#is this just the kind of shit that happens to me and only me. or is this something everyone knows about

[ohnoitstbskyen]

asking sincerely. do you see a romance between jayce and viktor? do you think they ended up being something romantic at the end?

With apologies I am going to only half talk about the thing you are asking me, since I have something else on my mind and you happened to hit the button that makes me vomit it into words.

Coming at this from an aromantic perspective, I obviously don't experience the state of absurd obsessive delusion that you bizarre romantic freaks fetishize so feverishly*, but I am often annoyed by the idea that friendship and romance are either opposites or mutually exclusive. From my perspective, the boundary between the two is at best thin, and more realistically not actually a boundary at all except by cultural construction.

*i am taking an excessively hostile, crass tone for my own amusement i do not mean this seriously please be normal at me, weird allo freaks

I won't get into my full feelings about the end of Arcane, but it seems perfectly plain to me that the script, the imagery and the animation presents Jayce and Viktor as two halves of a whole, not opposing forces but alike to yin and yang: opposites which each contain the other. And at the climax of the show, the greatest peril to life and peace in the narrative is resolved by these two men literally joining their bodies and souls together, and going into eternity holding one another for comfort and strength. They are quite literally soulmates, quite literally the most important people in one another's lives.

I don't think that that kind of intimate emotional connection between men must necessarily be either romantic or sexual - I am aromantic, and plenty of ace people exist, and there is nothing in our natures excluding us from intense connections of love with other people of any gender.

I also think it is willfully ignorant (and genuinely homophobic) to act as though these deep connections are mutually exclusive with sex and romance. As though if Viktor and Jayce fucked nasty and made out sloppy style, suddenly their intimacy is less pure or valid, or tainted somehow.

"If these two men who are emotionally close to one another also fuck or get romantically involved, then friendship is dead, murdered on the floor by a dick-shaped knife; vile sexuality corrupts and debases the true, pure and virtuous love of ✨friendship✨" <- This shit is homophobic at a baseline, queerphobic in general, and frankly as an aromantic man I find it pretty fucking insulting as well.

What, are my friendships with other men just inherently more pure and divine, more meaningful and true than a gay man's can ever be, because I will never suffer the vile temptation of adding romance to my affection? Is that how I should think of myself? And is an aroace man more pure than me still, the only source of TRUE male friendship that a man can ever experience, free from the pustulant corruption of sexuality and romantic desire?

You get this pathetic defensiveness (especially from men, but other genders aren't immune) wherein sex and sexuality and romance between men is perceived as a threat to men's right and ability to experience deep connection to each other. But the emotional castration of men comes not from people imagining sex and romance as a component of our relationships - it comes from people who insist that our emotional lives must be ruled by strict binaries. Sex and romance, OR ELSE friendship. Deep romantic connection OR ELSE deep platonic connection. Pick one and do not dare to imagine both, nor act as though the boundary between them is something that we built by cultural fiat, and which can be dismantled just the same.

And yes, yes, yes, I know there are cultural forces literally illuminati-style conspiring to systemically erase the entire existence of explicitly romantic, sexual male love from media, and I know that homophobic puritanism is on the rise and there are material concerns and a real necessity for explicit representation in fiction, yes I know. Everything is more complicated than a tumblr post can cover, I am not trying to Solve Rainbow Capitalism™ over here, I am trying to express frustration as an aromantic man that this stupid fucking binary keeps getting culturally reinforced by both my enemies and my well-meaning allies, when I think the binary is what's fucking killing us in the first place.

So anyway. My position is that Viktor and Jayce can be entirely aromantic no-homo friends, and they can fuck nasty in the throes of mutual need and obsession, and I refuse to entertain the idea that there is an irresolvable contradiction between those things. Each of those can contain the other, or become the other given time and circumstance.

What the imagery, storytelling and script of Arcane makes clear is that Viktor and Jayce love each other more than life itself. To say that that love must be shoved into the box of either "platonic" or "romantic" is to miss out on almost everything that is beautiful about love. It can be both and neither! It can be a secret third, ninth or fifteenth thing that they haven't invented a tag for on Ao3 yet.

They are giving each other whatever the spiritual mind-ghost equivalent of sloppy backshots are on the ethereal plain forever, they are the most romantic lovers in the cosmos, and they are also the most chaste and platonic life-partner friends you have ever seen, effortlessly intimate and unashamedly tender. They are men who love one another, in every way that love matters.

You can pick whichever interpretation brings you joy, and resonates with what your heart needs, the text of the show is eminently and explicity open to it, and anyone who says otherwise either failed to pay attention, or refused to pay attention on purpose.

[czasem-pedalujemy]

i used to listen to their podcast but am not in the fandom right now so not knowing i went to watch the clip in question and, well, this whole situation is so frustrating. Because yes, he may be kinda cringe sometimes and is personally my least favourite of them, but the rant was actually good i belive.or at least. understandable. like; yes he frased things in a awkward way maybe but he was correct. when playing a social game like werewolfs, mafia or indeed among us voting for someone just to troll them when they are deeply invested in a game can be so infuriating (i for example wouldn't want to play with that group anymore). like. we are all playing play pretend why are you bullying me for being invested in the game. nobody would have this reaction to him having this rant if some random shit happened in their ttrpg campaign that was bad for his character and they made it canon "because it was funny and just a game and why are you so invested in this bro". and even worse he cant walk away from the game without explanation in that moment because he's on stream and playing games with people is literally what hes in that moment there to do. idk maybe i also get too invested in these kind of games so i relate to this reaction, even if i agree with people that calling someone a Bad Person for playing the game wrong is out of touch with reality. I also belive that his blood was boiling and everyone was laughing and he (like others said) had a meltdown and generalising the situation was the only way to explain to people (and maybe himself) the reaction he was having

really fucking sucks that the catalyst for the mcelroy brothers' "downfall" was when one of them *checks notes* displayed symptoms of the mental illness he was very open about, in a way that was deeply embarrassing but ultimately pretty harmless

[threeacttragedy]

Entry 11: The One About the Heart of the Ocean

My father is a big history buff. He fancies himself a bit of an expert about the U.S. Civil War, U.S. Presidents, and World War II. In fact, he’s gifted me with the Useless Knowledge of which four U.S. Presidents were assassinated while in office (Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, and Kennedy – you’re welcome for that little addition to your own Library of Useless Knowledge).

But, more importantly, my dad has instilled in me the importance of a timeline. The idea that, if you’re collecting information, it’s vital to keep it in chronological order, that way you can look at it, (try to) understand it, and theorize about what happened before and after an event. If the facts are out of order, the conclusion you reach may be in error.

My father and I also like to solve True Crime together. When he visits, we spend hours on the porch studying some random, usually cold, true crime event. We timeline the shit out of it, connect the puzzle pieces together, and exclaim in the end, “We’ve solved it!” I suppose that is part of what keeps me interested in Lukola – not that there is anything criminal in Lukola, except perhaps the “Single White Female” that pops up behind Nicola from time to time – I just enjoy the game of trying to put the pieces together.

Lukola has become a rather intriguing puzzle, don’t you think? It’s definitely one to which I do not have all the pieces. I do, however, enjoy collecting the information and chronologizing it, and now I find it enjoyable to scribble my thoughts out on Tumblr.

So, how did I get here?

Well, it started with boredom and ended with a timeline.

My first entry to the timeline?

July 20, 2024.

What happened on that date?

Well, nothing spectacular really, except JVN posted –

HOLD UP!

HOLD THE FUCK UP!!

OH SHIT!!

YES!

YES, you guessed it! After blowing JVN off for at least three, maybe four, posts in a row, I’m finally getting around to dedicating an entire entry to Their Royal Highness.

JVN is such a fascinating creature. I mean, you get beautiful, witty, and intelligent wrapped into one human being. Oh, and they are kind of a catty bitch, too, and who doesn’t love one of those? That’s why they're the Heart of the Ocean on the USS Lukola; they just give off this very rare blue diamond vibe. Well, that, and because something they did marks the focal point – the heart – from which the rest of my timeline branches.

*I will cut in here to note that I am referring to JVN as they/their in this entry as their Instagram bio indicates they accept “they/he/she.”

Okay, back to July 20.

On that date, JVN posted to TikTok their version of the Charli xcx “Apple” dance. You know that annoying TikTok trend that took over our summer? Yeah, that’s the one – the same one Antonia tried doing – she just couldn’t pull off the JVN version of it. Dear girl couldn’t come close to matching JVN’s “enthusiasm,” and JVN’s version was only made more enjoyable in that they were seemingly mocking Antonia!

But, all’s fair in love and war, right?

JVN’s bestie, Nicola, had already spent the entire summer subtlety combating Antonia over social media. The vibe in the fandom was that Antonia was always trying to one-up Nicola, with Nicola always coming out the victor. I’m sorry, Antonia, you just can’t beat some perfectly timed BTS drops.

So, why did JVN’s TikTok post intrigue me? It wasn’t because it was that amusing. It was because they’d done something I hadn’t noticed before – they’d taunted Antonia on a public forum.

Curious, that.

Now, I’m not saying it was the first time JVN mocked Antonia, but July 20 was the first time I noticed it. That date is the heart of my timeline, but it does not have to be the heart of yours. We can all start at different times but still reach the same conclusions, so long as we keep the information in order.

You would think one wouldn’t mess with the “girl friend” of your best friend’s “best friend,” at least not publicly. But, here was JVN shamelessly mocking Antonia on TikTok. And, just so we’re clear, the public opinion of what JVN was doing with this TikTok is available to view in the comments of their TikTok post. It wasn’t just me that came to this conclusion – and JVN has left these comments up for four months at this point.

JVN’s “Apple” dance was only made more interesting the following day – July 21 – when they included it in their Sunday Dump post on Instagram.

And, Nicola liked it.

Hmm, things were becoming curiouser and curiouser.

Let’s not even pretend that Nicola isn’t street savvy and didn’t understand the context of that video. And, let’s definitely not underestimate the length of her claws.

To be honest, I hadn’t paid too much attention to Lukola since mid-June. It was an “it is what it is” thing for me. Even though I believed the relationship between Luke and Nicola was complicated (see my first blog for that story), Luke had also apparently disappeared into the summertime sun with his friend group, which included Antonia.

Something about JVN openly making fun of Antonia, and Nicola, at the very least acknowledging it with an Instagram like, made me realize something in Luke’s situation must be shifting.

What have I said about little changes? That deviations in modus operandi are what make people start giving the side-eye to a situation.

And, side-eye I did!

I started paying attention to JVN and, on July 25, they posted a series of photos on TikTok and Instagram showcasing “What I would wear if you invited me to your…” We will fast-forward through all the slides until we get to the last one, which read, “…just got dumped and going to take 8 shots dinner at Lupe’s in SoHo.” Was it possible that JVN was hinting at a dumpster fire at the Soho Farmhouse?

If you don’t know what the Soho Farmhouse is, it’s the place where Luke and his friend group, including Antonia, frequented, probably on Luke’s dime (*insert wicked laugh – oh, and a disclaimer that this is all speculation).

Funny that Nicola liked this post on Instagram, too, and it wasn’t even buried in a Sunday Dump.

At this point, JVN had really sparked my damn interest. Like, dear one, what are you hinting at?

On July 29, Deux Moi creeped out from under its rock and reminded the fandom to hate Luke by rehashing Papsmear. Thank you, we needed that. I mean, half of us almost forgot how much we hated him! That’s me being a sarcastic tart, by the way. If we were to fast-forward to today, I’d argue that Luke was the most darling thing to come out of Bridgerton.

Any ways, again, thank you, Deux Moi, for those suspiciously timed Papsmear pictures because they aligned perfectly with the pap pictures People dropped the following day – July 30.

Yep, I am talking about those strangely awkward pap pictures of Luke hanging out in the murky waters of Sorrento with Antonia. Oh, and let’s not forget the video footage of that encounter, which I am sure still upsets and confuses people to this day. In fact, I know it does because, as I was researching this, I had a couple of people get annoyed after I asked them to view it. Funny thing is, that shit never bothered me (I didn’t say that it didn’t later confuse me!). The first time I saw them, I was like, “Luke is not into that girl at all,” and my next thought was, “I wonder how old these pictures are because I would have sworn JVN was hinting at something.”

Now, this story wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t address the rumor portion of it.

First rumor? That Antonia set up the entire Italy pap photo-op because she seemingly knew where to find the cameraman. So, let’s discuss that video everyone seems to hate to acknowledge exists. In the video, you can see Antonia maybe looking in the direction of the cameraman. She then leans into Luke, either to whisper something to him or to reach for something behind him. In my opinion – and this is strictly my opinion – it looks like she’s pretending to reach for something over his shoulder. Still shots of this interaction are the photos People published, presumably because Luke and Antonia looked like they were cheek to cheek.

Okay, notice I said, “first rumor,” because, yeah, there’s a second rumor, too! But, it fits snuggly into that first rumor. Almost immediately – because that’s how fast the Lukola Sleuths get to work around here – rumors began to circulate that Antonia was following on Instagram the photographer that took the Italy pap pictures. In fact, several people I’ve spoken to swear that they witnessed during a TikTok Live a host prove that Antonia was following this photographer. That’s a bit suspicious, isn’t it? Yeah, it fucking is.

Let’s keep moving.

That same day, we had that video drop of Luke watching fireworks, at night, with sunglasses. Speaking of sunglasses, I guess Luke found those motherfuckers because he sure as shit didn’t have them while floating around in that dirty ass water. Any ways, at the end of the video, Rory appears behind Luke, looking in the direction of the camera and smiling like a condescending, sneaky little shit. Now, who was the cameraman? Well, a possible suspect would be Antonia since she was not seen in the video. Go figure.

Alright, so that day finally ended and on July 31, JVN posted to TikTok a cutesy video of themself at the market titled, “When you catch someone trying to sneak a pic but you were born for these moments.” They prance around the market and randomly look at the cameraman (Mark) with a smile and a pose. The caption reads, “I welcome sneaky pics but I can’t guarantee I won’t sneak some back or put on a show for you.”

WAIT A MINUTE!

Did JVN just inexplicably confirm Luke was getting papped by his own friends?

Yeah, I kind of think JVN did.

And, Nicola liked this one as well when JVN posted it to Instagram on August 8.

Didn’t I tell you JVN was a fascinating creature? And, to be honest, JVN only gets better as this Lukola ship continues on its voyage.

Oh, strangely enough, a few days after the Italy pap crap, Luke returned to London alone. The friend group became unsettlingly silent, and Nicola started to get really, really loud – Chaos Week was incoming! And, so were some more JVN crumbs (and nicely timed clap backs).

[quarterlifekitty]

Weaknesses part 2: treat ‘em mean

Note: again, these are silly and for fun! Don’t take them too seriously.

Gaz likes it when you’re pretend mean. Like when he texts you some picture that’s really fucking stupid, or a video of something gross and you text back “did you know that you’re a bastard and I curse the day you entered my life”. That’s how he knows he got you!

Soap likes preferential treatment. He’s really into it if you’re a complete bitch to everyone else, but you like him. And if you’re thinking to yourself “this is just his relationship with Ghost”, well. Yeah. It is.

Ghost likes it if you ignore everyone that isn’t him. Like if it seems like you only really wake up once he’s in the room. Like he’s the only person worth paying attention to in your world.

Price likes it when you’re stern with his lads in the 141. Telling them off for doing something stupid. Really plays into the weird idea he has that it’s like he’s their dad and you’re their mum.

König likes it when you get angry on his behalf. Like yeah, he doesn’t need you to defend him or anything, but he’s very much used to pushing his frustrations down in order to be professional— to be the bigger man (as if he needed help with that). So he likes it when you sort of act petulant and frustrated over something that happened to him, the way someone spoke to him— it’s like he’s getting out his anger vicariously. And it makes you very cute. You’re cute when you’re mad.

Nikolai likes it when you break shit. He’s very much an “ohoho, kitty has claws, me-ow!” Kind of guy. Anything that works you up and gives you a lot of pent-up energy is good in his books! He’ll gladly sacrifice a thousand plates and glasses if it means he gets to take a riled-up hellcat to bed.

[vitalverstappen]

Cassandra - C. Leclerc

summary: when everyone believes you, what's that like?

pairing: Charles Leclerc x platonic teammate! reader

warnings: Mattia Binotto, swearing, some sexist comments

word count: 3k

a/n: in honor of max winning the WDC, i figured i'd post something. in honor of charles finally losing his shit on the team radio, i figured i'd post this. also it takes place during the 2022 season

masterlist

the tortured drivers department masterlist

2022 was supposed to be your year. You broke onto the F1 scene in 2020 with Haas after working your way up through F3 and F2, championing both levels of racing with ease. You proved yourself time and time again by consistently placing within the points in a less than superior car. 

That’s how you got the attention of Ferrari. They offered you a one year deal, and you couldn’t turn it down. You were okay with being the second driver, because you were racing for the most historic team in F1. 

Things started out great. The car was a major upgrade from the tractor you were driving with Haas, and the team actively listened to your input and took having a woman in the car seriously.

You and Charles also clicked instantly, which led to some amazing content for the social teams. 

“Anything you need, or feel needs changed, let us know. We’re a family here” Mattia said as he gave you the tour of the Ferrari factory.

You couldn’t have drawn up the first two races any better. Both you and Charles were on the podium and it looked like you two were going to give Max and Red Bull a run for their money in the championship races. 

The downward spiral started in Australia. From the moment you hit the track for the first time, something felt off. The car was sluggish, it took all of your strength to accelerate and brake properly. 

“There’s something wrong with the car.” you told the team, your frustration mounting. “It takes forever to accelerate and then when I do, I can’t break”

“Have you tried leg day?” Mattia asked, a smirk forming on his face, causing you to storm away and find your mechanics. 

The Australian Grand Prix ended up being a disaster. You struggled through the laps, barely able to keep up with the field. The car was just too much of a handful. Thirteen laps in, you hand no choice but to retire from the race. The speed was gone, and your confidence was shot. 

“I cannot believe he looked me in the eyes and said ‘try leg day’” You fumed as you barged into Charles’ driver room. The frustration was evident in every word, your anger still fresh from the weekend’s events. 

Charles looked up from his phone, raising an eyebrow at your entrance. “Well hello to you too” he said with a small chuckle. “What’s going on?” 

You let out a deep sigh and recounted the car troubles and the interaction with Mattia. “He actually said ‘try leg day’ to me, like it’s some kind of joke. What happened to ‘if you need anything, let me know’?”

Charles listened intently, a sympathetic look crossing his face. “Hopefully it was just an assembly issue” he said, trying to ease your frustration. ”Imola should go smoothly for the two of us. We both know you’re a hell of a driver.” 

Imola was next, and that was somehow even worse than Australia. Instead of acceleration and braking problems, the new issue was the engine. It had to be replaced between practice 3 and qualifying, only for the new one to fail during the race in Imola. 

“I have the utmost trust in my team.” You said during your press interviews “We’ve tried upgrades, but they’ve fallen flat. Hopefully Miami provides some better results” 

For Miami, the team had reverted your car back to the original set up, the one it had when the season started. The difference was night and day. The car felt responsive, alive in ways it hadn’t in the past few races. As you flew through all three practice sessions and qualifynig, you could feel the weight lift from your shoulders. You had been pushing the limits all weekend, and it had paid off - P2, only behind Charles. Things were looking up. 

The problem now was the strategy. As the number two driver, you knew your strategies were mostly going to be defend defend defend but you didn’t realize how badly Ferrari’s lack of adaptability would come into play 

The race was shaping up to be intense. Charles had led most of it, with Max behind him. You were right behind Max, keeping a steady pace, but always aware of the massive pressure from the drivers behind. Then, when Charles pitted, you thought, for sure, you’d get the green light to battle Max for the lead. After all, you were right there, in prime position.

Instead, the radio crackled to life. 

“Y/n keep defending. Leclerc will be back up there in no time.” Your engineer said

You blinked, incredulous. “I’m sorry what?” You couldn’t believe what you just heard. 

“Defend Max. Charles will be back up there to take over. Hold your position” he repeated as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

“Are you fucking serious?” you barked back, your grip tightening on your steering wheel. “I can overtake him for the lead and you want me to defend?!” 

Before your engineer could respond, Mattia’s voice boomed over your radio “Defend y/n. Team orders.” 

You could feel your irritation building, but there was no choice. Ferrari had spoken. You stayed behind Max, holding position, and waiting for Charles to catch up. Sure enough, Charles had soon found his way back to you, but by that point, Max was far enough ahead that any shot at victory was all but lost. 

Later, in the media pen, you stood with the press surrounding you, microphones, shoved in your face. They asked you the usual questions, but you were still stewing over what had happened. 

“Yeah, I mean the car felt great” You started, trying to keep your tone even. “We reverted back to the original, pre-upgrades and the car showed it’s worth”

The reporter pressed further. “Now even though the car was great, why do you think you couldn’t pull off the win? You were less than a second behind Max, and chose to defend your position instead of attacking.”

A disappointed sigh escaped your lips. You were tired of repeating the same frustrations. “If it was up to me, I would have attacked. I know we would’ve gotten a different result on the podium today. If we had a different strategy, then we would have gotten many more points.” 

“How do you think this result is going to impact the championships?” another reporter asked 

You paused, considering the question. “It could make or break it. There’s a large jump of points between one, two and three, and one thrown away strategy can make or break a shot at either championship. I’m just hoping they don’t mess up Charles’ strategies like they have mine.” 

As you finished your media duties, you made your way back to the garage, expecting to be alone with your thoughts. But to your surprise, Charles was waiting for you.  

“What are you doing here?” You asked, raising an eyebrow as you approached

“I, uh, wanted to congratulate you on P3. You had a good race out there” He said sheepishly, his hands shoved in his pockets.

You shrugged, the weight of the day still on you. “I could have won if my strategy wasn’t total shit.” you muttered, your tone flat.

Charles let out a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I get it. P1 and P2 would have been great, but strategy isn’t Ferrari’s strong suit” he admitted, his eyes meeting yours with a shared understanding.

“So I’ve learned.” you replied dryly. “I just hope it isn’t bad enough to fuck up winning either championship” 

He nodded, a look of quiet concern in his eyes. “So do I. I’m terrified my shot at a driver’s championship is gonna slip away” 

Before you knew it, your interview was trending all over social media. Clips of you talking about the strategy missteps were circulating, and the Tifosi and general F1 fans alike were all over it. They didn’t believe you. They thought you were complaining, too bitter about the loss, and some even accused you of undermining the team. The backlash was stiff.

User1: there’s no way they’re going to mess up the golden boy’s strategy. Mattia cares too much about winning to do that

User2: y/n doesn’t know racing. She’s obviously going to get the shit strategy - she’s not charles 

User3: Ferrari needs to get rid of her. She doesn’t belong here #burnthebitch

Before media day in Spain, you got called into Mattia’s office. 

“Thank you for joining me on such quick notice y/n” Mattia said with a smile as you walked in 

You gave him a polite smile as you sat across from his desk “Of course. Why did you call me in?” 

The smile on his face instantly hardened “We need to talk about how you approach the media. You embarrassed myself, along with the rest of the Ferrari staff during Miami.” 

You found yourself fixing your posture and dropping the smile you had previously, prepared to go toe to toe with your principal. “I would say I told the truth on how the race was handled. We could have left Miami with eleven more points, had we gone P1 and P2”

Mattia sighed “That may be true, but we know you couldn’t have battled Max safely. Regardless, that was two weeks ago. We need to focus on Spain now.” 

“Whatever” You mutter “ If we provide sufficient results, I’ll give you praise. If we don’t, I’ll keep mentioning what needs to be done better. Simple as that” 

Spain turned out better for you than it did for Charles. You had finished P4, while Charles was forced to retire. Another blow for Ferrari. 

Both of you managed to score points in Monaco. The car felt good and it seemed like the team was back to how they were at the start of the season. That is until Baku. 

The start of the race seemed like it was going well. The practices and qualifying went well. Charles was on pole and you were not far behind him at P4. But that’s when the good luck ended. Just like the Australian Grand Prix, your brakes were faulty, and this time your clutch wasn’t working. 

“Check the hydraulics - brakes aren’t working again and clutch is out.” You voiced over the radio, concern filling your words 

After a few moments of silence, your engineer’s voice filled your ears. “Seems we have a uh hydraulic problem. You need to retire the car.” 

You muttered a curse as you found a spot to pull your car off. If it wasn’t a strategy issue, it was the car. If it wasn’t the car, it was something else. Something always had to go wrong. 

It was only lap eight and Charles was still driving. You had some hope he could get points for the team and for his championship. 

Throwing on a spare headset in the Ferrari garage, you watched as Charles battled through the streets of Baku. Just as quick as he was driving, the problems with his car also began to show. He had to retire only a handful of laps later with a power problem. 

While Ferrari’s golden boy wouldn’t have a negative thing to say about them during the pressers, you had much less of a filter. 

“You can mark my words that we aren’t winning a championship this year. As much as I want to put faith into our team and our strategies, we’ve shown time and time again we come up short.” 

Instead of your remarks being pushed aside by everyone, you found yourself in the spotlight. All eyes were on you as you walked into the paddock for the British Grand Prix. You acknowledged your team out of respect, and they greeted you back, but you could tell there was tension. 

“Mattia wanted me to tell you that the strategy for today is the same as usual: protect Charles.” Your engineer told you as the two of you sat down for lunch

You furrowed your eyebrows “Why couldn’t Mattia tell me that himself?” 

“He doesn’t think you deserve his time and energy” He said, rolling his eyes 

A scoff left your lips “That’s ridiculous. We’re both adults. He needs to act like it.” 

“You’re telling me” Your engineer muttered 

Before you knew it, it was lights out at Silverstone. The race was a disaster for everyone. While a scary crash had been cleaned up, leading to a restart, another safety car was put out for a stopped car. 

“Y/n box box” Your engineer spoke through your earbuds 

Under the safety car, you were able to pit and get fresh soft tires. When the race resumed, you quickly found yourself behind Charles. 

“Am I defending again?” You asked 

“You are free to overtake, but you must give up the position once Charles gets back up after pitting” 

“You mean Charles didn’t box under the safety car?” 

“Correct.” 

“Fucking idiots” You sighed, but did as you were told. 

Charles easily gave up the front position to you as he headed to the pit lane. You expected him to make a quick comeback in the next few laps, but as the laps ticked by, the gap remained. The radio crackled with instructions from your engineer, and you kept your focus, pushing through. 

And just like that, you crossed the finish line. Your first Grand Prix victory. 

The celebrations were a blur - the podium, the champagne, the flashing cameras. As the trophy was handed to you, you felt a surge of pride, but the weight of the race still hung in the air. Charles had been a force throughout the race, and even though you had won, it felt wrong that he hadn’t been able to capitalize on his pace. 

After the post-race formalities wrapped up, you found yourself in Charles’ room, finally able to breathe. He greeted you with a grin, the kind that only someone who experienced a dramatic race could wear.

“Congratulations! First win!” Charles said, his voice full of enthusiasm 

“You should have fucking won that and we both know it.” You said as you tossed him a Gatorade 

Charles caught the bottle with a small chuckle, cracking it open “You’re fucking telling me.” he said, taking a long swing. “At least Mattia didn’t chastise you on national TV.” 

You leaned against the wall, your arms crossed. “Maybe we’ll both be off speaking terms with him by the end of the season,” you joked, but there was no humor in the situation. “But seriously, what did he say?” 

Charles groaned, clearly not looking forward to recounting the conversation “Basically that I needed to listen to team orders. He was pissed that I was pissed that I didn’t win the thing. Said I needed to trust that the team knows what they’re doing.”

“They know what they’re doing?” You raised an eyebrow “Because the last time I checked, they’ve messed up both of our races this season” 

“Tell me about it” His tone shifted, frustration building, “I need him out.” 

A small grin tugged at the corner of your mouth “Twenty bucks he’s out of his job by the end of the season” 

Charles hesitated for a moment, then extended his hand “Deal” 

The rest of the season trudged along, with highs and lows in the car, the strategy, and the relationship between Mattia and his drivers. There were some days he would be all over their radios encouraging them, while others he would avoid them like the plague. 

And sure enough, once Abu Dhabi came, Charles and Ferrari were so far behind Max and Red Bull that it was impossible to catch up to them in either championship. Mattia announced that he would be stepping down at the end of the season, and you had repaired your rocky relationship with your team, allowing you to renew your contract with Ferrari. 

It was the final time in the media pen this season, and it felt much different. The usual questions about the ups and downs of the season were there, but now they came with a certain respect - respect for the struggles you had endured and for the candidness with which you handled it all. Your honest take on Ferrari’s performance had earned its fair share of criticism, but it had also sparked conversations, both within the paddock and among fans. 

The final question from the reporter hit differently. The interviewer’s tone wasn’t mocking, but rather filled with a certain curiosity. “How does it feel to know that you had called it earlier in the season, that Ferrari weren’t going to win either championship this year?”

The question hung in the air for a moment as you processed it. The emotions of the entire season flashed through your mind: the excitement of the podiums early on, the disappointment after races like Miami and Baku, the frustrations with the strategies, and the battles you fought on and off the track. It had been a rollercoaster, and while it hadn’t turned out the way you had hoped, you were still standing. 

You cracked a smile as you spoke, a mix of pride and exhaustion “Oh, so you guys believe me now?” you said, your voice light but laced with the weight of everything that had happened. “Have a good winter break. I’ll see you in Bahrain” 

It was the moment of closure you needed. The reporter thanked you for your time, before wishing you a good break as well. As you walked away from the media pen with Charles by your side, the season’s tension finally seemed to release, at least for a moment. 

Charles, sensing the mood, nudged you. “That was… honestly, impressive. You know, calling it before anyone else.” 

You let out a short laugh. “Yeah, I guess I had a feeling.” you said, shrugging. “At least I wasn’t wrong.”

Charles smirked, clearly tired but also relieved that the season was over. “Let’s just hope next year’s a little less… chaotic, yeah?”

“Agreed.”

[tsubasakruger]

Look, re: one customer acknowledging that a previous customer was an asshole: I currently have a total experience of four years and two months working in retail and the food industry, I have faced four Christmases, one New Year's Eve and one Independence Day (which is important in this context, being an extremely busy day in the sort of job I had at the time), and I have faced so many asshole customers I can't even remember half of them – matter of fact, I can't even remember every type of asshole I've encountered while working retail/food industry.

In all that time, and even through all those complicated holidays, I've only cried on the job once.

Want to take a guess at what happened?

A customer was an absolute asshole for something that wasn't even my fault, but rather a consequence of a shit ton of customers doing the same thing he'd been trying to do. Now, at that point I was well used to customers being assholes and blaming me for literally anything, and honestly once I managed to get him to leave I was just going to wait until the last customers left so I could rant to my coworkers and forget about the whole thing... which I would have, if one customer who'd been near the back of the line while this went down hadn't gotten to the front and sympathetically acknowledged that the guy had been an asshole and the problem hadn't been my fault.

I thanked her and finished ringing her up, asked one of my coworkers to take over the register, and promptly went to the bathroom to cry.

So, yeah. Be kind to retail and food service workers. Enough people treat us like shit, please don't be one of them.

People always gloss over how mentally damaging it can be to work in retail. I fucking hate that whenever I say “I could never work in retail again” someone has to reply “You snowflake millennials can’t take a starter job because you have to INTERACT with other people” No. Fuck you. I’ve worked as a planetarium host. I’ve worked as a public speaker. I’ve worked as a tutor and as a student teacher. I can work with people. I can work with crowds. Retail was fucking different. Retail was being treated as a subhuman. Retail was being treated so poorly that you have anxiety attacks before work. Having to work retail was a factor in my last suicide attempt. If I hear you say one fucking word about retail workers playing the victim I will personally break every bone in your body. Fuck You.

[autumnsvixen]

Damaged - part 2

previous || next (coming soon)

Azriel x f! reader

After a long and arduous recovery, you are finally able to feel safe in the House of Wind. You can't help but feeling as if something, or someone, is missing.

Word Count: 2777

Warnings: Reader healing from wounds, some mentions of past trauma (including blood, violence, and abuse), Rhys being nice (?)

A/N: Holy shit, thank you all for the love on part 1. I was not expecting that AT ALL, but I’m really glad you’re all enjoying it! This is, sadly, another part without much Az, but he’s coming (he's WHAT), I promise 😊

masterlist || request guidelines

The past week was a blur of darkness and pain. Your only real memories consisted of hazy visions of winged males, swirling shadows, and an elderly female fae with kind brown eyes.

As your eyes drifted open, you were blinded by the brightness flowing into the room from the opened curtains. The elder fae you had seen throughout your recovery hissed at someone else in the room, “Morrigan, close that curtain. You’ll give the poor girl a headache.”

Your blurry vision began to clear as the panging in your head became apparent. The pain seemingly spread throughout your body as you fully woke. A groan escaped you as you tried to shift yourself up to better observe the unfamiliar room you found yourself in, only to be gently pushed down by the same female that had just spoken.

“Don’t try to sit up. You’ve recovered a lot, but you still need rest.” Her voice was kind but strict, leaving no room for debate.

When you spoke, your voice came out rough, throat feeling like ash, “where am I?”

Another voice filled your ears as a beautiful female with golden hair moved into your vision, “you’re safe. Cassian and Rhys got you to the House of Wind just in time.” She sounded like honey; soft and sweet.

Her words registered with you, “Rhys, as in high lord Rhysand?” You again tried to sit up in the bed, shocked that Cassian had brought you to the home of the high lord.

The younger fae, who you had figured out was the Morrigan, laughed as the other huffed at you, but she didn’t push you back down. You leaned your back against the headboard, the wood cold against your wings.

“Don’t say it like he’s some god, he’ll get even more of an ego. But yes, the high lord. He winnowed you from just outside of Ironcrest.”

The older female spoke next, “and you’re lucky he did. If you had gotten here any later…” She shook her head, dismissing the thought.

Your heart clenched at the thought that you had almost died.

The two females in the room seemed to notice your thoughts as your eyes glazed over, your last conscious memories replaying in your mind. Morrigan gently grasped your hand, “you’re safe now. I promise those males won’t ever lay a hand on you again.”

A tear fell from your eye as you turned your head to look at her, “I just wanted to be able to defend myself.”

“Those cowards cornered you. It was three against one. Even if you had been training with Cas for years, they would still have had an advantage.” Anger and disgust laced her voice, and the glint in your eyes told you that these were not the first cowardly males she had encountered.

You nodded at her words, but no response escaped you. You couldn’t shake the thought that if you had just been stronger, you could have protected yourself. Or if you had just obeyed your brother’s wishes, you wouldn’t even be in this situation.

Morrigan seemed to sense your reluctance to accept her words as truth, so she turned to the other female in the room. “Madja, do you think it would be alright for her to eat something?”

The elderly fae nodded, swiftly leaving the room. Morrigan sat on the bed next to you, careful not to move your injured body, “Cassian told me your name is Y/N, right?”

You nodded, and she continued, “You can call me Mor. Cassian didn’t tell me much about what happened before the attack, but I promise you that the people here will never treat you the way you were treated back in the camp.”

You didn’t have the words to respond. Part of you hoped what she was saying was true, but another part of you knew that your brother, despite his faults, had always looked out for you. Until now, that is.

“If you want to train once you’re all healed, Cassian and I can help you. If you want to go back to Ironcrest, that is your choice, though one I would hate for you to make.”

You furrowed your brows at her, “You would let me stay? You don’t even know me.”

She smiled softly at you, “let’s just say our high lord has a soft spot for those who have experienced the worst this world has to offer. And Cas has told us enough about you for all of us to trust you.”

Gently, you squeezed her hand, “did he tell you I was the most difficult fae he’s ever had to train?”

Mor laughed, the sound falling gracefully onto your ears and drawing a small smile to your lips. “He told us you had the balance of a newborn fawn, but that you were determined in your training.”

“Do you really think he’d want to train me even after seeing how utterly defenseless I was against those males?” You asked softly, the smile falling from your face.

She looked at you with a kindness you rarely saw, “I’ll say it until your ears bleed, those males are cowards, and it took three of them to face you. You weren’t defenseless and you are not hopeless, you just need training and some more confidence. Cassian would be lucky to have you as a trainee.”

You nodded, “okay then. I’d like to stay here and train.”

Suddenly, Madja entered the room, “not until you are fully healed. You will stay here and rest until I say.” She placed a tray holding bowl of soup and a glass of water on the table next to your bed. “I swear, all you Illyrians are the same, never wanting to heal, always wanting to train,” she mumbled.

Madja didn’t clear you to leave the bed for another three days. In that time, Cassian, Rhysand, and Mor all took turns keeping you company. The first time you had met the high lord, you had clumsily tried to bow from your place in the bed, which more so looked like you trying to fold yourself in half. Of course, with the aching pain in your chest and stomach, this was accompanied by a grimace, which was not the face you had wanted to greet your high lord with. He had chuckled, waving you off with a “please, you’re a guest in my home, I don’t need the theatrics.”

You had quickly developed friendship with each of them, but none as close as Cassian. Perhaps because he was the fae you were most familiar with, or you just associated him with the feeling of safety.

You had thought of asking Cassian about the shadow-made man, but something in your gut stopped you from doing so. Perhaps you had just imagined him, and they would think you were mad if you brought him up.

By the time you were finally allowed to train, almost 2 weeks after waking up, you had begun to feel at home in the House of Wind. You’d had meals with Rhys, Cassian, Mor, and Amren, a member of the household who seemed much older than a high fae should be. Mor had promised once you were at full health, she and Cassian would show you the city and take you shopping, to which Cassian huffed at.

You started to feel at peace.

That was until Cassian woke you up before dawn one day, demanding you change into training clothes that Mor had provided you and meet him in the training arena on top of the house. Though tired, you eagerly complied, excited to start back the training you had gotten so little of back at camp.

When you got to the arena, you marveled at the extensive sand pit and the weapons that hung on racks around it. Cassian laughed at your amusement, “normally Az and I spar with just our hands, but sometimes we practice with the weapons, either on our own or with each other.”

“Az?” You questioned.

Cas’s eyes went wide with realization, “that’s right, you weren’t exactly… conscious when he was here. Azriel is my brother,” he grinned, thinking of the male. “He’s also our court’s spymaster, so he comes and goes pretty frequently. He’s off on a mission to who knows where right now, but he should be back by the end of the week. He keeps to himself, so you probably won’t see much of him when he is here, but once you get to know him, he’s a good guy.”

You nod, wondering if this was the shadow man you had believed your mind made up. But Cassian seemed so bright, you doubted his brother would be covered in such darkness. “Well, I look forward to meeting him.”

Your return to training was slow, but every morning you went up to the arena, Cas pushed you a little harder. By the end of your first week of training, you felt back to the way you were before you’d been attacked at camp.

Everyone was impressed by your progress, including yourself. You had expected to be haunted by the memories of those males, but you instead let it push you to train harder, wanting to ensure you were never in that situation again.

“Would you accompany out to the city today? I have a few things I’d like to pick up and I want to show you around.” Rhys asked you while you were clearing the table from breakfast. “And, no offense, I think it’s time you pick out your own clothes instead of whatever Mor decides to gift you.”

You chuckled, looking down at the dress the female had given you that day. It was tighter than you were used to a dress being, and much more revealing than anything you’d worn in the camps. Mor had called it modest by her standards.

With a bright smile at the high fae, you said, “I would love to.”

The city of Velaris, Rhys informed you, was his closest kept secret, and you could immediately tell why. The bright colors of the Rainbow and the display of culture throughout the city instantly had your heart pounding with excitement. This was a safe haven in the night court, and you felt incredibly lucky that Rhysand had trusted you enough to bring you here.

He had stopped by a few shops, buying himself a new jacket that seemed to absorb darkness and a set of earrings that he intended to gift to Amren as a Solstice present. As you walked, he told you about the different shops in the city and stories of its inhabitants.

Your eyes went wide as he opened the door to a bakery, the smell of sugary bread filling your nostrils. Pastries you had never heard of lined the shelves of a glass case. He bought you a sweet bun filled with lemon-flavored icing, and you swore it was the best thing you’d ever tasted.

“I forgot how bland the food is at the markets back in the camps. Now that you’re in Velaris, I’ll make sure you get to experience the best food we have to offer.” He spoke as you gobbled up the sugary goodness.

You swallowed before speaking, “I really don’t know how I can ever repay your kindness, Rhysand. Seriously.”

He waved you off, “keep training and gathering your strength, and I’m sure I can find you a place in my circle. But even if you never work for me, I will continue to spoil you with the goodness of this city. You deserve it.”

Happy tears filled your eyes as he spoke. You had never experienced such care before arriving to the House of Wind, and now it all felt overwhelming. “I don’t have words to explain how honored I am to be here. One day, I will find a way to repay your kindness.”

He smirked playfully, “well, until you do, I’m going to continue to spoil you. I was thinking we could visit the clothes shops in the palace of thread and jewels.”

By the time you had finished shopping, you and Rhys were surrounded by bags filled with clothes and shoes. You insisted you would pay him back, but he simply waved off the expense as a “welcome present.”

The sky was dark as you exited the last shop, and your eyes widened as you spotted the lights lining the river that ran through the city. The high lord seemed to take notice of your amazement, as if he had expected it. “It’s even better from above,” he said quietly. With a wave of his hands, the bags in your arms disappeared.

You were shocked at the easy display of magic, until you realized what he had implied. You looked at him sadly, “I can’t- my wings-“

“I’ll carry you,” he cut you off. You nodded, thankful he understood. He picked you up, strong arms beneath your back and knees, before shooting off into the sky. You wrapped your own arms tightly around his neck as you screeched, the sudden weightlessness of flying catching you off guard.

There was something about being in the air that felt so natural. You knew it was due to your heritage, as Illyrians belonged in the sky, but you had never had the opportunity to actually experience it until now.

And Rhys was right, the city was somehow more beautiful from up here. The lights reflected off the Sidra, the waves making them appear to dance. The city squares seemed alive with lights and people. It was all breathtaking.

Rhys carried you through the air, dipping low before shooting high, as if playing a game of tag with the wind. You laughed as it blew your hair in all different directions. You stayed in the air for almost an hour, though you felt as if you could’ve stayed for years, before you landed on a balcony back in the House of Wind.

“Thank you for that, truly.” You spoke to him, removing your arms from his neck as your feet touched the ground.

He smiled at you, “any time.”

As you both walked into the seating room you had landed outside of, your breath is halted in your throat at the site of a male that had haunted your dreams since you arrived at the house.

Hazel eyes studied you for a moment before moving over to the male standing next to you. “Rhys, we need to talk.”

Rhys smirked, prancing to a nearby bar cart and pouring himself a glass of fae wine, “nice to see you too, brother. Glad you’re home safe.”

The stunning male’s expression remained neutral as he stared at Rhysand, unamused at his antics. You studied the angled bones of his cheeks and jaw, the shadows that swirled around his shoulders and neck. This was the man you had thought you imagined. And now that you had seen him, you were even more interested in learning more about him.

“Rhys.” His tone was stern. His voice pulled goosebumps to your skin, the deepness fitting his dark and shadowy appearance.

The high lord gave you a pitiful smile, “your bags are in your room, y/n, if you’d like to go admire your new belongings. Azriel and I need to discuss some things.”

You nodded, understanding his words for the dismissal they were. In that moment you also realized that this was the Azriel that Cassian had spoken to you so highly about. You remembered his words, “he keeps to himself… but once you get to know him, he’s a good guy.”

You hoped you could find out for yourself.

As you made your way up the stairs, you couldn’t stop thinking about the beautiful stranger’s face, the toned body underneath his Illyrian leathers, and the shadows that seemed to keep him constant company.

You would definitely try to find out for yourself.

[moraxine]

Fragments of Us [Ekko]

pairing: ekko x reader

words: 2k

summary: ekko wakes up in an alternate universe where you’re alive and everything feels right—but it’s not his world. torn between love and duty, he must leave to save his reality.

ARCANE SPOILERS!

i.

“Powder. Ugh, she’s so annoying sometimes. I told her that the graffiti on Sevika’s stupid bar wasn’t even that good—like, come on, who even uses pink for a skull?—and she just flipped out ! Called me a ‘wannabe artist.’ Like, okay?”

Ekko’s chest burns as he violently jolts awake, aware , coughing as if he’s been drowning moments before. His head is pounding, all memories flooding his mind and spinning round and round. It takes a few moments for his vision to stabilise and start clearing up.

What the hell happened?

“Hey, are you okay?”

Hearing your voice, familiar yet a voice he never thought his ears would detect ever again, he freezes. His eyes snap open, adjusting to the dim glow of the neon streetlamp. After a while of simply blinking, right hand on his forehead, he dares to turn your way, only to face you in utter shock.

There you are, right beside him, nervously fiddling with a small gadget in your hand while waiting for his answer.

Ekko’s breath gets caught in his throat.

His gaze desperately darts around, taking in the distorted version of Zaun. The buildings look eerily familiar but cleaner, more polished. And then there is you —alive, bright-eyed, rambling as if nothing in the world could ever go wrong.

This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

“You’re staring at me like I’ve got two heads or something. All good in there?” You ask, leaning closer as you gently tap his head.

No, no, no.

This must be some kind of twisted joke, a dream soon to turn into a nightmare, like the ones he experienced after your passing.

A strong wave of dizziness takes over and he loses balance. You’re not fast enough to catch him and he collapses on the floor, tears gleaming in his eyes.

“Shit, Ekko, I told you I’m fine walking home by myself! You need to focus on fixing that sleep schedule of yours. You work too much….”

You kneel down to check on him but as soon as you reach for his arm, he manages to pull himself up, wincing as his muscles protest. “I’m fine,” he mutters, his voice hoarse. “Just… where am I?”

Your brow furrows. “Zaun, duh. Did you hit your head?”

Zaun. But not his Zaun. This is different. Cleaner. Sharper. Brighter. Wrong.

You wave a hand in front of his face when he’s up on his feet again, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Seriously, you’re acting super weird.”

He shakes his head, trying to gather himself. “I’m… just tired.”

“Yeah, no shit,” you say, leaning back on your heels. “Well, you can sleep at my place if you want. It’s a bit of a mess, but it’s better than the middle of the street.”

“Why…Why are you helping me?”

I didn’t protect you. I let you die-

You scoff, crossing your arms. “You have to be kidding me, really.”

He stares at you, his chest tightening. You are so casual, so warm, so alive. This isn’t his world—it is someone else’s. Someone’s whom was able to keep you safe and happy.

You wave a hand in front of his face. “Helloooo? You good, or do I need to drag you there myself?”

He blinks, shaking himself out of his trance. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

“Finally,” you say grabbing his arm. “You’re lucky I’m such a good friend, y’know.”

As you lead him down the street, continuing your pointless rambling about Powder and some argument over graffiti, Ekko follows silently, his mind racing. He doesn’t belong here, but for the first time in years, being near you feels like he is home.

ii.

Ekko is standing in the corner of your cluttered workshop, his fingers trembling slightly as he tightens the final screws on a device he barely understands anymore. Weeks have been spent scavenging parts, tearing apart old tech, and sketching blueprints on scraps of paper. The machine is almost ready—his way out of this world is almost ready.

You, of course, don’t know. In fact, you seem to know nothing about Ekko lately. Ever since that incident outside the bar, he’s been acting strange in a way you can’t pinpoint.

“Hey, genius,” you call from across the room, pulling him out of his thoughts. You’re perched on a high stool, playing with a broken clock. “You’ve been staring at that thing for hours. What is it, anyway?”

He stiffens at your question, keeping his face carefully neutral. “Just… something to help me get around. It’s nothing.”

You narrow your eyes, unconvinced. “Since when do you get all secretive about your projects? You used to brag about your tech every chance you got.”

“Since now,” he mutters, avoiding your gaze.

It’s been this way for quite some time now—Ekko growing quieter, more distant, all while you try to bridge the gap with your usual chatter. You’ve noticed the way he avoids your eyes, the way he flinches whenever you stand too close. It’s not like him.

And it hurts.

“You’re acting weird, Ekko,” you admit, setting the clock down and leaning back on your hands. “Like, even weirder than usual. Did I do something?”

“No,” he says quickly, but his voice sounds strained, and the single word only makes you more assured that there is indeed something going on.

“Then what?” you press, leaning forward slightly. “You’ve been avoiding me for days. Is this about Powder? Because if so, she’s the one being difficult, not me.”

Ekko clenches his jaw, his hands tightening around the tool in his grip. He can’t tell you. You wouldn’t understand—not fully. How could he possibly explain that you’re not even supposed to be here? That this version of you isn’t his you? That in his world, you’re just a memory he carries like a scar?

“It’s nothing,” he says finally, his voice low. “Just… drop it, okay?”

You flinch at the coldness in his tone, but you force a laugh, trying to mask the sting. “Fine. Be mysterious, then. See if I care.”

Turning away, you pretend to focus on the clock again, but your heart isn’t in it. You want to push him, demand answers, but something in his expression stops you. There’s a pain in his eyes that you can’t quite place, and for the first time, you wonder if this is bigger than any conflict he might have had with people in the past.

Ekko exhales slowly, his shoulders sagging. He hates doing this—pushing you away. But if he lets you in, it’ll only make leaving harder.

Because he is leaving. As much as he wants to stay, to pretend this is his life, he knows it isn’t real. He doesn’t belong here. And the longer he stays, the harder it’ll be to say goodbye. Especially to you.

“Hey,” you say suddenly, breaking the silence. “For what it’s worth, you’re still my favorite nerd. Even if you’re being a jerk.”

He looks up at you, startled by the softness in your voice. For a moment, he wants to tell you everything—to explain why he can’t let himself get too close. To tell you he loves you. But that would be partially true as you’re not his. Instead, he just nods. “Thank you.”

You offer him a small yet warm smile and his resolve falters for a moment. But then his gaze falls on the machine again—his way out—and he reminds himself why he has to do this.

It’s almost done. Just a little longer.

iii.

Ekko stands in the middle of the workshop, his hand resting on the activation lever of the machine. The room hums faintly with power, the cobbled-together contraption sparking faintly as it waits for his final command. It’s ready. After days of work, this is it—it’s time to go back to the people who need him.

But his chest feels tight, and it’s not just from the lingering ache of exhaustion. It’s because of you.

The door creaks open, and his heart sinks. You’re standing there, your expression caught somewhere between confusion and anger. “What the hell is this?” you ask, stepping inside. “Ekko, what’s going on?”

He doesn’t look at you. He can’t. “It’s… nothing.”

“Nothing?” you snap, gesturing at the machine. “You’ve been shutting me out for God knows how long, and now I find you messing with… whatever this is you’ve made? Don’t lie to me, Ekko.”

He finally meets your eyes, and the raw emotion there almost makes him crumble. But he takes a deep breath and steadies himself. “I can’t explain it.”

You take a step closer, your frustration giving way to hurt. “Why? Why can’t you just tell me? I’m not mad—I just… I don’t understand why you’ve been acting like this.”

Ekko clenches his fists, his mind racing. He could tell you the truth—about the alternate universe, about the fact that you don’t even exist anymore in his world. But what good would it do?

“It’s better this way,” he replies quietly.

Your hands drop to your sides, and the look in your eyes nearly breaks him. “Better for who? For me? Or for you?”

“Y/n…” His voice cracks, but he quickly swallows it down. “I don’t belong here. I need to leave. That’s all I can say.”

You shake your head, your voice trembling. “You’re lying. You’ve been here all this fucking time, and now you’re just… leaving? Without a word?”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Yes, you do!” you shout, stepping closer until you’re right in front of him. “Whatever this is, whoever you think you are—you’re my… friend, Ekko. You don’t just get to disappear without telling me why.”

His hands tremble as he reaches up to touch your shoulder, his gaze locked on yours. “You are—” His voice breaks, and he has to force himself to keep going. “You’re amazing. You’re… everything good about this place. You’re the reason I’m still alive. But I can’t stay.”

You stare at him, your heart pounding. His words feel final, and the weight of them crushes you completely. You fail to understand. Nothing makes sense, absolutely nothing. “Why?” you whisper, tears burning at the corners of your eyes. “Why can’t you stay? Is it something I did?”

“No!” he says, more forcefully than he means to. He takes your hands, holding them tightly. “It’s not you. It’s… me. It’s my world. I need to go back to where I came from.”

You can’t comprehend what he’s saying, but the desperation in his voice silences your questions. You nod, swallowing back the lump in your throat. “Fine,” you say, even though it’s anything but fine. “If you have to go… go.”

His hands linger on yours for a moment longer before he lets go. “I wish I could tell you how much you mean to me,” he says softly. “But I can’t. Not here.”

Tears spill over as you watch him turn back to the machine. “Will I ever see you again?” you ask, your voice barely audible.

He hesitates, his hand hovering over the lever. “I don’t know.”

That’s all he can give you.

With one last look at you, his expression filled with regret and longing, he pulls the lever. The machine sparks to life, and the air around him ripples with energy. You take a step back, shielding your eyes as the light grows blinding.

When the light fades, he’s there, his tired body slumped down on the ground. You immediately run to his side, kneeling down and pulling him to your lap. The room falls silent, the only sound the faint hum of the now blown up machine. You gently caress his cheek, tears running down your hot cheeks.

After a while, he wakes up.

And it doesn’t take you very long to realise.

You glance at the remains one last time.

And you hope that wherever he is, he’s doing what he set out to do—saving his people, his world, even if it meant leaving this one behind.

[band--psycho]

Vander x Reader - 5 Years Later...(Part 2)

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Part 2 to my Vander x Reader series - Part 1

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Vander Masterlist / Arcane Masterlist / Join My Taglist

Warnings: Mentions of death, mentions of grief, feeling of dega-vu

You knew the Undercity wasn’t the safest of places to go, at least that’s what your father had always told you. 

So why were you down here? 

Because as much as you appreciated your fathers protectiveness, what type of friend would you be if you let one of your closest friends go down there alone? 

A pretty shit one. 

Which is why, despite the risks, you went with Jayce down to the Undercity. 

Besides, seeing as you were training to be an Enforcer and Jayce was just a student at the academy it was basically your job to escort him and make sure that nothing happened to him; that’s at least what you’d tell Greyson if she asked where you’d been…and your parents, if they asked which you hoped they wouldn’t. 

“Remind me where we’re going?” You asked in a slightly hushed tone as the two of you turned a corner walking down a dimly lit alley, before 

“I need to get some supplies for a project I’m working on,” Jayce answered simply; with an optimistic gleam in his eyes. 

“What project?” you inquired, unable to keep your curiosity at bay; it had certainly been a while since you’d seen Jayce this excited about a project.

“It’s best I don’t tell you, until I can get it working,” he replied; his answer only furthering your curiosity, but perhaps it was for the best for you to know as little as possible…especially if the academy wasn’t aware of it, which by the seams of things, they weren’t. The less you knew the better; though it still played on your mind as the two of you continued walking through the Undercity.  

To most people the Undercity was just an underdeveloped land across the river, deep in the canyons,  beneath Piltover, filled with misfits and thugs; but as you walked through the lanes of the Undercity, you couldn’t help but admire the beauty of it. 

The beauty of how vibrant the lights atop of the shops shone in the darkness; the difference of industrial architecture, making each building its own, if only in a little way.

It was different from Piltover, of course, but beautiful nevertheless. 

Since you'd arrived down here you couldn’t shake this feeling of deja-vu…like you’d been here before. 

It was odd. 

You’d never been down here; not once; so why did it feel so familiar?

You were so lost in your own thoughts that you hadn’t realised Jayce had stopped walking until you walked into the back of him. 

“Sorry,” you whispered, hearing a small chuckle fall from his lips. 

“Lost in your own world again?” he teased, turning around to look at you. 

You simply rolled your eyes at his comment and looked at the building you’d stopped outside; a pawn shop. 

You shot Jayce a confused look; you didn’t understand what this place had that any of the shops in Piltover didn’t; except from some anonymity. 

Down here no one knew him. 

But that only caused the curiosity you had about his project to grow. 

“Stay out here, I won’t be long,” he said before disappearing inside the shop. 

You went to follow him, before you heard a song in the distance, that halted your steps. 

You knew it. 

But you were certain you’d never heard it before…

How did you know a song from the Undercity? 

You turned on your heel, following the sound of the song; you knew it was risky, venturing off into the Undercity alone and you knew Jayce would be worried if he came back outside and noticed you gone, but you couldn’t help it. 

It was like your feet had a mind of their own and before you knew it, you’d come to the source of the music, it was a bar, or at least that’s what you assumed it was seeing as it was called ‘The Last Drop’ and had a logo of a tankard in the middle of the name. 

‘Why does this place seem so familiar?’ you thought to yourself, your eyes narrowing as you stared at the building in front of you. 

You were about to take another step, before you felt someone grab ahold of your wrist; instinctively your training kicked in and your guard went up, ready to fight. 

That was until you saw that it was Jayce who was holding your wrist; he was panting slightly with a worried look in his eyes, “I thought something had happened to you.”

“I’m sorry,” you apologized, guilt washing over you, “I didn’t mean to worry you,” 

“It’s okay,” he answered softly, tugging on your wrist slightly, leading you away from the bar, “Let’s just get out of here.”

And with that the two of you made your way past the pawn shop Jayce had been in, passing a little boy with white hair leaning against the wall, he had a proud smile on his face that was until he saw you. 

You waved at him politely, confused about why he was staring at you; but the little boy said nothing, he just continued to stare at you, his mouth hanging slightly agape as you vanished out of his view. 

All you could think about as you made your way back to Piltover was how strange today had truly been. 

The deja-vu, the song, the bar, the little boy….none of it was making any sense….

~~~~~~

Vander hated seeing Vi hurt; he also hated that she was a mirror image of how he was when he was younger, so eager to rebel against the topsiders…but it wasn’t that simple. 

That’s what he was trying to get her to understand.

Every action had a consequence. 

He knew that better than anyone. 

He was the one who was too stubborn to call off the uprising, because he wanted to show Piltover that they were worthy of not being left behind on all the grand new ventures Piltover were indulging in; and because of that, he lost so many people that were close to him. 

But no ones ghost was more haunting than yours. 

He just needed Vi to understand that violence wasn’t the way to play this. 

He knew Greyson would probably be paying him a visit soon; the kids, unintentionally, broke an agreement that he’d made with the current sheriff of Piltover, to keep a peace between topside and the Lanes. 

A peace that was now hanging by a thread. 

Once he was sure Vi’s injuries were clean, he rose from the table and began putting away the supplies he’d used to clean her cuts. 

“Vander…there’s something else,” Vi began, halting Vanders movements and making his attention focus back on her. 

“Go on,” he  said calmly, though in his mind he was dreading the next words that were going to come out of her mouth; she’d just been part of blowing up a building in Piltover, what more could there be.

“Ekko said….he said he saw Y/n,” 

Her words short-circuited his mind at the mention of your name.

“What?” he asked; thinking that maybe, somehow, he’d misheard what Vi had said. 

“He said he saw Y/n walking with that topside guy that came into the shop,” she repeated, noticing how Vanders eyebrows furrowed together as he tried to process her words. 

“That was partly why I went up there….to see if she was there,” she continued, rising from her seat, walking over to Vander and placing her hand on his arm. 

She knew how much Vander loved you. 

She knew how much losing you broke him. 

She knew how much losing you hurt both her and Powder; who’d grown so close to you in the few years prior to the uprising. 

That’s why she wanted to be sure that Ekko wasn’t wrong; she’d barely believed him herself when he first told her, but before the explosion happened, she was sure she heard your voice; but without actually seeing you, she couldn't be sure if it was you or if it was just the wishful thinking in her mind.

“She’s dead, Vi,” Vander stated; his voice remaining balanced; although the look in his eyes showed a growing sadness. 

“You’ve never believed that,” 

It wasn’t a lie; he didn’t believe it. 

He might’ve said that you were dead; but Vi knew that deep in his heart, he had never believed it.

He never found your body; and without your body, he could still cling on to the hope that you were alive. 

Vi never really understood why he couldn’t believe your death was real; but now she knew that he was right all along. 

“Ekko got it wrong, it can’t have been her.”

“Vander, he knows what she looks like….” Vi tried to counter, they all knew what you looked like from the photos Vander kept of the two of you; but Vander just went back to putting away the medical supplies before heading to the stairs. 

“He got it wrong,” he answered back, slightly harsher than he’d intended to,before leaving the basement entirely and heading to his own room. 

He all but collapsed onto the side of your bed; his eyes landing on the photo of you he kept on his bedside table. 

You were dead.

That’s what he kept telling himself. 

That’s what he'd had to tell himself for the last five years to keep his own sanity. 

But there was a little voice in the back of his head, a voice that reignited his failing hope…what if you weren’t…what if what Ekko said was true…?

Vander didn’t know what to believe….the memories from that day flooding back into his mind as the pain he’d felt re-entered his heart, tears fell from the Hound Of The Undergrounds eyes, as he tried to work out what to believe. 

What if all these years you’d been alive? 

Why were you in Piltover? 

Why hadn’t you come back to him? 

Did you blame him for what happened on the bridge….did you blame him for the deaths so many people had succumbed to…? 

Is that why you never came home?

So many thoughts were running through his mind; but even if his mind hadn’t settled on a decision, his heart had; he needed to find out the truth. 

And he would; just as soon as he’d smoothed everything out with Greyson about today's incident.

Taglist:

@xacatalepsyx @the-lone-librarian @conretewings @barbersjoy @eternallyvenus @trixiex2 @newlosadventures @eternalgoddessofart @cass-brightwood @fortune-fool02 @arielpanda1 @mothratic @simping-ella @stickyrice5096 @levis-butterfingers @lesbianinyourarea @nagislemontea @dazecrea

I apologise in advance to those who have asked to be on the taglist and aren’t - I’m not ignoring you, I just can’t tag you in it for some reason :(

[cassowariess]

I think Breaking Bad is an objectively better series in terms of writing, pacing and tight storyline, but having finished Better Call Saul and its more slow burner character studies I am obsessed with how nearly every single major character in the show is trying to convince themselves that they are rightously justified in some way. And by the time they realize they are not, it's too late.

Jimmy thinks he's justified in destroying Howard and Chuck's lives and rebrands himself as a 'champion of the underdog' when the truth is he's given several opportunities to better himself and just won't, because he gets a thrill out of fucking with people. Even when he flees to Nebraska he can't stop his schemes, like he's picking an open wound.

Kim convinces herself that screwing with Howard is funny and justified because he reprimanded her for pushing so hard with Jimmy's recommendation to Clifford Main. She should be angry at Jimmy for fucking up such a good opportunity but she, too gets a thrill out of punishing Howard and trying to drive him to insanity. She tries to wash her hands of it all, but Howard's murder makes her realize, too late that this was all just twisted, cruel, fuckery.

Mike lost his son to dirty cops, turns to a life of crime, but also seems to think he is above it all. Above the dirty cops, above the cartel. He tries to work via a moral code but it unravels when he kills Werner and then ends up betraying Nacho. It's only until Manuel tells him: "Justice? My boy is dead. This isn't justice, it's revenge. You gangsters are all the same" that he realizes he, too is a piece of shit and has repeated the cycle of losing a son.

Nacho says he "enjoys ripping off criminals because they can't go to the police. They have no recourse." And that's probably how he was able to do his job as Tuco's right hand man for so long. He just tells himself: these are all bad people so it's justified, when he's literally one of the bad people. He probably did all kinds of evil shit before he eventually wanted out.

Chuck thinks he's justified in keeping Jimmy's career prospects down because Jimmy's mom saw him as "the golden boy." He's furious that he had to work hard and (to his eye, anyway) Jimmy got to sail through life by taking shortcuts, so he won't allow him to climb the ladder. Chuck is somewhat right that Jimmy fucks everything up, deliberately, but part of his motivator is definitely bitterness and revenge and not concern. He even tells Jimmy: "You never really mattered to me."

Narratively: "I'm sorry that happened to you but you have no one to blame but yourself."

[420technoblazeit]

Was there anything in the interview with Christian Linke that could indicate whether Viktor and Jayce survived or died? and what exactly happened to them?

his ass was painfully coy abt it which makes me think that theyre keeping that shit on lock, if not bc theyll pop up later then bc it'll give away secrets abt the arcane itself. i think ive seen some ppl say that he talked about viktor coming back in a future show but i cant remember it myself and i cant find a clip abt it either so idk. he did briefly talk about how viktor's kind of a higher being now iirc, like the hexcore is a more advanced form of technology than hextech so he isn't necessarily just human anymore

whatever they decide though, i think it's way too early to tell if any arcane characters are going to come back and i'd imagine all of this is subject to change anyway. arcane took 9 years to make and the new show's only been in development for 1 year so yk. if you want my take though he seemed to be of the opinion that any of these characters could come back and it was a very intentional choice to leave their fates ambiguous. who knows, really

[eerna]

i was one of the people who saw the early leaks post and i remember trying not to read too much of it but i had a moment of being like wow this cant be real but also it definitely could be. i remember reading about the damn caitvi sex scene and i thought to myself thats so ass why would they do it in a prison and then i realized the writers probably thought it was some meaningful parallel or something about vi being able to transform being imprisoned with something good

then the act dropped and i saw the damn parallels with cait finding her in the cell and i was like ok yeah. they basically had that as an idea. amanda overton was talking about it in a watch party and said they love their parallels and it was meant to symbolize vi addressing her trauma and im like. i see what they were going for and i get it I GUESS narratively but i really feel like this is such monkeys paw shit like we got this scene at what cost. and like the scene ITSELF was very good and sweet and lovely but like could it not have happened ANYWHERE ELSE?

i feel like the biggest problem with arcane s2 was that the creators rlly wanted to push the bar with animation storytelling. amanda talked about this too and like i feel like it kind of highlights the problem. where bc this show is so amazing graphically the animators wanna highlight that with as much action as possible instead of focusing on smaller scenes and more intimate quiet moments. i watched arcane s1 all at once after it came out and there were def parts that felt a little rushed in certain acts but it was nothing like s2. it just feels like they had all these story beats they wanted to hit but didnt give it the time it deserved and it sucks bc they said they always meant it to be 2 seasons so like why does it feel like this. they wrote them back to back around the same time what happened between s1 and s2. i just feel like the caitvi sex scene is a microcosm of the larger problem. they had these emotional beats and story moments that in isolation are really powerful but its almost like we didnt get a proper A to B transition. its like we skipped several steps for sooo many story beats.

such complex characters with real ass lives causing real ass problems. cait's privilege being an issue, how gratifying that could be to have explored. viktor's experience being explored more in depth. just so much more about zaun. like all of it was there in tiny slivers but it was never given the depth to GROW or properly BREATHE bc five million action scenes and plot points had to be squeezed in.

ultimately i love arcane overall. i think it has broken boundaries and done some amazing things. but its blemishes are really... painful at the same time. and knowing how the writers did such a good job in s1 makes me just like. cmon guys. you had it. YOU HAD IT

anyways sorry for blowing up your ask with so much rambling i just... idk. what are your thoughts on this stuff do you agree with my assessment or do you think the culprit is something else

No prob, welcome to the symposium~ Yeah, I totally get what the writers were going for with Vi. Which is why I am so shocked they thought it was a good idea. Like, okay, she is addressing her trauma in the sex scene... But why should her trauma get addressed by being locked in a jail cell by her sister, who just spent days being wrongfully imprisoned in there by the girl she's about to have sex with, and who then told her she was gonna off herself. If anything, the thing I was feeling was pain because it happened again, a Zaunite was thrown in jail by the Enforcers after she helped and saved them without any rights, and she was reminded she was less than them and her life is worth nothing... Mmmmm, the perfect memory to overwrite prison abuse!

I too felt s1 had some strange pacing choices, Vi and Jayce teamup comes to mind first, and that was, surprise surprise, a fight scene. But those were pretty minor, and still left time for other scenes to develop properly. It only becomes a real problem when it happens scene after scene, character after character, until no one is acting in character and you constantly feel like you have skipped a scene or two. I too remmeber them saying they wrote the seasons back to back, but. Dare I say it. I think s2 was so majorly rewritten by the time it went to recording that only the bare bones remained. In fact, that might be why we feel this way - maybe they DID have a frame they wanted to follow, but the rewrites warped and twisted the characters so intensely they ended up making no sense in the context of that frame. That's right, I'm talking about the way they decided to more closely follow and collaborate with LoL in s2. Jayce's final speech to Viktor only makes sense for game Viktor, and goes completely against s1 Viktor. Vi deciding police brutality doesn't really matter all that much makes sense for game Vi, and foes completely against s1 Vi. Jinx giving up on ever being loved or accepted by others makes sense for game Jinx, and goes completely against s1 Jinx.

So yeah my thesis is: Arcane knows it looks good, and sometimes it prevents it from being well written. It also decided to throw in its lot with LoL in s2, and no amount of good intentions from the writers could have saved it from crashing and burning.

[postracehair]

say again

george russell x reader | 3.9k

three times george curses. or, a beginning, a middle, and a future.

cw: george cursing. a few scrapes and a little bit of blood, some kissing, and a love confession to boot.

a/n: this kind of ran away from me, especially in the middle but every time george russell says fuck an angel gets its wings. written ages ago but posting in honor of Las Vegas.

---

YOU'VE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME

The door buzzes and you let yourself into the building.

You've only been here a few times, but a match day spent with your coworker and some of her friends is better than sitting on your couch alone, right? Wine and cookies in hand, you trudge up two flights of stairs to her flat. By the time you reach the landing, you can already hear the chatter and the TV.

No one seems to hear your knock so you push the door open and gingerly step in. The kitchen is on the other side of the flat, and you assume everyone is somewhere between there and the television.

But when you pass the living room where the TV actually is, there's just one guy on the couch. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees watching a penalty get called.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," he says to no one.

You snicker. He whirls around. "Hello," you say.

"Sorry," he says, standing immedietly. Wow, he's tall. "Sorry, hello."

Oh, and he's familiar. You know him, kind of. He's -- god, he races cars, right? Shit, what is his name? Your coworker has social connections you barely understand so it's not really a surprise to find someone who is probably famous in her flat.

"It is just you, then?" you ask. He laughs and runs a hand through his hair. Dressed in jeans and a team jumper, his casual outfit is at odds with the severe cut of his jaw, his cheekbones. He just looks expensive.

"No," he says. "No, everyone is putting plates together. I'm afraid I might be the one most interested in watching the match."

"Not going well?" you say lightly.

He rounds the sofa, hand out. "Could be better," he says. "I'm George."

You readjust the items in your hands to shake his and tell him your name. He repeats it, and you smile.

"Let me go put these down," you say, "and then, um. Do you want some company, George?"

Honestly, you're not sure where that came from. But, though you came here to escape the smothering loneliness of your own flat, something about him makes you want to stay here rather than go into the kitchen with everyone else.

"'Course I do," he says. "I promise to tighten up my language. Won't do for that to be my first impression."

You wave him away though your cheeks feel a little hot and head for the kitchen.

Your coworker brightens at seeing you and takes your hostess gifts with ease.

"The match is on in the other room," she tells you, "but most of us are drinking in here."

"I saw," you say. "I met George."

She hears something in your tone that turns her expression something between amused and calculating. "You did, did you?"

You just nod, loading up a plate with the various nibbles. "How do you know him, anyway?"

She shrugs. "Oh, you know." No, you don't, but she plows on. "What did you think?"

"Taller than he seems on TV," you mutter. "But very polite. He shook my hand."

That gets her to laugh. "Oh, of course he did. Well, don't stand around in here with us. Go chat up a Formula 1 driver!"

George is back on the couch when you return, arm stretched over the back of it, brows furrowed.

"Has anything exciting happened?" you ask him, sitting down with a perfectly responsible distance between you.

He grimaces. "Nothing good. Wolverhampton, bless 'em, are quite bad."

That might explain why no one is watching this match with him, but you keep that to yourself.

"I see," you say, solemnly. "But loyalty is loyalty, I suppose, if they're your club."

"Exactly," George says. "It's suffering but it has to be done." Someone on the screen triggers a free kick and George leans in until it's over. He starts talking about one of the players being traded, or his contract being renegotiated, or something. You nibble on your plate and just watch. He's animated, this man. Fringe falling over his forehead the more he gestures, blue eyes wide and serious. It's all very endearing.

"Sorry," he says suddenly. "I'm being so rude. You don't want to hear about all of this, do you?"

You smile at him. "I don't mind. I came over for some company more than anything else."

He sinks back into the couch a little, hand running through his hair again. "Well, lucky for me that you did," he says.

Your face feels hot and you don't want to mistake this for flirting if it's not. He is a world-famous athlete, after all, but here you are on the couch next to him. "Lucky for you, indeed."

He laughs, delighted.

OH, SHIT!

This is not how you saw your life going, but maybe that's just the nature of it. Big moments happen just the same as small ones and we have to handle them regardless. The trajectory of your life shifted just a little bit when you sat down on someone else's couch to watch a football match with a stranger.

Because that stranger -- George -- is now much more than that. He asked for your number that day before he had to leave earlier than everyone else, and has been speaking to you ever since. Texts, phone calls, FaceTimes. And, when he's not driving hundreds of miles an hour halfway across the world, he likes to spend time with you.

They're dates, you know they are. But things are still casual, immensely so. Coffee, dinner, long walks through the park. It's probably past due that you ask him what he'd like out of this, but your friends tell you to just have fun for the time being. You've learned a lot about him in the last month or so, both from him directly and by doing your research.

You'd watched a few Grand Prix before meeting him but not with any kind of rapt attention. Now, obviously, you watch with purpose. See him zip around the track, read his radio messages, hope desperately that he'll be alright. He's a big mix of things, George Russell. Witty but determined, thorough but reactionary, polite but intense. You want to keep getting to know him on a personal level and measure that up to how he appears to the world.

Today, you're on one of those long walks. George is recounting the last race at your request. It's always more interesting to hear him talk about what happened than watching it, though you're really growing to love that part, too.

It's a bit chilly and he's got a scarf on in addition to a nondescript hat pulled down low over his eyes. You're used to this by now, though you wish you could see his face more fully.

"And then -- well, I'm sure you saw this bit -- he turned right into me like I wasn't even there!"

"But you avoided it," you remind him. "I saw that, too." A cold wind blows down the path and you shiver a bit.

"You alright?" he asks. "Nippy, huh?" He stops walking and turns to you, his huge hands coming to rest on your shoulders before he rubs them up and down your arms.

"A bit," you agree, a little breathless. God, you really need to talk to him about what this is. You're thinking about him all the time, which is a bit of a nuisance, as you're not sure he's feeling the same. But, a small voice in your head tells you, you can't be too far off in thinking that it might be based on the way he's looking at you right now.

Even under the cap, you can see the soft set of his brow, the way his eyes are shining. The gentle quirk up of his mouth. What would it be like to kiss him? Would he let you?

George stops his warming efforts, catching your hands in his. "Better?"

All you can do is nod. He grins, looking a bit too pleased, and starts walking again, you in tow. This is something else you've learned about him -- he really can be a cheeky bastard. He must have more than some idea as to how he affects you and enjoys it. It's somewhere between a game and a challenge.

You're thinking about ways you can get him back, ways you can flirt mercilessly. His hand is in yours and he's half a step ahead of you when suddenly your fingers are ripped from his and you find yourself on your hands and knees with a gasp.

George is immediately there with you.

"Oh, shit," he says. "Are you alright?"

"I--" You're a bit too stunned to say anything. George rarely curses, which is funny given how you met, but it unsettles you a little bit as much as it warms you. "I think I tripped?"

"Let me see your hands," he says, gently tugging at your wrists with his long fingers. He sucks on his teeth when he sees your palms. "Not too bad, but a little scratched."

You rearrange yourself so you're flat on your bum, legs in front of you. Your hands might be alright but your knees are another story. The fabric of your jeans isn't ripped but you can see the bloodstains already.

"Oh," you say. You look up at George, feeling a bit pathetic. "This is embarrassing."

He scoffs. "No, it's not," he says. "I do think we should get you cleaned up, though."

"We can go to my place," you suggest. The sting sets in a little more, but mingles with your chagrin and you just set your jaw. "Help me up?"

"Brave girl," George says. He presses his lips to the base of your wrist and stands, tugging you up as he goes. "Have you got first aid things at your flat?"

You nod, running through the contents of your bathroom in your mind. It occurs to you that George has not been to your place before, and you did not mentally prepare yourself to bring him there today.

George gently says your name. "Let's get a cab, shall we?"

It takes no time at all to flag one down. George removes his hat in what you can clearly see as an effort to get the cabbie to hurry along a bit, but it seems to work. He takes one look at you, one more at George, and steps on it.

"Let me get your belt," George mutters, making quick work of the buckle.

"I don't think I've ever worn a seatbelt in a cab in my life, George," you reply. He just pats your thigh.

"Think we've had enough injuries for one day, don't you?"

George and the cabbie chat about the race season, about how hot it really is in Singapore, about one of George's recent podiums. He keeps you tucked into his side the whole time -- he's ignored his own seatbelt, you notice -- hand on your thigh. You keep your palms turned up on your knees and wonder how on earth you got here.

The city flies by and you lean your head on his shoulder. You can feel something shifting between you, something clicking into place that wasn't entirely settled before. It's scary, it's exciting, it's big. It's something you're going to have to talk about.

George pays the driver in some large bills and helps you out of the cab and up the steps of your building.

"Where are your keys?" he asks.

"Front right pocket of my jeans."

"Pardon my reach," he jokes, and lightly rests on palm on your hip and slides the other into your pocket to find them. He tugs the keyring out and winks at you before unlocking the door. Up the stairs, into the flat. Shoes toed off, coats on the hook after George helps you out of yours.

"I'm not an invalid, you know," you tell him. He clicks his tongue.

"We don't want blood on this nice coat of yours, do we?"

You roll your eyes. George glances around your flat and smiles. "This is very you."

Dishes on the counter, the pillows a mess on the couch, your books and trinkets on every flat surface -- you suppose he's right.

"Thank you?" you say. He taps your chin with his knuckle.

"It feels like a home, I mean." Your cheeks feel warm and your heart sighs. God, the things he says.

"Oh," you breathe. "That's kind."

"And does this home have a first aid kit?" The reminder brings the dull sting of your scraped skin back to the forefront of your mind.

"Bathroom cabinet," you tell him. George nods.

"I'll get that. Why don't you change into something loose so I can get to your knees?"

In your room, you tug carefully tug on some sweatpants, mindful of your palms, and let yourself marvel at how today has gone. You expected to have George here someday, but certainly not like this. Will he want to see your bedroom? You shove some dirty laundry into the hamper and thank past you for making the bed this morning.

"I think you should sit on the counter," George calls. "Whenever you're ready."

You pad out to meet him in socked feet. It's quite the sight, him in your kitchen. He's bent over your sink, washing his hands. His sweater has been tossed over a chair and you can see the lines of his back under his t-shirt.

"Do you need help getting up?" he asks. You nod. Together, you get yourself on the counter, making you about eye level.

"Hello," you say. His hat is gone, too, so his fringe falls across his forehead in slightly curled strands. When you've cleaned yourself up, maybe you'll work up the courage to run your hand through them.

"Hello yourself. Right hand, please." You hold out your palm and George gets to work. He cleans it, getting all the bits from your skin, and then uses an alcohol wipe.

"Do you have a special interest in first aid, or something?" you ask to distract yourself from the sting. His thumb strokes your pulse point as he works.

"I guess you get beat up a bit in karting when you're young," he says. He wraps one palm in gauze and moves onto the other. "I suppose i just like knowing how to take care of people."

"God," you groan. "Is there anything wrong with you?"

He looks at you then, hair falling into his blue, blue eyes. "Oh," he smirks. "Plenty, darling." He finishes up on your other palm and holds it in his for a moment longer than you expect. Then he slowly brings your hand to his mouth and kisses the bandage.

You might gasp, You're not entirely sure, eyes glued to his lips like nothing else exists. Then he kisses the other palm. Your gaze flicks up and George is looking right at you.

"Knees," he says, voice a little hoarse. "Alright?"

"Alright," you breathe. You stick one leg out just to see what he'll do. You're learning that he rises to the occasion, and that's exactly what happens. He cups your ankle, places your foot on his thigh, and slides your sweatpants up above your joint.

"That's gnarly," he says, breaking the tension. You laugh and tap his leg with your other foot. "You ready?"

"I'm ready."

He makes quick work on it. One hand on your calf, the other gently cleaning and bandaging. The silence is comfortable, familiar, though you've not been in this situation before. It's not until George is almost done with your other knee that he speaks.

"You know," He says, lightly. "If you wanted me to touch you, all you had to do was ask. The tripping wasn't entirely necessary."

"George!" you gasp. He squeezes your calf.

"I'm just saying, darling."

He ties off the gauze and rolls down your pant leg. You widen your knees and he steps between them immediately, hands resting gently on your thighs. It's absolutely electric -- going from shy, appropriate touches to being in your flat together, his hands all over you. How are you going to go back?

Maybe you can't.

George's eyes rake over your face. You inhale his exhales, feeling them on your lips. His pupils dilate.

"What is this, George?" you whisper. His fingers press into your thighs a little harder.

"Well," he says, tongue darting out to wet his lips. "What would you like it to be?"

"I don't know," you say, honestly. He is not dissuaded, does not back away. He must know that this is hard for you -- his life is so different from yours. As it is, you avoid social media so you don't see pictures of you splashed across gossip accounts. It's impossible to totally stay away from it but you try, because you really like being with him.

"Shall I tell you what it is for me?" George says.

You nod.

He cups your face in his hands, thumbs stroking the delicate skin under your eyes.

"Every second I am not with you I am thinking about when I'll see you next," he says. "I store up things to tell you and take photos to show you and I have a bag full of things I've bought you but been too afraid to give you. Beautiful things, things that remind me of you."

"George--"

"I worry about fucking up your life," he continues, and you fall silent. "This is a lot. I am a lot. My life is not simple, and you've already seen that. But I want you in it. I want you in it however you want to be there, though I have my suggestions. I promise that if you let me, I'll treat you so well, because you deserve everything, and --"

Your heart is going to explode if he goes on any longer, so you close the gap between you and kiss him. Finally.

It's just the press of your lips against his for a few seconds, your eyes fluttering shut, before George catches up to what's happening and angles your faces a little bit to make it deeper. Your bandaged hands rest on his elbows and you swallow a sound from deep in his throat, something that lights a fire in your belly.

"Blimey," George says, leaning your foreheads together.

"What, no curse for me?"

His eyes sparkle and he wrinkles his nose at you. "Fuck," he says. "I've been thinking about that for weeks."

You press your lips to the corner of his mouth. "That's more like it."

BLOODY HELL

What the fuck was that? Is he serious? Keep focused, George. This is fucking ridiculous. Head down.

It's a bad day. Not as bad as it could be -- George does not end up in the wall. But he ends up way further down the pack than he should, barely scraping together a few points. It's the car and everyone knows it. The bouncing, the drag, the understeer. A showing far too poor for this late in the season.

And George is pissed. It's not often that you see him this way -- he's fairly levelheaded, even when things get tough. Something about him causes conflict to lull, things to fall into place, but even that can't fix the silver arrow.

You slip out of the garage during the last lap to sit in his driver's room and wait.

This isn't your first race. Far from it, by now. Things got official halfway through the season after that day in your flat, and you've been coming to as many as you can. It's a rush, really, to see him work. Scarier than anything, but when it's good? It's amazing. You love the energy of the garage and everyone seems to have taken to you, too.

So much so that they know to send George right to his room before the media pen so you can calm him down.

You sit on the bench and wait.

He comes in, closing the door firmly but never slamming it, and sighs. All the tension melts from his body and he looks defeated. Sweaty, annoyed, and defeated.

"Hello," you say, lightly.

He smiles wryly. "Shit day, huh?"

You love how George looks after a race. Hair a mess from his helmet, skin beaded with sweat. He unzips his race suit and lets it hang at his hips and you can see the outline of his muscles through his fireproofs. It's genuinely swoonworthy, even with his visibly bad mood.

"Are you alright?" you ask. He shrugs, rolls his shoulders, and winces.

"Bloody hell," he curses. "My back is killing me."

"What can I do?"

"Nothing," he says automatically. "You're perfect just as you are."

It's a reflex he has -- not to ask for things. You're still working it out, poking and prodding to find the cracks. Maybe, with time, he'll loosen this grip he has on his desire to make your life as comfortable and wonderful as possible without thinking of himself. There are moments when it's best to just let him fuss, but right now you think you can push back a little.

"George," you sigh. "Come on."

He hides his face behind a sweat towel for a breath, then tosses it aside. "Alright," he says. "Just sit with me for a bit."

You scoot over on the bench and he flops next to you, head back against the wall and eyes closed. His hand fumbles around for yours, pinching your thigh when he overshoots, which makes you laugh. He cracks a smile and opens one eye just enough to see your grin before settling back into his rest.

He breathes deeply, fingers entwined with yours. The line of his jaw is pronounced in the awful lighting of the room and the shadows under his eyes look worse than usual. A few more races and then he can rest. What will you do in the off season? Maybe a vacation. Hopefully a vacation. You imagine George in swim trunks on a beach somewhere, dozing in the sand. Rubbing sun tan lotion on his back and his shoulders and his nose, reading books for hours until he convinces you to run into the water. Lazy days on a balcony or in a bed with all the windows open, never being far from each other --

Someone knocks on the door.

"Christ," George mutters. "Let's ignore it."

"You need to go to the pen, darling," you whisper back. He squeezes your hand and presses your legs together.

"Just a few more minutes," he says. "Eventually they'll just come in."

"If you say so."

You press a kiss to his tacky cheek and lean your head on his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut.

George takes a deep breath. "I love you," he says.

The words stretch into the silence that comes after, the moments it takes for you to process it. They fill the small room, sneak their way into your bloodstream, your lungs, all the way to your heart.

Part of you is waiting for the follow-up. I know it's too early, I know it's a lot, You don't have you say it back. But George doesn't deal in excuses. He feels it, so he says it.

You lift your head to look at him and find him already staring at you. Not expectant, just looking to look.

"I love you, George," you say.

He grins bigger than you've ever seen, bigger than after your first kiss, than the days when he's on the podium.

Someone knocks on the door again.

"Oh, piss off," he mutters and leans in to kiss you.

[fangirlmermaid]

You're it for me

Summary: Wanda is sick of being pregnant and her powers took over when she saw you sleep peacefully beside her

pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader

Warning: Pregnancy, Cursing, boobs are mentioned (oh no!!), and Pregnancy fetishism (I guess) is mentioned but not played out!

Note: I promise I won't only write pregnant fic or popstar!reader, if you guys have any ideas DM me, I think I have that open. Also another fanfic so quickly???

(Might be some grammar and punctuation errors) (Kind of long)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Like clockwork, Wanda woke up at two in the morning. She sighed in frustration as she felt the twins kicking her.

You and Wanda always talked about starting a family together. She even found a way to make the baby's blood related to you both.

Wanda said she would carry the babies. Ever since the whole fighting Thanos, Wanda wanted to lay low and live a normal life with you (her wife) on your guy’s farm.

Wanda rubbed her eight-month-pregnant belly, hopefully, it would lure Billy and Tommy back to sleep. Wanda couldn’t wait to be a mother but she wanted these nine months to be over. She was tired of always having to go to the bathroom, of something hurting, and not getting a full night's sleep.

Wanda glared at you who was passed out snoring lightly. How dare you rub it in her face that you could sleep without interruptions. You rolled onto your side, your back facing her.

If you both decide to have more kids, Wanda decided that you're carrying them.

Once the babies had calmed down, Wanda placed her hand on your stomach. With Wanda’s swollen belly, it’s been hard to have you close to her. This is how Wanda has been cuddling you since her bump got big. She hates it!!!!

Wanda sighed in frustration when she felt the twins kicking her again. Wanda tried to lean close to your ear “You’re carrying them” Wanda stated for next time. Wanda stayed there waiting for the babies to tire themselves out.

Next Day

Beep Beep Beep Beep You hit snooze on your alarm, in your opinion, the worst part about working on a farm is having to wake up at the ass crack of dawn because you have a shit ton of things to do.

You throw your legs over the bed about to get up, but you stop. You sit there frozen too scared to move. Did something… No, no, that’s crazy.

You were about to get up but that’s when you felt it again, something flutter inside you.

You pulled your quilt off and you gasped at what your eyes laid on. Your stomach was swollen, and your pajama shirt which was originally a little big on you is now bunched up under your boobs.

You rubbed your eyes hoping you were hallucinating but nope, it was still there.

Your shaky finger poked the stomach, and at first, nothing happened. Then you poked it again, and the bump was rocking side to side causing you to jump a little.

Your heart was running, no matter how hard you tried to come up with how it happened it wasn’t logical.

You felt whatever was inside of you hit your ribs hard, almost as if it punched you.

“Ow” You whispered not wanting to wake up Wanda.

You lightly slap the bump which causes it to punch you in the ribs again.

“Bitch!” You yelled glaring at your stomach

“Love, what’s wrong?” Wanda asked

In a panic, you threw the blanket over your shoulder making sure to cover your stomach. You didn’t want Wanda to stress because you love her and it could hurt the babies.

Grabbing the short bed frame to help you up, you felt like someone gorilla glued five sixteen-pound bowling balls to your stomach. “Fuck, it’s heavy” You mumbled placing your free hand under your stomach for support.

You slowly turned around “Nothing baby, go back to sl-”

Your eyes widen, Wanda isn’t pregnant anymore. Like her bump just vanished.

You felt ashamed of how long it took you to figure it out.

You let the blanket slip onto the ground, exposing Wanda to your state.

Wanda’s mouth dropped, she looked down at her flat stomach and then back at you.

Wanda slowly made her way over to you, she was trying to pretend she wasn’t freaking out.

Wanda poked your stomach nothing happened, then she poked again and the twins kicked you hard.

“Fuck” you hissed bending over in pain, Wanda apologized.

“How did this happen?” Wanda asked her eyes staying on the bump, you shrugged “I don’t know! You’re the one with the red wiggly woos!” You whispered yelled.

Realization hit Wanda, she looked down at her hands before giving you a nervous smile. Your shoulder dropped “What did you do?!” You panicked, Wanda couldn’t meet your eyes “Last night Billy and Tommy woke me up, seeing you sleeping peacefully made me mad. So I placed my hand on your stomach while I cuddled you and I said your…carrying…them” Wanda's voice grew quiet your eyes widened and your mouth dropped too stunned to speak “I totally meant for next time!” Wanda explained pointing her finger at you.

You started to hyperventilate. You’re not prepared to give birth, you barely even read the parenting books Wanda bought for you. Your body hasn’t been preparing for the two human beings you're going to be pushing out. What if something happens and you have to go into surgery or you die?!

Also, how are you going to explain to people how you are suddenly eight months pregnant? You always do the socializing part of business so Wanda doesn’t have to!

“Love, Love” Wanda called rubbing your back “You need to calm down” Wanda explained in a hushed tone. You knew she was right but how could you be calm in this moment?

“Wanda, Alan is coming over around lunch to pick up some apples for the farmers market” You stated, Wanda squeezed your arms “Let’s get you back to bed, and I’ll look at the book” Wanda assured. You nodded, Wanda grabbed your hand to ease you back into bed, and she placed a mountain of pillows to support your back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Wanda sat in the kitchen at the dining table flipping through the Darkhold, she didn’t even know what she was looking for.

Deep down Wanda was happy to have a break from being pregnant, she knows that you are right of course but still. There’s a part of her hoping you change your mind to stay that way.

“Ah, shit!” a voice from outside yelled, Wanda look out the window where she found you waddling towards the chicken coop with a basket in your hand. Wanda closed the book “What is she…” Wanda trailed off walking towards the back door.

Wanda walked towards you crossing her arms over her chest “Um, (Y/N)” Your wife called, you let out a soft hmmm while throwing chicken feed onto the ground “What are you doing?” Wanda wondered her voice stern, you kept throwing the chickens their food “What does it look like?” you sassed still focusing on your task. Wanda finally reached you, she pulled the empty basket out of your hands and placed it on the ground “Not resting like you should be” Wanda stated. You faced your wife sighing in frustration, “Wanda I have things to do, I can’t lay in bed” you reminded, Wanda stood behind you placing a hand on your hip and her other hand grabbing your hand “I’ll do the chores, I don’t want you on your feet until I figure out how to undo this” Wanda told guiding her wife back inside the house.

Wanda eased you back into bed “There we go, love” Wanda smiled pulling the blankets up to your chest. You groaned pushing the blanket under your bump “It’s so itchy” you whined scratching your belly, Wanda grabbed the lotion from her bedside table.

Wanda’s eyes landed on you. Seeing you carrying her children made her smile. It also turned her on, but she knew that was the last thing on your mind.

“Baby?” Your voice brought Wanda back. “Sorry, Love.” Wanda blushed, squirting the lotion onto your bump. Billy and Tommy started to move around “Do they ever stop?” You groaned throwing your head against your pillow, Wanda chuckled as she rubbed the lotion into your skin. Wanda loved that she got to take care of you for a change, she could get used to this. Maybe she could brainwash everyone into thinking that you were the one pregnant all along.

“That feels so good thank you, baby” you moaned, your breathing hitched, You were making it harder for Wanda to not go down on you. Wanda could only smile, “I got chores, do you need anything?” Wanda interlocked your hand with hers you shook your head, Wanda gave you a quick peck on the lips.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pain shot down your back causing you to wake up “Motherfucker” You hissed placing your hand on your back. You opened your eyes seeing that it wasn’t a dream and that you’re still very pregnant. Wanda is a fucking boss for dealing with this shit for eight months.

You stood up hoping a quick walk around the house could relieve the back pain.

After you waddle around the house, you head toward the kitchen where you see Wanda at the dining table flipping through the Darkhold.

Wanda looked exhausted, she had paint smeared on her cheek. She sighed in frustration, she kept drifting to sleep. From growing your babies to doing a shit ton of chores along with researching on how to reverse the pregnancy. You sighed guilt had a grip on your heart, you looked down at your bump placing a hand on it before looking up at Wanda. Your mind was made up.

You entered the kitchen “Hi, Love” You smiled, Wanda rubbed sleep out of her eyes “Hi, love” Wanda gave a sleepy smile. You sat in the chair next to Wanda whose attention went back to the Darkhold, both of you sat in silence. You twist your wedding ring to soothe your anxiety trying to find the nerve to tell Wanda, hopefully she would understand.

You grabbed Wanda’s hand gaining her attention “What’s wrong?” Wanda wondered her voice laced with concern, you gathered your courage “I don’t want you to reverse this anymore” You admitted pointing to the baby bump Wanda knit her eyebrows “What?” Wanda asked, you took a deep breath “You’ve been crushing it at carrying these two. Seeing you in pain hurts me and I wish I could’ve done something to help you. So let me carry them, you deserve a break” You admitted, you knew your little speech was corny but it was the truth, Wanda’s eyes glossed looking relieved “I love you! You are IT for me! We are never getting divorced” Wanda admitted squeezing your hand, you gave a light laugh “I thought that was a no-brainer” You smiled, and Wanda kissed you passionately.

Honk Honk

You pulled away “Alan’s here” You smiled brushing your nose against your wife’s, Wanda groaned before leaving to meet Alan outside.

[yuyusshinelight]

Friends feat j.wy

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♪ This does NOT represent Wooyoung in any way, it's just fiction.

♪ NSFW! I should say that minors can't read this but I can't stop them from reading this so read at your own risk.

♪ English is not my first language so sorry if there's any mistake.

Note: I wanted to write something special for Wooyoung because of his birthday 🫣. I hope you like it as much as I liked writing it and enjoy your read! Love you my stars!

Neither of you knew how it happened in the first place. It just happened one movie night at Wooyoung's apartment in which your best friend's dick decided to get hard for no apparent reason.

Neither of you felt something romantic for the other, and it seemed to be a bit annoying for your friend so, without malice, you offered to help him calm it down. It was just a harmless handjob, no? It wasn't like seeing his dick was going to trade your friendship or something like that. But what started as a simple handjob ended with you taking his full length in your mouth, willingly swallowing everything Wooyoung had to offer. His hands pressed your head down his length while yours played with his sensitive balls as you wished.

When the idea of helping him came up, you didn't think that your panties would get as wet as they ended. Nor was it in your mind either that you would end up legs wide open on the sofa with Wooyoung devouring your needy cunt so deliciously. Moaning like a bitch in heat every time his fingers fucked sinfully your clenching moistened hole while his tongue swirled playfully around your clit.

Of course, neither of you could ever have imagined that your usual movie night on Friday would have ended with his cock deep inside your pussy, piercing your cervix for hours in different positions.

That night woke up an intense burning desire that has gradually turned into an unhealthy obsession. A dirty, depraved spiral of unfiltered, unchecked sex where you just want to be full and Wooyoung just wants to get his cock wet. You are just two best friends using each other whenever your bodies call for it. No matter where, no matter what time. Just one call and you two will be a mess of moans, saliva, sweat and semen. You really are like animals in heat.

The sexual need of being with each other is such that you even have skipped classes at university. It's true that classes are important, of course they are, but being pinned against the door in the bathroom with Wooyoung's hand in your mouth to keep you from making more noise than necessary while this horny boy whispers all kinds of unblissful things in your ear are way too much better than to hear some boring old teacher explaining who knows what.

"Although I love those angelic sounds of yours too much I need you to keep that little mouth shut, babe. Can you do that for me? Or do you want us to be discovered? Does the idea of the whole faculty watching me piercing your little naughty pussy turn you on? Is that it?".

And how not to mention those naughty and entertaining evenings in which Wooyoung tries to keep his composure while playing with some friends online because you are cockwarming him so deliciously. You don't give a shit about his game, either his friends at the other end of the call. You just want his cock inside you. On more than one occasion Wooyoung has had to mute himself for how much you were clenching around him, making him moan in such a shameless way.

There is not a Friday night in which you two don't end up fucking after watching a movie. Although, lately you have been starting with the foreplay while the movie was still running in the background. Wooyoung sliding his naughty hand under the sheet that covers you both only to grope for the edge of the miniature piece of fabric you supposedly call a skirt and which you have clearly put on to provoke him, successfully finding your clit underneath the already wet fabric of your panties and starting to play with it.

But when you try to do something similar to him, suddenly your hands are held by his free hand. On his face reigns that triumphant smile that you have so often wanted to tear off but that now makes you clench your thighs tightly because a trickle of your sticky arousal decides to run all over your pussy.

"Only half an hour of film left, babe. If you cum before the movie ends I will edge you for another half an hour".

Half an hour of being a victim of Wooyoung's torturous game is hell but you're too stubborn to lose against him so you barely make it through those damn credits where you don't even give him time to take the movie off. In the blink of an eye you're already in his lap, jumping like a rabbit in heat on his cock in search of your precious, long-awaited orgasm.

"Only half an hour, kitty. If you cum before me just one time I will edge you for a whole hour".

[daddyd0nt]

You’re either being purposely obtuse or intellectually dishonest but what you are saying is literally patriarchal brainwashing and so bafflingly sexist that you clearly either hate AFAB people or don’t take harm against us seriously. It’s “transphobia” to demand and maintain sex segregated spaces? Transphobia isn’t the violent males who kill trans people, it’s the AFABs who won’t sacrifice our PHYSICAL SAFTY to protect AMAB ego? Classic AMAB entitlement. Yall tell on yourselves so loud. SRS does not erase male socialization idgaf how dysphoric a AMAB person is their emotional comfort should not be prioritized over AFAB safety. You really think it is acceptable for a AFABs to be victimized so AMABs can feel validated in some weird postmodern sense of constructed identity? We don’t need to check genitals I would have no problem with the manliest most masculine most passing trans man in an afab space because no matter what hormones or surgery are involved they cannot rape and impregnate me with their penis the same way an AMAB person could. We don’t need to check gender if we normalize beating the dog shit out of AMABs who threaten us and disrespect our safety by entering our spaces. D you think AFAB trans people should be put in male spaces, not only bathrooms but hospitals and prisons, where they will be at an even greater danger risk of rape than a AMABs trans person and also stand to suffer greater biological consequences since an AFAB person who gets raped by an AMAB one runs the risk of pregnancy. Also trans AMAB people commit sex crimes at an even higher rate than cis AMAB people, they are literally the largest recorded demographic of sex criminals, and I should sacrifice my safety and let them into my spaces (which again did not START segregated they became that way because AMAB people could t be trusted not to rape/assault AFAB ones)?

Also “capitalism is real because it impacts me in a negative way but all other forms of oppression where I might be considered the privileged one in the dynamic is just hysterical people distracting from capitalism” you aren’t even trying to be subtle in your misogyny go join MGTOW.

“If you include trans people who are also oppressed by patriarchy in your fight against patriarchy but don’t include your oppressors who benefit from patriarchy regardless of gender presentation you are hateful I hope you understand this uwu” literally such a long form way to say you don’t want AFAB people to have a movement where we address our own needs because AMAB people can’t emotionally cope with any reminders that they are privileged under patriarchy exclusively for being AMAB.

I have no problem with trans people, I know and love a good amount of people of both sexes who identify as trans. I trust them fully. That doesn’t mean that women who don’t personally know them are obligated to trust them. And it’s not just bathrooms, I spend a LOT of time in institutions specifically high security mental hospitals for violent/psychotic patients including people sent over from the jails for being too mentally ill to incarcerate. I have to take sleeping pills at night and fall unconscious in a room with these people where I’m only checked on every 15-30 mins which is PLENTY of time for something bad to happen. I don’t want to risk having to share that kind of space with an AMAB person. If trans AMAB people don’t want to be housed with cis ones, they can do the legwork and create those spaces for themselves like AFAB people did they do NOT have the right to commandeer our movement and literally erase our rights and protections because not allowing AMAB people into these vulnerable spaces might give them the big sad. My not wanting AMAB people in AFAB spaces is not from not knowing them, it’s because I DO know them and listen to what is said about AFAB people in TRA spaces and know just how AMAB they are in their entitlement to everything from space to sex.

“You are letting fear define your politics” YEAH MY GUY IM FORCED TO LIVE LIKE A FUCKING PREY ANIMAL!!! Some fear is completely rational. AMAB people can not be trusted in AFAB spaces and your suggestion that I should be okay with even a fraction of a percent of AFABs being physically harmed so AMABs feel emotionally validated is absolutely disgusting and proves how patriarchal you are.

Gender is literally fake and varies from culture to culture. Sex based oppression is real and fucks over the lives of AFAB people worldwide. I’m not basing my politics on protecting feelings, I’m basically them on protecting AFAB people from actual tangible oppression.

"OP is a terf" is a thought-terminating cliche meant to keep you from questioning the status quo and keep you afraid of being labeled a heretic should you come to your own conclusions about anything.