisses and whispered praises. Now, silence stretched endlessly, suffocating in its vastness.

You kept yourself busy, throwing yourself into the final few weeks of college life as graduation loomed closer. You accepted invitations to go out with friends and tried to lose yourself in the crowds, in the laughter, in the distractions, but it never worked. Conversations blurred together, nights out felt dull, and no matter how much you smiled or how much you laughed at someone’s joke, you felt empty. It wasn’t just loneliness. It was Agatha.

You missed her. Desperately.

You missed the sound of her laughter when she was genuinely amused—not the polite, calculated chuckle she gave in social settings, but the real one, the one that made her eyes crinkle and her entire body shake, a soft snort escaping her. You missed the way she would kiss your forehead absentmindedly, as if it were second nature, the way she’d roll her eyes at you but always, always indulge you. You missed the way she touched you, not just in the heat of passion but in the quiet moments—her hand on your lower back as she guided you through a door, her fingers tracing soothing patterns against your thigh as she read, the way she’d brush your hair back just to get a better look at you.

But most of all, you missed the way she saw you.

Because no matter how much success came your way, no matter how proud your professors were, no matter how many congratulatory messages you received, it all felt muted. Distant. Like something was missing, like a shadow had been cast over every achievement. And you knew exactly what it was.

It was Agatha.

She was everywhere and nowhere all at once.

You reckoned she had completely moved on, that she was thriving in your absence. You convinced yourself of it because what other choice did you have? The world wouldn’t let you forget her. She was too deeply woven into it.

Her name popped up in conversations—friends of friends mentioning her in passing, mutual connections keeping her name alive. And then there was social fucking media.

You didn’t follow her, of course. That would’ve been masochistic. But that didn’t stop her from appearing on all of your feeds, no matter the platform—through tagged photos, through shared articles, through snippets of interviews that made their way into your timeline.

She was back in full force, attending galas, closing deals, and commanding every room she stepped into. She was radiant, powerful, and untouchable. The world saw her as she always had been: composed. And it made you sick.

Because if she could move on so effortlessly, why couldn’t you?

—

It only got worse after graduation.

You should have been happy. You had finally done it—achieved everything you had worked so hard for. Your professors beamed with pride, and your family sent messages filled with love and admiration. Your friends celebrated you, taking you out, making toasts in your name.

And yet, through it all, the joy never felt whole.

Your graduation gown felt wrong without Agatha there to see it. The dress she had bought you clung to your body like a second skin, but instead of making you feel unstoppable, it felt wrong. Hollow. As if the fabric itself had been stripped of its magic, leaving behind nothing but an empty, uncomfortable reminder of what you had lost. What once made you feel desired now only makes you feel abandoned. 

As you stood on that stage, accepting your degree, you couldn’t help but scan the crowd, your heart foolishly hoping, just for a second, that you’d see her there. That she would be watching, pride shining in her eyes, just as she had promised.

But she wasn’t there and that should have been your final sign, the last nail in the coffin.

And yet it wasn’t.

Because you still needed her.

Not for her money, not for the extravagant gifts or the lavish lifestyle. You needed her. Her wit, her sharp tongue, the way she challenged you, pushed you, believed in you even when you didn’t believe in yourself. You needed the way she made you feel—cherished, adored, hers.

But she was gone and the world just kept on turning.

—

It took a few months, but eventually, the truth hit you like a freight train.

You couldn’t move on. You couldn’t picture a future without her. Your job was exciting, sure, but it was nothing compared to what you had with Agatha. The thought of another person touching you, holding you, even kissing you—it felt wrong. You only wanted her.

You had only ever wanted her.

You were cleaning your apartment when you dropped a pen and it had rolled beneath the couch, disappearing into the shadows. With a huff, you crouched down, reaching blindly, fingers brushing against something soft. Velvet.

Your breath caught in your throat.

The box.

You pulled it out slowly, heart hammering in your chest. The moment you saw it, the memories rushed back; the dinner, the way Agatha had smiled at you with something unreadable in her eyes when she handed it over, the way she told you not to open it yet.

You swallowed hard and flipped the lid open.

Inside sat the most breathtaking ring. It was perfect. A piece so intricate and unmistakably you that it stole the air from your lungs.

Agatha had listened. She had remembered.

You had mentioned it once, maybe twice, in passing. About how you could never find anything quite right, how everything in stores always felt too impersonal, too generic. And yet, here it was. Commissioned. Designed just for you.

Your fingers trembled as you lifted it from the box, your eyes catching on the engraving along the inside.

"More than you will ever know."

Your breath hitched.

What did it mean? More than you would ever know… what? That she cared for you more than you realised? That she—

Your heart surged and shattered all over again.

How could she give you this and then break things off a day later?

It didn’t make sense.

And suddenly, you had to see her.

You barely remembered throwing on a coat, stuffing the box into your pocket, and hailing a cab. The moment you arrived at her building, you asked the concierge not to alert her. The doorman, who knew you after the countless times you came here for Agatha, hesitated before nodding, letting you up without question.

Your pulse was deafening as you knocked loudly on her door.

The seconds stretched unbearably.

And then—

The door swung open, revealing Agatha in silk loungewear, her hair in soft waves, her expression unreadable.

She was poised as always, but something was different.

Her eyes were tired. The dark circles beneath them barely concealed, her sharp features softer than you remembered. And suddenly, you wondered, had she actually moved on? Or was she just keeping up appearances?

Her lips curled into a familiar smirk, but there was no bite to it this time. No amusement.

"You look like hell, Y/N," she noted, voice unexpectedly soft.

You blinked, realising only now that fresh tears had fallen from your eyes on the way up to her apartment.

"Thanks," you replied, forcing a humourless smile. Your throat tightened. "I’ve missed you."

Agatha hesitated. Her gaze flickered over your face, searching, but for what, you weren’t sure.

"I thought I told you to move on," she said, voice quieter this time.

"I can’t," you confessed, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

She didn’t stop you.

"I’ve tried. You’re all I want, Agatha. I don’t need anyone else, and I don’t want to."

She sighed, crossing her arms, tapping her fingers against her sleeve in that way she always did when she was thinking too much. "This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be, you know."

Her voice was weary, laced with something close to regret.

"You’re supposed to live your life. You deserve someone who can give you what I can’t–"

"You give me everything," you butt in.

The words left you without hesitation, your feet carrying you closer, your heart pounding as your fingers brushed against the silk of her robe. "I don’t need anything else. I never did."

Her eyes darkened.

The breath between you was charged, heavy, thick with something you both had been suppressing for far too long.

"Y/N, don’t say things you don’t mean," she whispered, but her voice wavered. "I’m not going to–"

But she didn’t get a chance to finish. You leaned in, and the moment your lips met, the world shattered.

She gasped softly, just before her hands found your waist, pulling you flush against her. The kiss was desperate, urgent, and needy. A collision of everything unspoken between you.

Agatha responded immediately, claiming your mouth with a hunger that sent a rush of heat straight to your core.

"Fuck," she breathed against your lips before kissing you deeper, her grip tightening, pulling you impossibly close. "You’re going to be the death of me."

Your only response was a soft whimper, fingers tangling in her hair as you pressed yourself against her, already drunk on the feeling of her after so long apart.

"I missed you," you murmured between kisses, hands slipping under the robe, palms pressing against her warm, bare skin. "I missed you so much."

Agatha groaned, walking you back toward the bedroom.

"Show me how much."

The second your back hit the bed, Agatha was on top of you, mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your neck, and your collarbone. She tugged impatiently at your shirt, and you helped her strip it away before her hands slid down, claiming you as if she never wanted to let go again.

Your legs wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer as she kissed down your body, teasing, tasting, until all you could do was whimper and beg.

"Mommy," you moaned, arching beneath her as her mouth found your chest, teeth grazing over sensitive skin before her tongue soothed the sting.

She groaned at the sound of the title slipping from your lips, her fingers gripping your hips, keeping you exactly where she wanted you.

"That’s right, baby," she murmured, voice dripping with want. "Let me take care of you. Let me remind you exactly who you belong to."

You gasped as her hands roamed lower, her touch setting every nerve in your body alight.

But before she could go further, your fingers curled around her wrist, stopping her.

Agatha’s brow furrowed slightly as she looked up at you, lips parted, eyes burning with desire but shadowed with something else.

"Why did you give me the ring?" You asked, your voice a whisper, fragile but demanding.

She stilled.

Her breath slowed.

For a long moment, she didn’t speak, her gaze searching yours as if trying to decide whether to run or to finally give in.

You swallowed hard and continued.

"You had it made just for me. You knew exactly what I wanted before I even knew myself. And then you gave it to me, only to leave the next day."

A crack formed in her carefully constructed mask.

"It wasn’t supposed to be like this," Agatha admitted finally, voice raw. "I thought I was doing the right thing."

"By breaking my heart?"

Her jaw tensed. "By letting you go before I ruined you. Before I kept you."

Your fingers tightened around her wrist. "I wanted to be kept."

Her eyes flickered with pain, but before she could protest, you reached into the pocket of your discarded coat and pulled out the small velvet box.

You flipped it open between you, revealing the ring—the proof that she had always known you, had always loved you, even if she had never said the words.

"Then tell me what it means," you whispered.

Her throat bobbed as she looked at the engraving.

"More than you will ever know."

Agatha exhaled sharply and sat up, running a hand through her tousled hair. 

"It means..." she hesitated, then shook her head with a self-deprecating chuckle. "It means I’m a coward."

You frowned, shifting onto your side to face her fully. "Agatha–"

She cut you off with a sigh, her fingers ghosting over your wrist, like she needed to touch you to ground herself. "I was going to explain it all that night. Before I—before I convinced myself you were better off without me." She scoffed lightly, as if irritated at her own foolishness. "I thought pushing you away would make it easier for you to move on. That it would be easier for me."

Your breath caught. "And was it?"

Her gaze softened, and she gave you a small, sad smile. "No. It was hell."

Something in your chest cracked wide open. You reached for her hand, lacing your fingers together, grounding yourself in her warmth. "What does the engraving mean?" You ask again.

She let out a breath like she had been holding it for months. And then, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it, she said the words you had been waiting for all along.

"It meant... it means I love you, Y/N." She shook her head, laughing bitterly. "I love you more than you will ever know. I should have said it a long time ago, but I didn’t know how. So I put it in a gift instead, hoping you’d understand without me having to say it."

Your chest ached, but this time, it wasn’t just pain. It was overwhelming, all-consuming relief.

"I love you too."

Agatha’s breath caught.

"Say it again," she croaked, her voice barely above a whisper.

You sat up, reaching for her, cupping her face between your hands.

"I love you, Agatha. I never stopped. I never could."

The tension in her body melted as she exhaled shakily, leaning into your touch.

Then she kissed you again.

This time, it wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t rushed or frantic.

It was slow. Intentional. Reverent.

Agatha laid you back down with deliberate care, her hands trailing over your body like she was memorising you all over again. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered "mine" against your skin was a promise.

The rest of your clothes were shed in a haze of need, the soft rustle of fabric hitting the floor drowned out by breathless moans and desperate hands mapping out familiar territory. Agatha took her time with you first, pinning you beneath her as she trailed wet, open-mouthed kisses down your body, her tongue flicking over sensitive skin, her fingers following in its wake. When she finally dipped lower, parting your thighs with a knowing smirk. She took you apart with practiced ease—driving you to the brink again and again until you were a trembling, pleading mess beneath her.

But you wouldn’t let her have all the control tonight. With a sudden shift, you flipped her onto her back, straddling her hips, drinking in the sight of her flushed and breathless. You kissed like you wanted to drown in her, dragging your tongue down the column of her throat, over the swell of her breasts, sucking marks into her skin, and staking your claim the way she always had with you. 

And when you finally settled between her legs, when you pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh and felt her shudder beneath you, you didn’t tease; you devoured. The taste of her, the sound of her moans, the way her fingers twisted into your hair as she cried out your name—it was everything, and you never wanted to stop.

Agatha’s hands tightened in your hair, holding you in place as she rolled her hips, grinding up against your mouth, chasing her release with unrestrained need. She was completely lost in the sensation, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps, her thighs trembling around your head. 

"Just like that—fuck—don’t stop, baby," she groaned, throwing her head back as her body tensed. And then she shattered, her orgasm hitting her in waves, her grip tightening as she rode it out against your tongue, moaning your name like a prayer.

Agatha was wrecked by the time you pulled away, her chest heaving, her lips parted as she reached for you, pulling you back into a bruising kiss. "You’re insatiable," she panted, her nails raking down your back. 

"And you love it," you teased, grinning against her lips. 

She flipped you once more, settling herself over you with a wicked gleam in her eyes. "I do. But  now it’s my turn again.” She trailed her lips down your neck, across your collarbone, then lower, nipping and sucking at your chest, your stomach, your thighs—leaving her marks all over you. 

Agatha hovered over your dripping cunt, her hands trailing possessively over your thighs, making you tremble, your body taut with anticipation. She took her time, lips and tongue teasing along the sensitive skin, her breath warm as she moaned something low and indulgent against you. The first slow drag of her tongue had you gasping, fingers fisting in her hair, and she hummed in approval, pressing deeper, savouring every reaction.

Her tongue worked you over with aching precision, lapping and circling before closing around your sensitive clit, sucking with just the right amount of pressure. The pleasure was almost too much, the heat pooling in your stomach threatening to spill over as she pressed her fingers inside, curling them perfectly to have you crying out. Every movement was deliberate—slow and deep, then quick and teasing, keeping you on the edge but never quite letting you fall. 

Meanwhile, you could hear the subtle, desperate rhythm of her own hips grinding down against the mattress, a quiet moan slipping from her lips as she lost herself in you, the friction bringing her closer and closer.

"You're shaking, baby," she murmured, voice thick with satisfaction as she glanced up, her chin glistening, her expression utterly wrecked. "You gonna fall apart for me?" 

She didn’t wait for an answer, just sealed her mouth around you again, her fingers pressing deeper, relentlessly coaxing you toward that inevitable bliss. And then she gasped against you, her body tensing as she shuddered, her own release crashing over her from the way she had been grinding down against the bed. 

The realisation that Agatha was cumming while fucking you sent you spiralling, your orgasm ripping through you with an intensity that left you gasping, back arching as a broken moan spilt from your lips. She groaned at the feeling of you coming undone, drinking in every last wave of pleasure before finally pulling away, her hands smoothing over your shaking thighs, her own body still trembling as she pressed one last lingering kiss against your oversensitive core, a satisfied smirk curving her lips.

Agatha collapsed against you, her breath warm against your skin as she buried her face in the crook of your neck. Neither of you spoke for a long moment, both too lost in the haze of pleasure and the weight of everything that had led to this—every moment spent apart, every unspoken feeling, every stubborn refusal to admit what had always been so painfully obvious.

You carded your fingers through her damp hair, pressing a soft kiss to her temple, letting the steady rhythm of your heartbeats fill the silence. Agatha exhaled slowly, her hands smoothing over your sides, grounding herself in the feel of you, as if she still wasn’t convinced this was real. 

Without a word, Agatha stood, her movements graceful and purposeful as she left the room for a brief moment. You could hear the sound of water running in the distance, the soft splash of it filling the silence before she returned. She didn’t need to say anything; the warmth in her eyes, the gentle press of her lips against your temple, told you everything.

She guided you to the enormous, luxurious bath—spanning the width of the penthouse’s bathroom—an almost surreal oasis of warmth and comfort. The water was a perfect temperature, fragrant with oils and salts, designed to soothe the soul. She lowered herself into the tub first, pulling you into her arms as if you were weightless, holding you close.

The space around you was immense, but it felt like it was just the two of you in this intimate world. Her fingers traced lazy patterns along your back, soothing the tension in your muscles as she softly kissed your shoulder, your neck—anywhere her lips could find. Each tender touch seemed to speak of something deeper, an unspoken vow of care that settled around you like the warm water.

You let out a contented sigh, resting your head against her chest as she kept you in her embrace, the steady rhythm of her breathing grounding you. Your hand lazily traced over her skin, lost in the softness of her touch, the comfort of her presence.

“You’re not leaving this time,” you murmured, the words more of a gentle plea than a statement. Agatha’s voice was soft but unwavering as she kissed your forehead, her arms tightening around you, pulling you even closer.

“Never again,” she whispered back, her voice thick with emotion. “I’m exactly where I belong.”

And in that moment, with the water lapping gently against the sides of the tub and the soft warmth of her embrace surrounding you, you knew—this time, she meant it.

-----

this fic had been teetering on the edge of my imagination for a while but I got a sudden burst of inspiration after daydreaming about it all day—lemme know what y'all thought :D

-----

taglist: @aceday @danveration @alwaysharmony @idkwhatever580 @jujuu23 @lostbutlovely33 @sweetmidnights @6ange19

[sweaterkittensahoy]

I have been in fandom since before the internet, but I didn't know that there was a name for it before I got the internet at 14.

Sean is two years younger than me and has never been in fandom. He looked up fic as a teen and it just didn't hit him. So, he's never been in fandom.

We have VERY different experiences. We watch a show, and we can talk about what we've seen and what it means. But then I'll go, "OMG what if I wrote a fic about X" and he listens and sometimes offers interesting suggestions, but it's so clearly not what he's into. He is happy watching and experiencing and talking about the story he's watching. I enjoy all those things BUT ALSO want to go in various directions depending on what really digs into my brain.

And the thing is, the normies who have found fandom and try so hard to bend fandom to them truly do not understand fandom. It's not about looking at what you're getting from canon and sitting there and only talking and writing and accepting that. Fandom is about loving something so much you can't stop the tendrils of creativity from uncurling and reaching out. Yes, canon said THIS but WHAT IF. Hey, canon never did THIS and WHAT IF. Hey, canon said THIS but I want to do THAT and HOW DOES THAT WORK.

And the thing is, I think there are normies in fandom who aren't huge assholes about how the rest of us are a bunch of perverts and weirdos. But also, I believe the rise of normies in fandom spaces are directly related to why so many people coming into fandom think it's about convincing showrunners to do what THEY want.

When that is not and never has been and never should be what fandom is about.

Fandom is about being so interested in something you want to turn it over and over in your hands looking for all the details you can pull from it. Fandom is about loving characters and going, "But what if these same people ran a coffee shop?" Fandom is about going "Canon says they have no romantic love, but they're wrong."

And this does NOT mean normies don't have a place in fandom. But normies HAVE deeply influenced fandom by doing things like breaking the fourth wall and refusing to disconnect from canon.

I wrote exactly 1 story for Supernatural. It was Sam/Gabriel. I had Sam call Gabriel "Gabe." The reason I never posted any other SPN fic is because someone on that story got mad at me for having Sam call Gabriel "Gabe." Because it wasn't canon.

Neither was the fucking, mind you. But that person was so pissed off I used a non-canon nickname that they actually argued with someone who WASN'T ME about how they shouldn't have written that when a stranger tried to politely point out what a dumb thing that was to say about FAN FICTION. Because the complainer was so determined to be shitty about the nickname that they assumed the completely random person with a completely different handle than mine must be me defending myself. I did get into the thread and pointed out I was clearly the author, and I didn't fucking care if they didn't like it.

Looking back, I feel like I saw a very early moment of a normie in fandom trying to bend fandom to what they think fandom is. Which is a straight line extension of canon that somehow includes dudes fucking on a notably queerphobic show but DOES NOT INCLUDE A NON CANON NICKNAME.

The determination to word of god every goddamn detail of everything in fandom, the determination to demand your ship become canon, the determination that only certain ships are the RIGHT ONES because others are too weird or gross or just what you don't personally want are all connected to normies coming into fandom and expecting fandom to be normie.

Fandom should never, ever be normie. Fandom should ALWAYS be the John Waters against the British movie censors. They told him, upon reviewing Pink Flamingos, "We have no rating for intentional bad taste."

In fandom, we should all be John Waters, aiming first and foremost for our own enjoyment and delight in what we want to create. And laughing as we tell the story of the normies being so lost at what we're doing that they can't rate it at all because all they see is bad taste.

[kkentobox]

I’m not sure if you take requests but would love to see your take on some schlatt smut. Maybe in the vibe of the way you’ve been writing him - just super sweet and loving and reassuring, love your writing 💜

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀i was made to love you! w/ jschlatt.

description: jonathan schlatt found a new reason to live when you stepped into his life, allow him to show you how much you truly mean to him.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀tags: afab!reader, smut, established relationship, praising, munch schlatt! munch schlatt! breeding, no mention of condom use (always use protection pookies), soft passionate sex with schlatt.

author’s note: my first schlatt smut post! remember my inbox are open for ideas/requests, always feel free to send me something ^_^ mwah! do not steal or plagiarize any work belonging to kkentobox !

⠀⠀the bedroom walls echoed with the moans falling from your lips, the sounds only the man between your legs could make you do. schlatt had been eating you out for what felt like hours now, his hunger for you never ending. with both arms tucked underneath your thighs to stop you from running, his tongue continued to lick every drop of the juices your cunt was spilling.

⠀⠀“c’mon baby, you can give me one more, right?” he mumbled against your lips.

⠀⠀having been the chasing your third orgasm, he refused to stop until he was satisfied. the entire time schlatt had been rutting his hips into the mattress trying to relieve the ache in his boxers, having shot his cum in them when you came around his tongue the first time.

⠀⠀“fuck jay, i can’t— please, please, please” growing louder by the second with your climax arising, your hands were tangled deep into his hair as you began to move your hips against his lips. your entire body felt like it was floating as you came, your eyes having rolled back into your skull with his name sounding like a mantra.

⠀⠀with heavy pants coming from the both of you, jay gently kissed your inner thighs. rubbing your hips, trying to bring you back down from the rush you were currently feeling. “you did so good for me, doll. deep breaths, you’re okay.”

⠀⠀when he felt your shaky hands grab his and squeeze his palms, he took that as a green light to come up. his soft smile easing you into relaxing once more, leaning down to pepper your face with sweet kisses. “my pretty girl,” you knew he wasn’t done with you yet, feeling his hips slowly begin to buck into yours as he comfortably positioned himself in between your legs, “can’t get enough of you.”

⠀⠀“you take such good care of me, jay.” your hands reaching down to palm his erection through his boxers, feeling the girth of it in your palm making you hum in excitement. before you could get up to go further, “don’t worry about that, baby.” the man above you intertwined your fingers together before kissing the back of your hand.

⠀⠀schlatt was in those moods where all he wanted to do was please you, he wanted everything to be about you.

⠀⠀freeing himself from his boxers, his cock immediately slapping against his tummy. he didn’t hesitate to get you in the position he loves; missionary. his big hands wrapping your legs around his waist before he began to pump his cock, not being able to resist slapping the tip on your clit to watch you grow impatient. “don’t be a tease, jay.” you whined, craving the stretch he gives you.

⠀⠀“so impatient, toots.” he tsk’d softly, a teasing grin on his lips. “i need you, please?” pouting up at him as you leaned to wrapped your arms around his shoulders, bringing him in close to whisper against his lips, “please? pretty please?” pecking kisses to his mouth to sweeten up your pleas.

⠀⠀“how could i say no to you?” he whispered, his eyes flickering between yours as he inserted himself into your slippery cunt.

⠀⠀the two of you moaning in unison into each other’s mouths at the feeling, you couldn’t help but dig your nails slightly into his bare skin causing him to groan. staying still inside you, his hands holding your body close to him; so close your chests were bound to become one. “jay, pl— please move.”

⠀⠀given the green light, schlatt thrusted his cock deeper into you, keeping a slow yet hard pace. your eyebrows furrowing as your lips fell into an ‘o’ shape, you couldn’t help the noises you were making when his hips were moving so sensually. “look at me baby— fuck, keep your eyes on me, sweetheart” his cock sliding out so slowly, just for his harsh thrust making your body slide up against the bedsheets.

⠀⠀his mouth leaving open mouthed kisses along your jaw and neck, stopping in between to quietly groan against the skin. with your moans spilling directly into his ear, the audible noise of how good he’s making you feel, he feels his cock twitch inside you. “you feel so good, jay — can feel you in my stomach” you panted. he swore everything about you made him more addicted, more sensitive to pleasure.

⠀⠀“i can keep you like this all day, i need to keep you like this all day.” jay always became more vocal whenever he was close. “you’d let me, right?” kissing his way back up to your lips, his passionate kiss making you dizzy. “only you, jay. you could do whatever you wanted to me.”

⠀⠀“you’re trouble, baby. fuck, i love you— love you so much.” his hands gripped your hips, your cunt squeezing him and sucking him back in for more.

⠀⠀your hands running across his shoulder blades, reaching to pull the hairs on the nape of his neck. “want you to cum inside me, jay, i need it.” your pussy fluttering at the thought. “i’ll give you all of it, don’t worry, doll.” he could feel the slick pooling underneath the two of you, your pussy leaving white rings around the base of his cock. “you’ll be a good girl and come with me, yeah?”

⠀⠀whimpering in agreement, your hips began to move against his to meet his thrusts making his forehead to meet yours, his eyes screwed shut as a low groan left him. “jesus, i’m gonna cum.” “give it to me, baby, come on.” your sweet words making him melt. your orgasms building up so quickly together, the two of you gripping onto each other. his dick painting your womb white as your pussy spasmed around him, your back arching into his chest causing him to hold you there tightly.

⠀⠀his face was buried in your chest, panting as he recovered from his climax. he didn’t want to remove himself from you, so he gently laid his all his weight on you. your frame being encased by his larger one, his weight comforting you from the aftershocks. his hand came up to brush the hair out of your face, before resting on your jaw. your limbs felt like jello, but you continued to run your fingers across his back.

⠀⠀the two of you remained in that position, comforting the other silently before he spoke, “let me get you some water, baby.” though you needed it, you softly whined as your grasp on him tightened. “stay like this with me . . just a couple more minutes?” his eyes finding yours and seeing how you truly didn’t want him to leave, “. . okay, baby. just five more minutes.”

⠀⠀he never had the heart to leave after five minutes, not after you fell asleep against him with the cutest pout. doing his best to clean you up without waking you up, he quickly found himself dozing off with you. the two of you entangled with each other, just as your hearts were.

[domm1etae]

riding mingi after the show

the second mingi walked into your shared hotel room, his hair damp from the post-show shower and a towel slung around his neck, you knew exactly where the night was heading. he didn’t even try to hide the way his eyes dragged over you—sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for him like you had nowhere else to be.

"you didn’t come to the afterparty," he said, his voice low and rough, still carrying that adrenaline-fueled edge from the stage. he dropped the towel onto the back of a chair, leaning against the doorframe with that cocky smirk that made your stomach flip.

"didn’t feel like sharing," you shot back, biting your lip as you met his stare. "thought maybe i’d get the private encore."

his smirk deepened, sharp and full of heat, as he crossed the room in a few quick strides. "oh, you’ll get it," he muttered, his hands gripping your thighs and pulling you to the edge of the bed until you were flush against him. "you just better keep up, baby."

before you could answer, his lips crashed into yours, hot and demanding, his hands roaming over your hips and under your thighs. you gasped when he bit down on your bottom lip, his tongue slipping into your mouth as he pressed you back against the bed.

"fuck, you’ve been on my mind all night," he rasped, pulling back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown with lust as his fingers hooked into your panties, sliding them down your legs. "kept thinking about this—how you’d look riding me, moaning my name."

"then stop thinking and let me," you whispered, your breath hitching as you reached for the waistband of his sweatpants, tugging them down just enough to free him.

he groaned, his hands gripping your thighs as you straddled him, the heat between your bodies making you both shiver. "you’re so fucking impatient," he muttered, but there was no bite to it—just pure need as he lined himself up, his tip brushing against you.

"can’t help it," you replied, sinking down onto him slowly, your nails digging into his shoulders as you adjusted to the stretch. "been waiting for this all night."

his head tipped back, a low groan rumbling from his chest as you started to move, your hips rolling against him. his hands gripped your waist, guiding your movements as his teeth caught his bottom lip, his eyes glued to the way you took him.

"shit," he hissed, his head falling forward to rest against your shoulder. "you feel so good—fuck, just like that, baby."

the way he filled you had your mind spinning, your moans growing louder with each bounce of your hips. his lips found your neck, teeth grazing over your skin before sucking a mark just above your collarbone, and the sensation only spurred you on.

"mingi," you whimpered, your voice shaking as his hands slid down to your ass, squeezing hard as he thrust up to meet you. "you’re so—fuck—"

"perfect," he groaned, his pace quickening, the sound of skin against skin filling the room. "you’re fucking perfect—taking me so well. you don’t even know what you do to me."

you could feel yourself unraveling, the heat building in your core as his hands tightened their grip, his lips trailing down your chest. "come on, baby," he rasped, his voice strained. "let go for me. i wanna feel you."

his words sent you over the edge, your body trembling as you cried out his name, and the way you clenched around him had him following seconds later, a guttural moan tearing from his throat as he buried himself deep, his grip on you unrelenting.

the room fell silent except for the sound of your heavy breathing, your bodies tangled together as you both tried to catch your breath. mingi pressed a lazy kiss to your temple, his fingers tracing slow circles on your waist.

"guess you really did want that private encore," he muttered, a breathless laugh escaping his lips.

you grinned, brushing your fingers through his damp hair. "and you didn’t disappoint."

[captain-bubble-wrap]

[No warnings noted.] As the Canucks' newest rinkside reporter, Rick Tocchet's daughter prepares herself for her first day on the job and first introduction to the team's captain.

Tonight marked the start of the Canucks' 2024-25 season and your introduction to the team's organization and fanbase. This was the biggest day of your career and you couldn't be any more nervous. You had done your makeup twice before leaving your apartment, changed your clothes half a dozen times, and frantically checked your hair in every mirror at least once. You had finally been given the chance to get your feet wet in professional broadcasting and you prayed you didn't fall on your face.

You knew any expectation of your abilities were going to be high just because of the fact that your father was the head coach of the team. Aware that there would be those whispers of favoritism and unfair handouts, you had tried to prepare yourself for such rumors and just wanted to let your work speak for itself. You were a Canucks' Top Prospect graduate and last year, you had reported rinkside for the Abbotsford Canucks as an intern, following college graduation, and it had been a wonderful opportunity. Now, you would find yourself among seasoned veterans and hoped not to feel like a child with numerous babysitters.

You had arrived at the arena around the same time as some of the players, just because if you didn't, you knew you would have found reason to pick another outfit or redo your eyeliner for the third time. Your heels clicked with an echo through the parking garage, your hair swished back and forth in the high ponytail atop your head with each step. You were confident, sure, but beneath that polished exterior was equally as much anxiety and panic.

"Badge?" Demanded the security guard from his post, not familiar with the new face standing before him. You produced the lanyard that was intertwined with your keys from your purse. Once it was in his possession he checked it against a series of papers. Nervousness began to set in within your chest when he didn't give it back quickly. The way he looked at you was like a bouncer checking a fake ID outside a club.

"I don't have you on the list," he replied sharply, handing back your fresh credentials. "No one with your name in Media."

"But I'm reporting tonight," you reassured, eyebrows pulled in from worry. "I was hired back in June."

The older gentleman, portly and with deep lines etched into his face scowled, "I can't let you in. You better call who ever it was who 'hired' you, because I'm not letting in anyone just because they claim to be Rick Tocchet's daughter. Nice try."

"I can show you my driver's licen--."

"Still no one with that name on the list. Now, step aside."

Absolutely taken aback by the rudeness and unbelievable news, you turned back towards where you had walked from and briefly saw two men, dressed in nice suits pass by you. Digging around the interior of your purse for your phone you'd hear the security guard call them by their first names.

"Connor. Quinn. Have a good game tonight, boys," he said to them, far more chipper than he had been with you just moments ago. You knew both players, hell, you knew all of the names on the Canucks' roster. That had been Connor Garland and Quinn Hughes who had breezed past. Too bad they couldn't vouch for you, now you were tasked with calling in a very poorly-time favour.

"Hey princess," said the voice on the other end of the phone once the call was finally picked up. "You alright?"

"No, dad, I'm not," you said, your voice low so to not let anyone overhear your conversation. "Security won't let me in, says I'm not on some media list. Not to mention he thinks I'm lying about who I am."

Your father sighed deeply. He was the last person you wanted to call and whine about someone being mean to you, especially hours before the first puck would drop. You had a job to do, and who better to pull some strings than him? However, it was the timing that was unfortunate.

"What gate are you at?" He asked, the frustration evident in his tone.

"I don't know. I'm at the players entrance or something. Connor and Quinn just went past me."

"Alright. Let me make a call. Sit tight."

"Thanks, dad."

He mumbled a "mhm" before the call dropped, leaving you loitering, hoping the guard didn't threaten to escort you off the grounds for being unauthorized personnel. What a way to start the night, the season, and your career. It wouldn't take long however before the ringing of a phone would echo throughout the garage. It had come from the security booth and you hoped it was someone calling on your behalf. Unable to stifle your curiosity, you looked towards the direction of the booth to see the man looking at you, nodding while he said nothing. He'd motion you over with a wave of his hand and you'd waste no time seeing what it was about.

"Apparently, your name wasn't added to the active media correspondents," he said flatly, hardly that of an apology. "You can go on in."

"Thank you," you sighed, making short work of the remainder of garage that opened up into the bowels of Rogers Arena. Finally, you were where you needed to be and it was already a mad house. Equipment managers were transporting rolling carts of towels and all manner of various odds and ends through the hallways and around tight corners. You had general directions of the media hub and you were thankful you had gotten there so early, because finding that specific room was like a treasure hunt. After probably twenty minutes of navigating the behind the scenes world of the arena, you arrived at the door.

"Oh, you must be Y|N Tocchet! So good to meet you! We're glad you made it," remarked Senior Writer Chris Faber, who was going over his notes when you came in. "We heard you'd be joining the team. Welcome."

"Thank you so much, I'm eager to get started!"

"We love the eagerness," he added, always happy to have young talent involved in the sport and pioneering for younger generations to follow. "Heard you made quite the name for yourself in Abbotsford last season."

"I loved it there! It was fun watching to see who had the hints of being a big talent develop down there. It was always loud," you smiled with a nod.

"I think you'll fit right in with us here. No doubt your father is proud," Chris said, with the smile himself.

"You'd have thought I had been drafted first overall!" You remarked, remembering how he had boasted when you got the call from upper management about the reporter position being given to you. "I have a high bar to strive for. Can't make him look bad, you know?"

Chris chuckled, reassuring you that you'd have no trouble transitioning into Vancouver's content team. "I'm sure you'll make him proud. Now, you have any questions for me?"

"Actually, I do. What is my schedule for tonight?"

"You're going to interview Quinn during warmups, get his opinion and insight on how the team preformed through the pre-season and his outlook and expectations for this season. Think you can handle that?"

"Absolutely," you beamed, the feeling of butterflies in your stomach. It was actually happening; you had made it.

- - -

Warmups began to an overwhelming response around the arena. You walked down the tunnel following the team and were instructed to stand at the end of the bench. Quinn had already been told you meet you along the boards following a few hot laps. Watching the players at ice level really hit home that tonight was real. Nothing could beat the opening day of a hockey season. The energy was electrifying: from the fans screaming at the top of their lungs, player's fresh reactions to playing again, and shouted messages coming from the coaches. Opening night was just another beast entirely, and it marked the official start to the season and fans were eager to begin that grind and see their team back in the playoffs.

"Good luck, sweetheart," your dad would say as you passed in front of him and the other assistant coaches, a gentle smile across his lips. You'd give him a wink before getting to where you needed to be.

Your eyes zeroed in on Quinn's number forty-three as he practically floated across the ice, edges sharp and skating so fluidly. You had watched him since his debut with the team, and he was seriously one of the most beautiful skaters in the game right now. Your cameraman went over the key points of your short interview and you would give a quick nod in agreeance.

"You're going to do great! Don't worry!" He said to hype you up, and give you the confidence boost you needed to calm your nerves.

It didn't take long for Quinn to finally make his way over to you. He didn't do an aggressive hockey stop, not that you thought him the type to do so, instead he sort of just listed to the two of you, looking eager to already have it over and done with. You had watched numerous other girls before you have the chance to interview the star captain, and each time he just came off like he wasn't comfortable doing the interview aspect of his job. You hoped you'd make it easy on him so he could get back to warming up, and so you could get your heart back to a regular speed.

The cameraman, again, would give you a nod, checking his equipment before giving you the signal to begin your conversation with Quinn. His eyes were down, gloved hand holding his stick upright like he was at attention. It would be after you greeted him that he would finally bring his eyes to your face, actually seeing you for the first time.

"Welcome to the start of the new season, Quinn," you said brightly, smile beaming.

He swallowed hard, almost like he had forgotten how to speak, "Thank you."

"You're fresh off of winning the Norris, congratulations! Do you have a plan for trying for a back-to-back award winning season, or is that not really a concern for you? Sort of a, 'if it happens it happens' type of thing?"

"Really just focused on making sure we can win as many games as possible is the main objective, right now. We're hopeful to have a repeat trip to the playoffs first. Anything extra is just that: it's extra."

Quinn dropped his eyes from you while you spoke your next question. He seemed so disinterested and you were hoping that you weren't a bumbling idiot on camera.

"How confident are you in your team following camp and how the pre-season faired?"

"I think we put everything we have into how we practice at any given time. It's nice getting together with the guys again, and feel that brotherhood reconnect even in practice. I think we're all in a good headspace at the moment."

"Finally, what can fans expect from this year's Canucks lineup?"

"I think we're a solid group of players who bring a multitude of strengths to the ice, and we're prepared to bring that night after night all season long."

"Wonderful! Thank you so much, and good luck."

Quinn nodded at your parting words. "Thanks."

As he skated off, you faced the camera for your sign off, "Tonight marks a fresh start for this Canucks' team, and fans can believe that they're in for a strong season."

Holding your smile until given the signal that the recording had ended, you'd breath a deep sigh of relief immediately after. Your palms were slick with sweat and your heart was beating in your ears, but you had done it!

"See, I knew you had it in you! That was fantastic for your first NHL interview!" Remarked your cameraman, picking up his tripod and laying it against your shoulder. "Great job!"

"I was so nervous," you laughed.

"It didn't show! Congratulations."

You smiled, and went to follow him from the bench, but before you got too far from the boards, you heard someone calling out to you from the ice. Looking over your shoulder, you'd see Quinn skating back to you.

"Good luck on your first game," he said, a warmup puck in the palm of his glove. You'd reach for it, shocked by the kind gesture that hadn't crossed your deepest daydreams.

"Aw, thank you so much," you blushed, feeling the heat rise into your cheeks. Quinn would smirk, his eyes dropping from your face yet again before he rejoined his teammates following the end of the warmup sequence. Quickly, you'd make your exit, not wanting to linger where you didn't belong for a second time today. But passing behind your father, he'd give you a quick hug at your accomplishment.

"You're a natural," he whispered. "You did so well."

"Thanks dad!" you said, heart swelling. "Good luck tonight~"

- - -

The game had come to a heartbreaking end for home fans when the Flames had managed to score a goal in overtime. A collective sigh of defeat hung over the interior of the arena which followed everyone out with disappointment and broken spirits. Everyone had hoped for more; had hoped for a win in regulation to start the season, not a participation point for losing in OT. Regardless, a single point was better than none.

You said goodbye to your new colleagues, and started to make your way back to the parking garage. Your dad would be busy going over things with the players as well as post-game interviews, so waiting for him would be a complete waste of time. All you really had to do was head back home.

It had been an exciting day, one that had both fried your nerves and catapulted your confidence. Your interview with Quinn had turned out quite smooth and polished, when you watched the playback. You found yourself looking at Quinn the entire time, noticing him stealing looks at you that you hadn't realized before when you were interviewing him. How had you missed that? His eyes blinking up at you, those gentle nods to each of your questions, the one subtle smirk he'd let slip at you telling him good luck at the end. You had blushed watching it, like you had when he gave you the puck souvenir to mark the start of your career within the organization. You couldn't understand what was wrong with you. It had just been a puck; your father likely would have done the same thing if Quinn hadn't beaten him to it.

The question would plague your mind the entire drive home.

Even when you went to bed, your mind kept replaying Quinn smiling as he skated away from you the second time. The puck sitting on your nightstand would cause quite the dream that night.

[doctors-star]

a review of this post, now that we cower on the threshold of 30k notes:

lots of people tagging this with fascinating historical people. you are all my siblings.

also lots of people tagging this with john lennon. you are maybe more like cousins.

way too many fictional characters mentioned. [cartoonish buzzer noises].

the people tagging franklin expedition fellas/the terror characters are on thin ice (haha). just kidding, unless they're referring to pictures of people without extant daguerreotypes. like hickey.

many, many people tagging this wolf hall spoilers, or complaining that this post has spoiled the end of wolf hall. the last book came out in 2020, and your man has been dead nearly five hundred years.

various people misread tom crom for his great great grandnephew, ollie. some expressed relief at being wrong; others were rude to tom, noted royal marriage organiser and lifetime royal servant, on the grounds of his being a roundhead. what have you all got against oliver, and why are you all royalists.

too many people really hated that the post is about thomas cromwell, and that i like him. you're all allowed to not like him, and i know what he did, but this post is maybe not the forum to express your dislike, or try to turn me against him. presenting me with "better options", as if i'd never heard of joan of arc, will not endear me to you or your cause.

speaking of saints, many people picking jesus et al for this purpose. i've also been accused of reinventing worship of icons, and possibly idolatry as a whole. i want to deny this on the grounds of accuracy (one prays to saints for intercession, and receives it. i ask crumb for sympathy, and he does not provide it. he does not support me. i get over it.) but also, more importantly, because if cromwell finds out i've reinvented idolatry on his behalf he's going to to dig himself out of his grave and beat me to death with the shovel.

anyway everyone say hi to the earl of essex. unsympathetic bastard.

[roublardise]

Hello sapphicnatural cule!! after some vibe checking, I thought we ought to celebrate Femslash February together ✨

This time, I'm proposing an event centered around fanfics, in order to celebrate all that's been written so far.

Instead of settling on one common reading challenge, I suggest we each pick our own reading challenge. That way, we'll all have our own goal and reading list, depending on our individual tastes in fics and how much we'd like to step out of our comfort zone. To add more fun and some group activities, the event will kick off by sharing rec lists (≠ from the reading lists), and end up with taking inspiration from one (or more) of these fanfics to create!!

TLDR: #Sapphicnaturalreads is an event in three parts, taking place through the month of February:

week one - REC-ING

we post rec lists of femslash fics

writers are welcome to share their own works

we set up our own reading challenge & to-read list

weeks two & three - READING

WE READ!!

we live-read, we post quick reviews after finishing each fic, we discuss, we expand, we dig up old fanarts, ...

we don't forget to comment on ao3

week four - CREATING

we take inspiration from one (or more) fics we've read! you can go wherever your heart takes you:

make an edit about a fic you've read

draw a ship from a fic you've read

make an amv for a ship you've read

write a poem about a theme present in a fic you've read

write a one-shot about a fic you've discovered

...

I will try to rb everyone's lists and posts but can't assure I'll get them all. So please tag your posts with #SapphicnaturalReads so we can all find them and find each others! 💕

.

To help get started, here's some examples of challenges:

reading a fic a day

reading fics of a same pairing (a ship you've never read about / your favorite / ...)

reading fics with a tagged trope you like (sharing a bed / fake dating / enemies to lovers / ...)

reading ficlets of less than 1k

or longer fics, of more than 10k

reading fics from the so-called golden era (let's say, pre-2016)

or on the contrary, focusing on fics posted post-2020

only reading rarepairs

handpicking specific fics you've been wanting to read for a long time - their time is now!

...

You can find femslash fics in the different ao3 collections: Sapphicnatural - Sapphicnatural Rare Pairs - Sapphicnatural One Hit Wonders - Sapphicnatural Poly Ships - Sapphicnatural Solo Works

or in the #fic tag of @sapphicnaturalrights for some tumblr-onlies made during the Sapphicnatural Weeks

my asks & dms are opened for any question!

✨📚 SEE YOU SOON 📚✨

[enriquemzn262]

The wildest story is happening right now in Colombia: A couple and the girl’s mom went to climb the Nevado del Tolima mountain as an end of the year celebration, but during the ascend the boyfriend sadly passed away due to mountain sickness, and from that there should be nothing remarkable about it.

Well, since it’s the first mountaineering death in the country in years, in became national news, so curious people began to dig more and more details about it:

>When the dude got sick, his girl and her mom decided to leave him behind alone in a tent while they went to reach the peak of the mountain and take a ton of selfies.

>He was actually bleeding from his nose and even started to secrete pus when they left him alone, he apparently asked them not to, but they needed to take those photos

>They needed to because they were “influencers”

>They were influencers just so they could constantly plug their OF account

>Said OF featured both the couple AND THE MOM

>Sometimes only the women would be featured in there, although I don’t know nor want to at which extent

>The dude was actually fucking both women too, and apparently that was also a feature in the OF

So now online searches are plagued with the leaked OF content, to the point you can find it by just typing the name of the mountain on Twitter, and the tragedy and neglect behind the dude’s death has been completely overshadowed by the level of degeneracy found behind his love life.

My tinfoil hat self is honestly believing this is a new psyops by the Colombian government to distract from the Catatumbo guerrillas uprising that has already costed 100 lives and thousands of displaced civilians, but it’s just so damn specifically perverted not to be a real story.

I can’t be blamed for thinking that though, as there’s a real government-backed psyops going on right now in the form of murals popping up in many cities talking about some victims no one is really sure if they’re even real, but since if they are they’re a consequence of the previous administration, the new one is desperately pushing for that narrative, all the while we’re actively getting new victims of the conflict, and it’s all because Petro refused to believe guerrillas were nothing more than drug cartels masquerading as left wing revolutionaries.

Don’t worry Americans, you’re not alone in baffling government decisions at the start of the year.

Man, I think I lost the sauce of this post, but anyway, fuck Petro!

[the-fox-collective]

I feel it should be said how damaging it is to brush off any type of trauma as "not enough."

There's a popular post about how a person who drowned in 6ft of water is just as dead as someome who drowned in 200ft of water. This is true.

But also you can drown in as little as half a cup of water.

And I think this comes from a deep misunderstanding of how DID forms, what counts as "bad enough" trauma to form a system. I myself have had to unwind whether what I've said I've gone through is real, due to how conflated the idea of trauma is in some people's heads.

A child is not as developed as an adult or a teen. What a child views as "too much" for them to cope with or "no support system" to talk to may be completely different to what an adult thinks. The adult may even think that the child is logically incorrect about these things—but that does not change the response the child has.

This is not an excuse to tell people they should go digging for trauma or to tell them unprompted that what they went through is 100% traumatic. I just wanted to make sure anyone who thinks they could have DID / PSTD / OSDD / C-PTSD (or similar) doesn't brush off things that as an adult they think "weren't so bad."

[shanastoryteller]

so, you've been posting/reblogging about sam being the exception to the rules of "This is alright to do when everyone else does it/ It's not alright to do but we can do it to sam". Do you have any fanfic recs that throw that hat around? Like, they realize they were actually in the wrong? or some good fix it? some bad break it?

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

honestly not this fandom's strong suit. probably the most self indulgent part of see something say something is having dean accept that sam going to stanford wasn't a personal attack, was something he needed to do for himself, and the no contact trauma of it all was pretty much entirely john's fault. in canon he's literally betrayed by sam going to college until he DIES. he never chills or gives credit to the idea that sam deserved and needed space to grow outside of him

there are a couple "sam dies in the panic room" fics floating around out there, which are pretty good, but relatively short and sort of only deal with the immediate regret that dean feels because his brother is dead and not really because he understands how he fucked up

here are some that sort of qualify, but nothing that quite scratches the id for this in the exact way i'd like. unfortunately i think to really dig into this (for me) you've got to hit "sam was both saved and destroyed by dean's deal" and "dean came back wrong" right over the head before you can really deal with the repercussions of it. which is both hard and sort of an unpopular opinion! so i get it

feel free to drop your own recs if you have them!

Crossed Wires by rivkat (summary: A spnj2xmas gift for costsofregret, who liked angst, pining!Sam, one thinking the other is dead, and hurt/comfort. It’s like you know me.) sort of deals with the concept of sam's autonomy but it's pretty brief.

One Saved Message by ratherastory (summary: After a hunting accident puts Sam out of commission for a couple of days, Dean decides to surprise his brother with a new phone, since his old one is toast. Even better is when he finds that he’s been able to save all of Sam’s old information and restore it to his cell. That’s when he discovers an old voicemail that Sam has kept saved for the last two and a half years… Charity fic for help_japan. sinka won a fic from me and requested some Voicemail fix-it fic, and that is what I have attempted here. Spoilers for all aired episodes up to 6.19.) deals with the voicemail but not really all the actions dean took to make that voicemail believable

Paint Me a Monster by TheMarvelousTolkienJob (summary: Sam is a freak. He knows that and, after everything that happened with Ruby and the demon blood, Dean finally does too. Not that they actually talk about it or anything. No, they wait around for Sam to be kidnapped and tortured before they do that.) is a fic focused on all of this and it addresses the voicemail and the reasons the voicemail was believable but it doesn't end with anything so much resolved as it is at least in the open air. which is a perfectly good ending, i just want closure T_T

The Talking Cure by Mollyamory (Molly) (summary: Dean tries to keep his mouth shut, but as much as he wants to keep quiet, he also wants to say--) set immediately after season 8 with no gadreel. dean feels the need to reiterate what he said in the church

Soft Like a Blue Triceratops by sprinkles888 (summary: Sam finishes the trials, expecting to die. Instead, he gets a life that sounds idyllic - the demons locked away, the angels gone (mostly), and Dean by his side. All he has to worry about is the various monsters attempting to fill the power vacuum; a too-empty bunker; his own deteriorating mental health; Dean’s dive back into alcoholism; and not getting enough sleep (even for him). Oh yeah, and that pesky fact that his dreams are starting to seem a little bit too much like visions. He can handle it. He can. (Sometimes he can’t.) If this is healing, Sam sure doesn’t want to know what deterioration looks like. A season eight finale/post-season 8 AU) is probably the closest i've found that really comes down to grilling both on how messed up the brothers are and how it's taking a toll on sam specifically, but it doesn't really get into the double standards of it all. bold for emphasis is mine, because my god that's really the whole fic. great exploration of them, but it did hurt to read

not at all in the vein of the ask, but by the same author Sounds Like Truth and Feels Like Courage by sprinkles888 (summary: Turns out that the Men of Letters had a way to perform magic on the regular without the messiness of witchcraft. All they need for it is a pair of soulmates, a couple of rings from the bunker, and a willingness to spend time platonically touching. And, well, the Winchesters are already sitting at two out of three… (In which Sam and Dean cuddle, spend time being emotionally vulnerable, mend relationships, learn just how powerful their souls are, find power in memories, watch way too much Netflix, and become targets of an organized group of monsters set on killing them.)) is a comfy warm fic about the boys by the same author that i can reread without hurting my own feelings

[leaping-toadstool-caps]

𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫

A/N: Just a lil piece I wrote AGES ago and I figured because it's getting close to the end of winter I'd post it :D

"No, no, I'm sure that Alyn was staying anyway. Anna definitely is, but I'm sure Alyn was too-"

"Students, may I have your attention please?"

James sat up quickly as Professor Weasley's voice rung through the Great Hall. He, Poppy, Alvin, Tori and Theo were digging into breakfast quickly so they could have some time in the snow before classes started.

"Fortunately, Headmaster Black has granted me permission to make this announcement." Professor Weasley continued. "For fear of pupils being unable to concentrate in lesson due to the cold weather, all classes will be postponed for all students for these last two days before the Christmas break. Do be careful out there, it is rather icy and we wouldn't want any students going home with broken bones."

The entire Hall erupted in a loud cheer. Tori whooped, punching James' shoulder.

"Snow day!" Poppy cheered, and Tori kissed her cheek.

"As usual, the quidditch pitch is open despite games being cancelled, if students so wish they may indulge in snow activities. However I must ask that you all please do use your wits and do not perform any stunts that I would class as dangerous."

"Alvin! Theo!" Matty rushed towards the Hufflepuff table looking flushed and excited. "Mum just gave me permission to stay in Hogwarts for Christmas break!"

"Yes!" James gave an excited air punch. "That's almost all of us, minus Cassie, Damien, ermm, Val, I think? Oscar's staying, I have no clue about Freddie, I think we're also missing a confirmed answer from Luci and Alyn. All we have to do is convince a few more adults and then we'll have the BEST Hogwarts Christmas ever!"

"Cassie's staying here." Alvin said quietly as Matty sat beside him. "Trouble at home." James gave Alvin's shoulder a squeeze to try and comfort him.

"Anyone got any news on Freddie?" Tori asked.

"His dad still refused to let him stay, but Freddie said he wouldn't get on that train home if his life depended on it." Jo said as she joined the conversation, sitting herself down. "I do hope he isn't punished for it. You know what his dad's like."

The rest of the group filed in. Val was grinning when she sat down, and she placed a sheet of parchment on the table.

"Professor Hecat herself wrote my parents a letter explaining why I have to stay. I have no clue what the letter says, but Hecat must've been persuasive because my mother let me stay in Hogwarts!"

Everyone cheered, and Matty hugged Val tight.

"Damien! Any news?" Luci asked with a smile.

"I'm allowed to stay" Damien said with a slight flush, though he didn't elaborate.

"Oh good! I had hoped so after-" Ellie cut off as Damien shot her a subtle death stare.

"What about Roan?" Damien asked quickly.

Roan raised a hand. "Easier for me to stay here, anyway"

"Gah, where the heck is Alyn?"

Jo replied, "I'm sure she woke up early, she wasn't in the dorm this morning"

"Alyn said she was gonna miss breakfast. Had something to take care of in the library. But I'm pretty sure she's staying" Luci furrowed her eyebrows.

Val nudged her, "d'ya think she's with-"

Luci quickly shushed her.

"I'm assuming Alex is staying if Alvin is" Val said casually. Cassie immediately perked up, sitting up a bit straighter. "What about the other set of twins?"

"Oscar's still checking things off his apology list. He's trying to make up for the damage he caused in fifth year" Cal explained, "Kiel is staying though. Him and Alvin are practicing for Quidditch"

"In this weather?" Jo furrowed her eyebrows. "I do hope they don't catch a flu."

"They'll be okay" James assured her.

"Jamie, where's Ren?" Cassie asked suddenly. Florence raised a hand from his seat at the end of the table. His nose was buried in a book as always, and he had a dark blue shawl wrapped around him, his pale nose pink from the cold.

"Before you ask, yes I'm staying here" Florence said sounding bored. "And yes, I've heard every word of your conversation. Reading doesn't make me deaf."

James grinned, moving to sit next to Ren. He threw his arm around his shoulder, and Ren shrugged him off pretended to ignore him, but everyone was certain the flush on his face was no longer from the cold.

"Is that everyone? Me, Ren, Cassie, the twins, the other twins, Poppy, Tori, Ellie, Luci, Val, Ale, Roan, Cal, Matty, Freddie, the triplets, Damien-"

James paused, eyes widening. "Damien? Is Sebastian staying?"

Damien flushed. "I... I did manage to convince him. I think he is."

James grinned knowingly. "I think that's all of us! Now, let's head outside because I've been itching to get my fingers on that frozen good-ness all morning"

[tildeathiwillwrite]

Tag Game: Author Ask Tag

Thanks to @willtheweaver for the tag!

Question Template: 1. What is the main lesson of your story? Why did you choose it? 2. What did you use as inspiration for your worldbuilding? 3. What is your MC trying to achieve, and what are you, the writer, trying to achieve with them? Do you want to inspire others, teach forgiveness or help the reader grow as a person? 4. How many chapters is your story going to have? 5. Is it fan fiction or original content? Where do you plan to post it? 6. When did you start writing? 7. Do you have any words of encouragement for fellow writers of writeblr? What other writers do you follow?

1. What is the main lesson of your story? Why did you choose it?

I'll use The Hunter, the Myth and the Cure for this!

I think the main lesson is how your past does not define your future. I didn't choose it per se, it just sort of happened due to how my characters behave and interact. Octavian in particular deals with a lot of guilt and grief for his past actions, despite some of them not being entirely his fault. During this current revision I realized this recurring theme and started leaning into it.

2. What did you use as inspiration for your worldbuilding?

I don't think there's anything specific for Valaria, just a lot of different elements that I like put together in one world. You've got humans in roughly the Georgian-Victorian Era (by our world's reference), you've got elves, also got a few original species of mine like the sang, the Draigo, and the devar. I also have werewolves (lycanthropes), this period of the world's history includes a genocide and a pandemic, yeah.

3. What is your MC trying to achieve, and what are you, the writer, trying to achieve with them? Do you want to inspire others, teach forgiveness or help the reader grow as a person?

I have three main characters: Draven wants money, mainly, and to deal with the lycanthropes, Octavian wants to find out the motives of the man who trapped him, and Reese wants to escape from captivity.

I mainly seek to entertain, and yeah teaching self-forgiveness is the main message but mostly I'm helping the characters grow.

4. How many chapters is your story going to have?

Uhhhh right now I'm working on chapter 6, but I haven't gotten to the second plot point yet so I think I'm about a quarter of the way through the original plan. Possibly 20 chapters, maybe more.

5. Is it fan fiction or original content? Where do you plan to post it?

Original content! I'm currently posting the chapters on Tumblr, and the uploaded chapters can be found here

6. When did you start writing?

2016 :3

That makes me a Level 9 writer, writing for nine years (storms I cannot believe it's been that long)

I started The Hunter, the Myth and the Cure in 2021. It's not my longest-running WIP (that would be The Watcher and The Thief, started in 2018), but I've been working at it a fair number of years.

7. Do you have any words of encouragement for fellow writers of writeblr? What other writers do you follow?

Do Not, I repeat, DO NOT DELETE YOUR STUFF!!!

Even if you hate it, you never know when you might decide years down the road to revisit a concept or idea. Also, it's good if you want to see just how far you've come.

Your brain can tell you that a piece sucks, but that doesn't mean you should get rid of it. Just bury it for a while, dig it up, and it might be better than you thought it was. You're always learning and growing, even if it doesn't look like it.

Don't give up. I believe in you ^-^

Okay so I have so many writer people and they are all wonderful. No pressure tag to do this little questionnaire yourself :D And if you see this randomly, consider yourself tagged anyway.

@blackrosesandwhump @writer-of-worlds @fourwingedwriter @annakayy @thewritingautisticat

@overdecorated-furniture @faytelumos @chronicallydragons @gamerkats @spitefulbull

@themswritinwords @late-to-the-fandom @cssnder @phoenixradiant @illarian-rambling

@writingphoenix @agirlandherquill @friendlesscat @thethistlegirlwrites @theeccentricraven

@catwings-writes-things @whumped-by-glitter @elizaellwrites @3-2-whump @aalinaaaaaa

@imsoveryveryconfusedatlife @pluppsauthor @diabolical-blue @moonandris @hufflepuffwritingstuff2

@somethingclevermahogony @scaewolf @corinneglass @crwn-nrth @the-ellia-west

@paeliae-occasionally @whumpninja @aloafofbreadwithanxiety @happypup-kitcat24 @i-eat-worlds

@defire @geode-crystal @melpomenelamusa @leahnardo-da-veggie @floralmusings

@inhurtandincomfort @sacratos @painsandconfusion @writinglittlepains @librathefangirl

@world-of-iridensia @serickswrites

[soleilpinto]

Cruising in Papaya: Media Trap ˚‧｡⋆🍁

“Life’s Better on Saturn ” ˙✧˖° ༘ ⋆｡˚ (Saturn, SZA)

Synopsis: Y/N Laurant, a glamorous socialite, meets Lando Norris during a race weekend, sparks fly between the two, but as their feelings deepen, they struggle to balance their secret relationship with their public lives, all while navigating the pressure of the fast-paced F1 scene.

Genre: (Some) Angst, Fluff, Romance

AU: Social Media and Written!au

Pairing: Lando x Afab!Socialite!Reader

Warnings: They fight and Lando’s an asshole, that’s really it

Note: A bit overdue (4 days) but I’ve reached 100 followers and couldn’t be happier! I’m so grateful that this blog I started a month ago is already in the works and publishing fics that are getting good feedback. It’s not perfect but it’s honest work, so thank you guys so much! As always, don’t forget to like + reblog to help me and other writers.

Cruising in Papaya Masterlist. (Prev./Next.)

@papayafansunite LMAO pietra really fumbled the bag by posting a pic of y/n and lando for y/n’s birthday and deleting it. you can’t escape the f1 fandom’s eyes 👁️👁️

@F1TeaHunter Why would Pietra post a photo with Y/N and Lando for Y/n’s birthday and then DELETE IT? Like girl, we already saw it, the internet never forgets 👀

@GridSideDrama Not Pietra accidentally exposing Y/N and Lando on her IG story before deleting it faster than I could screenshot 😭😭 The chaos

liked by lando, pietra.pilao and others

yvesaintlaurant chapter 22 is wild 🥳

maxfewtrell you and lando are a bunch of crazies

— yvesaintlaurant you guys love us though

lando happy birthday my gorgeous girl

— yvesaintlaurant i love you so much

liked by lando, maxfewtrell and others

laurant.yn alexa, play 22 by taylor swift

pietra.pilao love you ! x

lilymhe prettiest girl ever

The morning after Pietra’s accidental slip-up, everything felt different. The weight of the media buzz settled heavily on your shoulders. Notifications from every direction flooded your phone, pulling you into a frenzy of gossip, assumptions, and judgments.

You weren’t used to this kind of attention—not the invasive kind that followed every step you took. In the silence of the hotel room, as you stared at the screen, it felt like the walls were closing in, making it harder to breathe. The perfect life that had once seemed so effortless now felt like a cage.

You could hear Lando’s restless pacing behind you. He was angry, but you knew that anger wasn’t just about the photo. He was frustrated, trapped in the spotlight, and he couldn’t even see it from your side.

You had to get out, but not just physically. You had to get away from the pressure of it all, from the constant scrutiny of the world.

Lando let out a sharp exhale. "I can’t believe this, Y/N," he muttered, his tone laced with irritation.

"One photo, and now the entire world is going wild. They’re taking everything and twisting it. Do they have any idea what this feels like?"

You sat still, refusing to let the anxiety bubble to the surface. You could feel his frustration swirling in the air, but instead of letting it consume you, you tried to stay calm.

"I get it, Lando. I really do. But it’s not just about one photo. It’s the constant digging into our lives. The questions, the assumptions—it doesn’t stop. We can’t keep pretending that it’s fine when we’re both feeling suffocated by it."

His eyes snapped to you, his expression hardening. "And what? You think I’m the one making this harder? You think I wanted this? I didn’t ask for any of it, Y/N."

The words hit harder than you expected, and your chest tightened. You hadn’t come into this relationship wanting to be just another headline or another story.

You hadn’t come into this relationship to be scrutinized under a microscope. You had wanted something real, and maybe, just maybe, you were naïve for believing that could happen in the world they lived in.

You swallowed, trying to keep your voice steady, but it was hard.

"I’m not blaming you, Lando. But you can’t keep acting like none of this affects you. It’s not just about the fame or the racing—it’s about how we handle this. How we handle each other when it all starts falling apart."

The silence that followed felt heavy—thick with unsaid words and pent-up frustration. Lando stood there, staring at you, his lips pressed tight, and you saw the exhaustion in his eyes.

This wasn’t just about the paparazzi or the media. It was about you, about him, and about whether you both could keep something real in the midst of all the noise.

Lando’s voice broke the silence, his frustration spilling out in a rush.

"You just don’t get it, do you? I’m under constant pressure, every damn day. People watching my every move, judging me for everything. And I’m supposed to just deal with it and pretend it’s all fine? That’s not how it works, Y/N. I don’t need someone who isn’t ready to handle it with me. Someone who’s not tough enough to stick with it."

The sting of his words hit you square in the chest, making your breath catch in your throat. You stood there, the frustration boiling up in your veins, but it wasn’t just frustration—it was hurt.

The implication that you weren’t strong enough, that you couldn’t handle it, cut deeper than any of the media’s harshest critiques. And before you knew it, the anger welled up, pushing you to the brink.

"What do you mean by that?" You demanded, your voice growing sharp. "If you’re implying that I’m not tough enough to deal with this, then maybe I don’t want to be a part of it at all."

The words hung in the air between you both. Lando opened his mouth, but nothing came out, and you saw the moment his words faltered. His face shifted from anger to something else—regret, perhaps, but it was too late. The damage had already been done.

The accusation still stung, a reminder that all the glitter and glam of the world he lived in came with a sharp edge.

You grabbed your bag, moving toward the door. The room felt too small, the space between you suffocating. You needed air. You needed space. You needed to think. You couldn’t stay here, couldn’t stand being in the same room with someone who had just cast doubt on your strength.

Lando’s voice followed you, softer now. "Y/N... Wait."

But you didn’t wait. You couldn’t. You couldn’t stand there, looking at the person you cared about, and still feel like you were walking a tightrope between his world and yours.

Without turning back, you walked out of the room and out of his life for the moment. You needed space, time to think, to breathe. You didn’t know where that space would lead, or what it would mean for you and Lando. But right now, all you knew was that you couldn’t stay, not after the way things had gone down.

You couldn’t get out of that hotel room fast enough. The tension in the air, the harsh words exchanged, it all felt too much to bear.

You needed to escape—needed space to think without the constant weight of everything pressing down on you.

The second you had the chance, you made arrangements for a flight back home. No commercial airlines, no layovers. Just the quickest way out.

Now, as you sat in the plush interior of the private jet, the hum of the engines was the only sound keeping you company. The calm surroundings contrasted with the storm of emotions swirling inside you. The leather seats felt cold, and sterile even, as if the jet itself knew this wasn’t how you’d imagined this day to go.

It should’ve been a time for celebration, but instead, everything felt fragile.

Your phone buzzed several times with missed calls and texts from Lando, but you ignored them. You didn’t want to talk yet. You needed time, and you needed it now.

As the plane soared into the sky, you leaned back in your seat, staring out at the endless horizon. The city lights of London had already faded away, and you were now floating high above the clouds, on your way to Saint Tropez.

You didn’t know what the future held. All you knew was that you needed time—time to clear your head, to figure out what was real between you and Lando when everything felt like it was on the verge of collapsing.

The jet cut through the sky, but it didn’t erase the uncertainty in your chest. It felt like everything you had built with him, all the quiet moments, the stolen glances, the subtle connection, had been shattered in an instant.

Would it ever go back to how it was? Or had this secret life you lived together been nothing more than an illusion?

The next morning, as you settled into the quiet of your private home in Saint Tropez, your phone buzzed again. It was a message from Pietra.

“Hey, I’m so sorry about everything. I never meant to cause any drama. I didn’t know things were… tense between you and Lando. Please don’t hold it against me. I hope you’re okay.”

You stared at the screen for a moment, feeling a pang of guilt. Pietra had no idea about the argument that had erupted between you and Lando. You knew it wasn’t entirely her fault, even if her slip-up had fueled the fire.

You quickly typed back, “It’s okay, P. I know it wasn’t intentional. Don’t worry about it.”

You hit send, but a heavy sigh left your lips as you leaned back against the couch. You could forgive Pietra, but as for Lando… You weren’t sure if you had it in you just yet.

At the Dutch Grand Prix, a month after your fight, Lando was a shadow of the driver everyone had come to know. His focus, usually sharp and steady, was off. Every turn seemed rougher than usual, and his usual precision was replaced with erratic movements that left his crew and teammates exchanging worried glances.

The frustrations that had built up over the past few days were clearly spilling over, but it was more than just race-related stress. Everyone knew that something was eating at him, something personal—and it was showing on the track.

Oscar sat by the pit wall, his eyes fixed on the monitors, but his mind wasn’t on the race. He could see it: Lando was tense, snapping at the team, his mind elsewhere. Oscar knew that look. He’d seen it before.

"You talked to him today?" he asked, glancing at George, who stood nearby.

"No," George said, his face creased with concern. "I don’t think he’s in a good place. I’ve never seen him like this before."

Oscar sighed. "He’s got something on his mind. It’s not just the race. It’s like... he's not even here with us. He’s distracted, running on fumes."

Alex, who had been talking to a few other members of the team, approached the group.

"Have you noticed how he's been since... well, everything went public? I’m pretty sure he’s having a hard time adjusting to all the media heat."

“Yeah, I’ve seen it. He’s keeping his distance, not his usual self,” Oscar said, glancing back at Lando, who was visibly irritated in the garage, wiping the sweat from his forehead and running a hand through his hair in frustration.

Lando’s mind was still spiraling. He knew the rumors were everywhere. The relationship with you, how it had been exposed, how things had gotten out of hand in the media.

He tried to block it all out, tried to focus on the car, on the race, but he couldn’t. Every turn reminded him of you, of how he’d hurt you, and of everything that had been said behind his back.

“I can’t focus, Oscar,” Lando muttered to his teammate as he finally sat down after a particularly frustrating lap. "I don’t know if I can do this."

Oscar could tell he was on the edge. “Lando, what’s going on? Talk to me. We’re all worried about you.”

Lando met Oscar’s gaze, and for a moment, he looked like he was about to break down. But he just shook his head and stood up, taking a deep breath.

“It’s nothing. Just racing stuff.”

Oscar wasn’t convinced. “You can’t keep everything bottled up, mate. We’re here for you, you know that, right?”

Lando didn’t respond. Instead, his gaze drifted to the pit wall again, where the media and his fans were all waiting for a glimpse of him, a piece of the story.

The questions about you, about your relationship, echoed in his mind, and the frustration only built. The media circus surrounding him was nothing compared to the one inside his head. He needed to fix things—he just didn’t know how.

The rest of the team noticed it too. Alex, George, and the rest of McLaren’s crew were starting to sense the tension. They could see that Lando wasn’t himself, and the questions about why you weren’t by his side were starting to surface.

“Where’s Y/N?” Alex asked, noticing the gap in Lando’s usually upbeat demeanor. “Isn’t she usually with him at these races?”

George added, “Yeah, I haven’t seen her here. It’s weird... I thought they were pretty serious. If anything, I thought she’d be here to support him.”

Lando’s chest tightened at the mention of you. He hadn’t heard from you in days, and the silence was eating away at him. His racing pace was faltering, his relationship with you hanging by a thread, and now he was in the middle of a Grand Prix weekend, struggling to find the balance between the man he was and the person he wanted to be for you.

"Let’s just focus on the race," Lando muttered, turning away from the group, but Oscar could see the cracks in his armor. His teammate was hurting, and there was only so much he could do to help.

The race went on, but the weight on Lando’s shoulders wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

liked by lettiemng, littlefoxhermes and others

yvesaintlaurant homesick

alexandrasaintmleux cheer up baby, love you

francisca.cgomes i hope you feel better soon

@GossipOnGrid Sources close to the paddock say Y/N and Lando might have cooled things off. Too much drama around them after their relationship went public? 😬 #F1Rumors

@papayachatter lowkey think it’s better if lando and y/n aren’t together. he needs to focus on his career, and she’s got her own life in the spotlight. mixing worlds never ends well

@SpeedyTea Okay, but if Lando and Y/N did break up, can we agree the media ruined it for them? Privacy is a thing, people! Let them live🙄

"Y/N Laurant Spotted Partying in Saint Tropez—Is She Moving On from F1 Drama?" The socialite was seen enjoying herself at an exclusive yacht party in Saint Tropez, surrounded by her inner circle. No mention of F1 or Lando Norris in sight.

"Y/N Laurant Reclaims Her Spotlight with Glamorous Appearances Across Europe" The style icon seems to have fully embraced her pre-F1 lifestyle, spotted at high-profile galas and exclusive beach clubs. Fans speculate she’s leaving the motorsport world behind.

"Y/N Laurant Back on the Socialite Circuit—Fans Wonder If She’s Done with F1" The internet is abuzz with sightings of Y/N at exclusive events in Milan and Saint Tropez, fueling rumors that her connection to the motorsport world has fizzled out.

You watched from your home in Saint Tropez as the headline flashed across your phone screen: Lando Norris Takes Victory in Zandvoort, But Where is His Girlfriend? The picture of Lando, jubilant in the McLaren team shirt, felt bittersweet as you swiped through.

You wanted to be there for him, to share that moment, but the hurt was still too fresh, the unresolved tension between you both too real.

Instead, you sat alone in your family home, sipping on a glass of rosé, trying to make sense of the growing distance between you two. It stung to see him celebrating, winning, and yet, you weren't part of that.

The emptiness that had begun to creep into your life after everything that went down after Silverstone still hadn't dissipated.

The headlines made your stomach churn as they speculated about why the two of you weren't seen together. "Y/N Laurant Spotted with Friends in Milan, but Where’s her speculated boyfriend, F1 Driver Lando Norris? "

They didn’t know the half of it, but you didn’t have the energy to clarify. You couldn’t. All you could focus on was your own life, what you were supposed to be doing, and how to ignore the rawness of it all.

Your sister, Léonie, stepped into the room, her eyes catching the somber mood immediately. She crossed the room, slipping into the seat beside you on the plush velvet couch.

"You're still upset, aren’t you?" she asked, her voice gentle but knowing.

You didn’t respond at first, instead, choosing to look down at your phone again, checking the race results and his victory. You couldn’t help the pang in your chest, but the walls had already been built too high to let him back in.

"I’m fine," you lied.

She raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "You don't need to hide it, Y/N. I can see it." She gently touched your arm, offering a soft smile.

"You’re allowed to feel hurt. But please don’t hide it from me."

You bit your lip, letting the vulnerability seep through despite your best attempts to keep it at bay.

"I just don't know anymore," you whispered. "I thought we had something real. But it feels like... like the pressure from the outside world just ruined it. I don’t think I can handle being in his life if this is how it’s always going to be."

Léonie nodded slowly, understanding the complexity of it all.

"You’re right to feel hurt, but you also don’t have to let the media or the world decide how you should feel. Relationships are hard, especially when you're constantly under a microscope. But you don't need to be afraid of what you feel."

You sighed deeply, pushing a strand of hair out of your face. "I don’t even know if I want to try anymore. The spotlight, the expectations—it’s all too much. It just feels... suffocating."

Léonie's gaze softened, her voice tender as she spoke.

"You’re allowed to protect yourself, Y/N. And if you don’t think you can handle the pressure, that’s okay. But you can’t let it take away what you feel for him, if it’s still there. You need to decide what makes you happy, not anyone else. Not the tabloids, not the fans, and definitely not the people who think they know your heart better than you do."

You let out a long breath, the weight of the situation still heavy on your chest.

"I just don't know if it's worth it anymore. Everything’s a mess, and I don't want to make any more mistakes."

Léonie gave you a reassuring squeeze. "You’ll figure it out, one way or another. But don't shut out what you’re feeling just because it’s hard. Your heart is allowed to be conflicted. Just take things one step at a time."

You nodded, but the ache in your chest didn’t disappear. It couldn’t. The media was relentless, and the world was waiting for an answer. You just weren’t sure if you could give one right now.

Lando stared blankly at the screen of his phone, scrolling through social media, his heart sinking with every photo he saw of you. You looked stunning, as always, a radiant smile on your face as you sipped champagne on a yacht in Saint Tropez.

You were surrounded by your friends, living the life of a carefree socialite, and to the world, you seemed like you were thriving. But to Lando, it was a reminder of how much you seemed to be moving on—without him.

He tossed his phone onto the bed in frustration, running a hand through his messy curls. The chaos in his life had reached a boiling point. On the track, he was off his game. He missed braking points, his focus shattered by the memory of you.

The paddock felt emptier without your quiet support, your grounding presence. Even Oscar had started giving him side-eyes, his usual quips about Lando’s "lovesick puppy" phase having faded into genuine concern.

The worst part was that Lando couldn’t shake the nagging thought that maybe this was his fault. Maybe he’d pushed too hard, said the wrong thing, and now you were gone, living the life you had before he barged into it. His chest ached at the idea that you were happier without him.

“Mate, you’re spiraling,” Max Fewtrell said over a late-night FaceTime, his tone unusually serious. “You’re not even yourself anymore. Just talk to her.”

“I can’t just talk to her, Max,” Lando snapped, pacing the hotel room. “What if she doesn’t want to hear it? What if she’s done?”

Max raised an eyebrow. “What if she’s not? What if she’s waiting for you to make the first move? You can’t sit around moping forever. She’s not going to chase you, and you know it.”

Lando sat down on the edge of his bed, head in his hands. He knew Max was right. He had to stop overthinking and do something. But the fear of rejection loomed large.

He’d messed up, and he wasn’t sure if there was a way to fix it.

By the time the Azerbaijan Grand Prix weekend rolled around, Lando had made up his mind. He heard from some mutual friends that you might be there with them. He knew you still had ties to the paddock, even if you weren’t there for him anymore.

The thought of seeing you, even just for a moment, sent a mix of hope and dread coursing through him.

He stood in the garage on Friday, pretending to review data with his engineer, but his mind was elsewhere. He caught sight of a group entering the paddock—your friends. His heart raced. If they were here, there was a chance you were too.

“Lando,” Oscar nudged him, pulling him out of his trance. “You alright?”

“Yeah, just—yeah,” Lando mumbled, glancing around.

Oscar tilted his head knowingly. “You think she’s here, don’t you?”

Lando didn’t respond, but the answer was written all over his face. He clenched his fists, taking a deep breath. He had to find a way to talk to you. He owed it to you—to himself—to try.

As he walked toward the hospitality area later that evening, his mind raced with what he’d say. He didn’t have a plan, just an overwhelming need to see you, to remind you of what you’d meant to each other.

To see if there was still a chance, even if it was slim.

The tension in his chest was unbearable, but he knew one thing: he couldn’t let you slip away without trying to fix what was broken.

© soleilpinto 25’ -. no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any manner without the permission from the publisher.

Taglist: @bakingpiastries @linnygirl09

[reddevilmcnt]

Maksim could always tell the exact moment when Ross started to crack under his words. It showed in the way Ross’s blood began to race, his heart pounding several increments faster in uneven bursts that Maksim’s attuned ears could detect without very much effort at all. To be fair, a petty, twisted part of him lived for moments like this------- baiting Ross was far too satisfying, especially since the human seemed to take as much delight in provoking him. However, Maksim couldn’t quite understand why this time Ross had let his banter hit so easily. Ross’s particular brand of boring would eventually sync up with someone else's wants and needs, those belonging to the right mate for him. But then again, Maksim couldn’t forget the breakup Ross had mentioned once, something about a guy who got bored and did walk away. Of course, it was probably more complicated than that. Humans, fickle and treacherous as they were, did possess certain habits of picking up and discarding partners on a whim. But, maybe, it also could've been one of those slow, creeping implosions where the cracks of the relationship spread too gradually to notice until it was too late. Making 'boredom' the most simplified excuse to end it when the real reason could've been far more complex. Either way, Maksim didn’t really care. It wasn’t his problem, and he wasn’t cruel enough to use it against Ross. …Well, that wasn’t entirely true------- he was that much of a dick when he wanted to be. But he wasn’t in the mood to dig at sore spots tonight. That wasn’t why he was here. His penchant for malice had its uses, though it was vastly better spent on battles that mattered.

"Calm down and eat a taco," was all Maksim offered in response to Ross’s rising frustration, his tone deliberately casual and infuriatingly dismissive. Without waiting for a reply, he bit into his own taco, taking a massive bite that demolished half of it in one go. His eyes shot wide open as Ross’s abrupt confession registered, the words sinking in mid-chew. A jumbled snicker escaped him then, in an animalistic sound that made him seem every bit the mongrel people accused him of being, but he couldn’t stop himself. Ross was a riot, genuinely ridiculous in a way that tugged a grin from Maksim no matter how hard he tried to hold it back. At least he wasn’t stuck protecting a human with zero personality or humor. So, not so boring after all. Not that Maksim would ever tell him that. "Hmm... are schoolteachers allowed to say the word 'slutty'? What sort of vocabulary is that?" Maksim drawled, expression a chaotic mix of shit-eating grins and doggish amusement. He took a long drink from his vodka glass, downing it in one go before promptly pouring himself another. Alright, this wasn't... so bad. Not first or second date material (because that would never happen) but tolerable. Maksim frowned at the thought, annoyed that Ross could push his mind in that direction for even just a second. Nevertheless, there were far worse humans out there, ones who couldn’t hold his attention for even half a conversation. This was something. Not friendship, God, no, but civil tolerance. A hey, I won’t let you get murdered out there in the streets kind of vibe. About as close to 'friendly' as Maksim ever wishes to be with a non-werewolf. And for now, that was enough.

"Mmm, I'm always naked," he quips, flashing an infuriatingly arrogant, crooked smile. There’s no hint of a joke in his tone------ he’s entirely serious. "...Not at this very moment, obviously. I couldn't show up to my favorite teacher's apartment like that. What would the neighbors say?" Fuck the neighbors, but yeah, nakedness is pretty standard for a wolf, especially post-shapeshift. He's only returning playful fire.

Maksim doesn’t start feeling the cherry vodka until his fourth glass, a subtle euphoria blooming in his chest, nothing dramatic, just something to set him at ease. His body, always running hot, doesn’t change much outwardly, but the tightness in his massive shoulders melts away, leaving him loose and relaxed for once. A rare reprieve from the usual tightly-wound aggression or paranoia. Ross throws out another wildly inappropriate comment, and Maksim nearly loses it, almost tumbling out of his seat from laughing so hard. What the fuck? "I guess," he manages weakly, voice rough and scratchy as he struggles to catch his breath between laughing, gasping, and shoveling shrimp into his mouth. "If that’s what you need." And honestly, it probably is. Ross seems like someone who needs dick more than anyone Maksim’s ever met. Anything to shut him the fuck up and knock him out for a while. After Ross gives his two cents about blind dating, the Alpha hums thoughtfully, then shrugs his strong, wide-set shoulders. "Welp. Maybe I’ll go through with it------ just to see what my people really think of me." His smirk is all good-natured mischief as he grabs another shrimp and drags it through sauce, thoroughly leaning into his caveman table manners. "Maybe I’ll even try your method," he adds with a wolfish grin. "Get slutty drunk and see who takes dick the best." He pauses, mock-serious, then tilts his glass toward Ross. "Wow, I think I learned something today. You really are good at your job." He knows he’s tempting fate; this conversation is practically begging for a glass to get hurled at his head. Worth it, though.

"i'm not a stick in the mud just because i don't want to put on that tacky see-through shirt my friend got me and go get sweaty on a dance floor." ross puffs up immediately, feeling his face flush, some startling combination of anger and embarrassment at being so thoroughly called out. it isn't as if he's desperately trying to impress this guy, of all people, but he doesn't want his legacy in anyone's mind to be that he's a boring loser who likes to sit at home and read or put together a puzzle on the weekends with a cozy cup of tea.

even if that's exactly what he is.

thrill and fun are great things, he enjoys them on occasion, but ross never wanted to be a dangerous guy, never wants to fuck himself over just to chase a few minutes of frivilous fun.

maybe he's boring. maybe he's the kind of nerdy guy that it's fun to hook up with for a while, because he's always thrilled and enthuiastic for his partners, but he's too boring to take out. maybe maksim has him wildly overthinking this.

all of those can be true.

hands curl around the glass that's been poured and left on the table, and he only hesitates for a split second of looking at the clear liquid before he lifts it and downs it like a madman. the burn is immediate and apparent. wild in his chest, blooming and warming his face like he's sitting next to a fire. "if you ask my friends, the answer is slutty." the glass is placed on the counter again, and he offers a little smirk, a hand coming up to lightly pull at his shirt, let a little airflow cool his still warming chest. "i'm a slutty drunk who'd be on his knees the moment someone told him to. so you're right, probably shouldn't overdo it. unless you wanna get naked in my kitchen again?" and he lets his eyebrows dance a little before the smile cracking his stoic expression crack through.

his body rests against the counter and he grabs a nacho to pop into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. he's decided not to comment on the 'nagging little wife' thing, if only because there's some fundamental part of him that knows that maksim is right. even if he doesn't want to admit it to the cocky fuck. instead, he shrugs his shoulders. "maybe. i'll have to start getting slutty drunk and figure out what dick fucks me the best, go from there." his eyes roll, but expression shifts thoughtfully when the man starts speaking again, humming softly, listening. then his head shakes. "nah. i don't really think blind dating works. i mean, it's awkward as hell, you're just showing up to a place, and there's someone waiting for you, and it really gives insight into what the people setting you up think about you, about who you should be with. and i think starting on a back foot like that is just begging to make it impossible for some kind of real connection. and that's what finding love is all about anyway, right? real connection."

[thelaurenshippen]

good night laurinia, do you have any canon sexualities for your characters? Other than the more blatant one's like Mark's bisexuality and chloe being ace,, I'm especially curious about joan wadsworth and owen, xoxo ♡

good morning anon!

so, the answer to this is a little complicated simply because of my current feelings around the idea of "canon" and my position as a creator on the internet who has a direct line of communication with my audience. so, sorry for answering such a simply question with a long and winding ramble about the current state of storytelling, but I will get to your actual question.

for a long time, I answered questions over on @thebrightsessions tumblr about anything and everything people wanted to know about when it came to my characters. but as the show grew bigger, people started to take those answers as gospel truth, even when the only evidence of that "canon" was a tumblr post and not the show itself. I want people to do whatever they want with my world and characters and it started to feel as though sharing my thoughts about things was discouraging that or disappointing people in some way.

so now, I mostly keep answering those questions to the atypipals discord. the community there is pretty tight, so they get a lot of my secrets lol, as well as my uncensored thoughts on things because we've all agreed that what I say means absolutely nothing if it's not in the text! (nap of the author, we call it, because thankfully no one wants me dead).

ALL TO SAY, there are some strong assumptions to be made about the characters based on the show, even when their sexualities aren't explicitly stated. when you expand to include the canon novels, there's even more.

but, as far as I can recall, I think the only sexualities that are explicitly stated are (just including voiced characters in the podcast - the novels have a bunch more):

Mark is bisexual

Chloe is asexual (she's also panromantic, but I don't believe I ever use that word, simply mention that she has two exes names Alex, one boy and one girl)

Adam is gay

Sadie is straight

Rose is gay

...I think that's it? no one else claims a label, I don't think, but obviously there are several other characters who have same-sex relationships:

Caleb canonically pretty much is only into Adam

Sam dates both Mark and Mags

It is heavily implied that Oliver has a thing for Mark

It is explicitly stated in the books that Damien is in love with Mark

Frankie is a trans man who dates Caitlin, which I consider a queer relationship given Frankie is a member of the queer community

and then, of course, there are the characters that are never in a romantic relationship in the podcast or are only seen in heterosexual relationships - those sexualities are up to interpretation! that does mean I don't have a straight answer (pun intended) to the characters you asked about, because amongst those three, all we know is that Joan dated Owen and had a thing for Jackson.

I hope that's not too frustrating of an answer!