#it’s not that Deep but it IS infuriating

[what-username-where]

RSD is a bitch

But I've been there, I've done that, and I'm telling you that YES, it is possible to overcome

What I've learned is that you take the nasty thoughts: "oh they hate me now/I'm a terrible person/they never wanna be around me again" or whatever shit your brain throws at you

And then first step, turn it into a question

"hey I'm getting a lot of nasty things in my brain, so I'm checking in, you don't hate me right?"

It's not your fault your brain throws nasty shit at you, and it's not the other person's either, so you don't bring blame into the equation, you just ask for a little help

And then second step is to turn that answer into a weapon against the nasty thoughts, to argue back at them

"oh they hate me now! Wait. OK, hold on. There's no proof of that. They never said that. In fact, they said of course they don't hate me, that it's an expression of trust to tell me their feelings."

So at first you do rely on an outside influence to help combat the nasty thoughts, but that's not usually long term sustainable because sometimes the other person isn't available or doesn't have the energy or what have you, so you turn it into a self regulation process with practice

And sometimes you can skip right to step 2, and that's fantastic! But it's ok if you need to ask someone for help at first. You can also ask other people to ground you by reminding you of the facts, that the other person does care about you because if they didn't, they wouldn't bother telling you that

And it's not instant, it takes practice, it's difficult, but it's SO worth it and it improves your relationship with the person and your own mental health by leagues and bounds

The hardest part can be getting the pause, the "wait, hold on" so get up and change scenery, get a drink of water, take a deep breath, it's infuriating because it sounds really stupid and overused but it does genuinely work

im so tired of being unable to say "no/please stop" because if i do the other person will hurt themself

[thechaoticcherub]

A Problem (pt 1?)

Pairing: Dad!Joel x reader (and actually some Joel x Tess)

Summary: You are essentially a terror who's obsessed with your dad and HATES that Joel might fuck other people

Warnings: NSFW 18+, INCEST, DDDNE, age gap, reader is 18, sex, p in v, voyeurism, lying, feelings, not proof read or beta-ed oops, reader is a fucking terror and maybe a bad person idk, no actual sex between reader and joel(YET)

Notes: welll i'm dipping my toes back into writing more with some dad!joel i'm guessing i'll write a part two for this but tell me what you think.

You had a problem. It was a deep seated problem that wormed around in your subconscious, buried so far below the surface that half the time you couldn’t tell if it was real. It festered and burrowed in the back of your mind, wriggling in all those tight, uncomfortable places. It was your Dad. Joel Miller to the government. Mr. Miller to the kids on your street. Joel to Uncle Tommy. Daddy to you. You had never stopped calling him Daddy as you grew up and there was a part of you that began to wonder about that when you curiously started to google ‘daddy/daughter kissing’, watching your first clips of fake father and daughters…usually mitigated with the word ‘step’ in front of the words. 

Sometimes you wondered if Joel knew because you had never had a boyfriend, never talked about crushes like your friends did. But he was happy that you weren’t interested in boys, it made things easier for him. You never accused him of sexism because he had to scare away boys with threats of violence, because boys simply never happened. You barely spent time with girlfriends, squashing Joel’s considerations that maybe you were a lesbian. You wanted to spend most of your time with him. So you spent your teenage years close with your father. But your problem was growing all the time, gnawing on something inside of you, as if eating away at the wall you had put up to protect yourself from your problem. 

You had never even really been attracted to boys at school, or movie stars, or boy bands. No. The only person who had done anything to make your heart skip or your legs to quake was your dad. Ever since you were young. Back when he went on dates you would throw tantrums and be such a terror for the babysitter that he’d have to come home early. But you knew he had found ways around you to satiate his needs. You had seen the condoms in his bedside table drawers when you snooped in his room.  You had smelled lingering perfume on his pillow when you would lie down next to him in bed and request he read a chapter of your book to you. It infuriated you but you could never explain why, at least not to him and not really to yourself. 

You had thought for a while that he had stopped sleeping around, while you were in high school you never found condoms when you snooped, you never caught him with lipstick on his t-shirt but then only a week after your graduation party, curiosity had gotten the best of you so you stole his phone and read through his texts and got a rude wake up call. Messages to and from a woman named Tess. All similar and straight to the point:

 When can you come over?

Pick up condoms on your way.

My kids at a friends tonight, I’m off work now. 

I’m horny. Need you. 

Can’t tonight, watchin’ movies with my little girl. Tomorrow though, been thinking of that pussy. 

 Any normal girl would be gagging at the thought of her father in a sexual relationship. Not you. No. You were furious. How dare this woman feel entitled to any part of your daddy! You hated every time your name came up in the texts. Whether it was as a reason why  he couldn’t go fuck this Tess person or saying that you were gone so he could have her over. Jealousy burned through you. He wasn’t supposed to do this. You thought he was past that and you wouldn’t have to worry about someone getting him in the way you wanted. The thought slipped out in your anger. You had never let yourself really think about that but that was exactly what it was. You hated Tess for getting Joel in a way that you weren’t. 

You decided you would ruin their fun. Just like you ruined all those dates when you were younger. You were not going to allow this. That was how you ended up coming home “early” from a friends house the next night.  That’s how you ended up sneaking upstairs, not wanting to ruin their fun right away. You stood outside his bedroom door, listening for a moment. Voices. The slap of skin on skin. A high pitched, excited gasps. Then a deep rumble of a moan from your father.   You could practically imagine it. You had been unconsciously imagining your dad in those situations for as long as you had understood what that was. You knew that now and you were finally starting to admit it to yourself. Maybe he had his hands on her hips and was taking her from behind, maybe she was on top of him and his chest was slick with sweat. Maybe the hair on his tummy was wet with it. You let your imagination work out the scenario, but the faceless woman he fucked in your mind always turned into you. You swallowed, this was the first time you let these images swim to the forefront of your mind. That wall you had put up between you and the wrongness of your desire had been torn to shreds now. 

You knew you needed to make your entrance soon otherwise the plan would be ruined so you gave yourself a moment to collect yourself and then you shoved the door open as if you were just coming into the house and looking for your dad to announce your presence. 

“Dad, I decided to come-“ You cut yourself off from your fake entrance speech as you stared at the scene in front of you. Everything must have only lasted a couple seconds but it felt like everything hung in that moment for so long. Joel was on top of this woman, both completely naked, the blankets you wrapped yourself in most nights were shoved down around the base of the bed. He was between her legs, pumping himself in and out of her, her legs were wrapped around him, her head thrown back in ecstasy. You could see sheen of sweat over his back, the tightness of his thighs and ass as he pressed himself into her. You barely had a chance to register your father’s cock, buried to the hilt in this other woman when he jumped so bad and yanked the blankets back up around them. 

“What the FUCK!?” You shouted, it sounded completely believable because it was still how you felt, regardless of whether or not you knew what you were walking into. You hated this woman for what she was doing to your daddy. You were furious at your daddy for doing this in the bed you cuddled him in. 

“Jesus Christ, pumpkin, I thought-“ He started to talk as he wrapped the blankets around his waist. 

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my GOD!” You screeched, turning away from the bed. “How could you DO this!?” You shouted as you rushed out the door of the bedroom. 

“Wait-honey! Wait a second!” Joel let out an exasperated sigh and you heard Tess groan in frustration. You had to bite back a smile as you went to the stairs to run away. 

“Doesn’t she knock?”You heard Tess say and it infuriated you enough to wipe the smirk off your face. There was movement from upstairs and you started to put your shoes on, giving them time to get downstairs before you actually ran out the door. You feigned franticness as you heard steps on the stairs and Dad rushed down, followed by a very sheepish looking Tess who was working on putting her purse over her shoulder. 

You got your shoes shoved on and you started towards the front door, “No, please dont let me interrupt you!” You shouted sarcastically. 

“Honey, calm down!” Joel said, he reached out and grabbed your arm, stopping you from marching out the front door. Tess fumbled down the hallway, 

“I’m just going to go, see you, Joel.” She said to him, lifting her hand to him. The insinuation that she would be back and the way she knew her way around the house so easily sent you into another flurry of rage, 

“No you WON’T see him! Get out, fucking whore!” You shouted, sounding more and more like a child by the second. Joel’s hand tightened on your upper arm and he pulled you around to face him but you struggled, trying to rip out of his grip. When you couldn’t get out of his grip you started trying to hit him, around his shoulders, around his chest. 

“Hey! Quit it, kid!” You didn’t listen, you continued to try to pummel your father with your fists, even though one of your arms was trapped in his grip. You felt a sob rising in your chest. You had planned this whole thing but you hadn’t planned for how upset seeing it would make you. You wanted him more than anything else and seeing him give it to someone else made you sick. The sob escaped before you could hold it back, you feebly smacked at him again and he grabbed your other upper arm in his grip, now holding you by bother your arms and gave you a little shake, “What has gotten into you, honey?” he asked, sounding more worried than angry now. 

Your watery eyes met his brown ones, you didn’t know what to tell him. You were scared it was all going to tumble out of you without your permission if you opened your mouth without a plan. 

“You…why…” Your jaw jutted out. “You aren’t supposed to do that!” You said. Joel snorted, 

“How the fuck do you think you got here?” He asked and it made you even angrier.  You glowered at him,

“You aren’t supposed to do it anymore.” You clarified. It was Joel’s turn to look  little angry, he let go of you and took a  few awkward steps back. He had managed to get his jeans and a white t-shirt obut in the frenzy of getting dressed, his pants were still undone and it was obvious he wasn’t wearing any boxers.

 “I know it probably grosses you out to think of your old man…doing that…” He sounded uncomfortable, and God, if only he knew how little it grossed you out.  “Let alone…seein’ it the way you did, I’m sorry about that.” He avoided eye contact with you. 

Your cheeks heated up, your heart hammered in your chest and you found yourself longing to touch him. You watched as he uneasily reached down to do up his pants and your eyes lingered on the bit of pubic hair you could see until it was covered by his jeans. Your eyes flicked up to his and you watched something cross over his face. Had he noticed you look? Joel shifted where he stood. “But even I got needs, kiddo and…I know you don’t want to have this conversation-“ It was funny because you had orchestrated this very conversation. Forced it into being and here he was, thinking you were uncomfortable with it. You stared at him, your eyes on his, your tongue poked out and ran along your bottom lip as you watched him. “But what you saw was perfectly normal and uhh…I mean someday you’re goin to want to…with boys…like-“ he cleared his throat, “When you go to college.” You could tell how much he hated the idea of you having those feelings and you wished so badly that he understood that the only person you had ever wanted, ever needed like that was him. 

“No.” You said quietly, taking a step towards him, “No, Daddy. I’ll never want that from boys in college.” You were very clear about your wording.  

“Honey, we don’t gotta pretend you ain’t a maturing young woman-“ You watched his eyes flick down, you could have sworn they lingered momentarily on your breasts. Maybe that was just your hope. 

“Daddy,” you took another step towards him, looking up at him. “I hate that you were doin’ that with Tess.” You said, your lower lip stuck out in a pout. “I don’t want you to do that anymore,” You told him. Joel raised his eyebrows and leaned down towards you,

“Well, I’m sorry, sweetheart but you don’t get to make rules for your dad-wait, how did you know her name is Tess?” He asked. 

Part Two

[dedeinthewild]

lando norris x reader, early stages

-“Come on, Mr. McLaren. No Mrs., but definitely a sports car,”

summary : he bought the tickets "for her." she wore his shirt. tate sang sports car. he knew all the words. but no, he definitely doesn’t stream her on spotify.

As soon as they got in the car, she had connected her phone and, while Lando drove toward the arena, she sang along to every song on her playlist, wearing that rugby shirt she’d stolen from him and flashing the most beautiful smile he had ever seen.

Even if he would never admit it, the idea of going to that concert had been his. After talking to other drivers and some friends, he found out about the tour of the singer she always talked about—and he hadn’t hesitated to go back to Monaco, set his laptop on the table, and buy two tickets.

Lando had always pretended—with his usual smug arrogance—that the trending pop music of the moment was way beneath his musical tastes, never missing a chance to remind her of that.

“That’s lame white girl music,” he’d tease her while she slid on her blue light glasses and sat next to him, peeking at everything he was doing on screen.

But deep down, he liked it.

Just like he liked when his team texted him after the release of her new album, so full of imagery about a boy so handsome he was almost dangerous, driving a sports car that seemed just a little too much like him.

Then would come a cheeky comment, a few lyrics whistled intentionally in the paddock, but he’d never really considered going to one of her concerts—mostly to avoid worsening his groupie situation. They’d probably sell their souls to see him in the crowd at something like that.

But she had been enough.

She had chosen to wear one of the old merch t-shirts she found in his apartment in Monaco and had left all the decisions to him, barely hiding her excitement at the idea of flashing those tickets at the entrance of The O2 Arena.

“Tate McRae,” he let the singer’s name roll off his lips as they queued for the parking spot he’d reserved, his right hand on the lower part of the steering wheel, elbow resting out the window, soaking in the early summer breeze of London.

“Yes,” she replied, unable to hold back a smile as she looked out at the arena, nervously running a hand through her soft, fragrant hair.

“Maybe I should’ve brought tissues,” he said, giving her one of his signature infuriating smirks, while the car engine rumbled in idle, waiting to finally be parked.

“No,” she shot back, “but you should’ve brought a mirror.” Teasing him, knowing full well how he secretly loved those songs like they’d been written just for him—in every lyric and chorus, like they were soaked in the same scent he sprayed on himself just to watch her wrinkle her nose.

“What?” he feigned innocence, following the car ahead.

She shook her head playfully, already feeling the adrenaline of what she knew would be a special night—the kind of thrill that comes from seeing the artist you listen to every morning in the car, every afternoon walk, every evening while cooking.

Lando was good at pretending he didn’t care, like he’d done all this just to make her happy. As if he didn’t know their photos would be all over the internet in two hours, and a night that felt like a dream for them would become one for thousands of fans too.

Once inside, they realized how massive the arena was—it had even hosted the F1 pre-season gala earlier that year, where he’d been one of twenty stars, standing on the very stage where Tate would soon perform. The standing area was already packed, while some sections of seats were still waiting for people to arrive, stuck in London’s nightly traffic.

Thanks to one of his contacts, Lando had bought some of the priciest tickets, in a separate section that gave them the thrill of the crowd but with seats and a near front-row view—just as Charles had suggested after attending another popstar’s tour.

“Still time to leave,” he whispered in her ear, standing behind her with his hands in the pockets of the jeans he’d chosen, his shoulders straight in a black shirt that clung to his torso in a way that could easily be considered illegal.

“Still time to admit you secretly stream her on your Spotify,” she grinned, turning to him, catching the way he couldn’t wipe off that teasing little smirk he reserved for when he was winding her up—or realizing how easily he could charm whoever stood in front of him.

“Only ‘cause you made me a playlist,” he shot back, thinking of the long summer drives in his Audi, aimless, with the playlist he made almost blowing the speakers.

“Because I knew you’d relate.”

“To what? Being emotionally damaged and hot?” he laughed, adjusting the mullet he’d grown back after months of clean fades—on her gentle request, the same girl who had dragged him to the place where everyone wanted him to be.

“Exactly,” she said, grinning, as the tech crew finished setting the stage. The lighting matched the album colors—orange and soft neon—which lit up her face as she wore that same color.

He was curious, cautious, already tapping a rhythm on his thigh.

It was one of those moments girls dream about—sending outfit pics to friends, burning every second of a moment into memory instead of a phone video. Some were already sitting, phones in hand, while others kept their hands on their girlfriends’ shoulders, softly singing along to the pre-show songs. And some—like Lando—just stole the scene.

But that was the last thing he wanted. Because even if he loved attention, tonight was for her—even if he wouldn’t admit it. She had told him many times she’d never been to a concert before, or that she’d missed out on tickets. So this one—it was her concert.

“She’s not even out yet—”

The entire arena erupted into a scream that made her wrinkle her nose, tilting her head slightly toward Lando, who had rested his chin on her shoulder, scanning the crowd—spotting a few actors and footballers, but not caring much.

“That’s the point,” she said, her voice trembling with excitement. “Pre-scream.”

“You dragged me here for this?” he complained, grinning wider than she’d ever seen.

“You’re going to love it,” she laughed, shooting him a sideways glance, “even if it’s just lame white girl music.”

As the lights dimmed, he stood straight, his arm brushing hers as they looked at the wave of teens and girls with glittered cheeks and hairdos that had clearly taken hours.

It was hot, but the frenzy felt like cold air breathing down their necks, a thrill buzzing with anticipation.

Tate’s first songs rang out, met with the crowd’s loud approval. Lando vibed to the bass, hands in pockets, his wristband contrasting against his tan forearm, opposite his Richard Mille watch. He watched her sing every word, wearing his shirt tucked into her pants, with that wide smile showing she was having the time of her life—likely something she’d talk about for months.

And it made him smile too. Until the tension crept in—the weight of their undefined situation.

They’d been “something” for months now—joking like old friends, then flirting with an undertone they never named. Their “friendly” outings had him wearing his nicest shirts and asking for as many paddock passes as possible just to have her travel with him.

When Sports Car came on, his chest was lightly pressed against her back, hands high enough to graze her waist but not touch, his eyes fixed on the stage from above, savoring every word sung by the crowd.

It was his song now. Everyone said so.

"I think you know what this is I think you wanna uh No, you ain't got no Mrs. Oh, but you got a sports car"

He smiled—that smug, charming grin that somehow never made him unlikeable—as he stood there, muscles peeking through his shirt, those piercing green eyes glowing even more under the lights.

As the show went on, she realized the joy of being there was now sharing space with the awareness that she was there with Lando Norris—and with every word Tate sang, he claimed a little more of her space without ever feeling intrusive.

“Oh, don’t start,” he said as the beat dropped, chin slightly lifted.

“Come on, Mr. McLaren. No Mrs., but definitely a sports car,” she teased, biting her lip to hide a grin full of tension and butterflies. Lando was so close—to her, and no one else. And he never missed a chance to tease her.

“Okay, I’ll admit it. She’s good.”

She turned, savoring those five minutes that marked the last third of the concert—time had flown between lights and confetti.

His chain lay against his collarbones, creating a crease in his shirt that highlighted his chest and arms—always growing stronger from the effort he poured into reaching the top of his career.

He looked down at her, eyes locked, the kind of smile she wanted to steal right off his face. His skin smooth from the shave he remembered to do that morning—when she woke him up with the smell of pancakes.

“Maybe it’s the company,” he added, finally making her melt.

"I just want your two hands on me at all times, baby If you let go (I want your two hands) Better put 'em right back, fast Want your two hands on me like my life needs savin' Let 'em all know (I want your two hands) Can you do it like that? Yeah"

Lando had embraced the vibe—singing with her, helping a few girls take pictures with the venue behind them, showing that sweet, kind side of him she adored so much.

He looked fully in his element—hands up, taking photos for people, handing phones back gently, then leaning against the barricades and moving with the beat. Watching her like she wasn’t just some beautiful girl, but his.

“Think you can handle that?” he teased again, quoting the lyrics as she leaned closer, their elbows touching, trading warmth and that faint London humidity that kissed their skin.

“That’s a challenge?” she replied, her usual blush hidden by the pink lights.

Lando looked at his hands, licking his lips.

"Dear God, take his kiss right out of my brain Take the pleasure out of my pain Take the way he'd used to say I love you Dear God, get his imprint out of my bed Take away the way I still might want to"

She pulled out her phone and started a new note, jotting down all the songs that caught Lando’s attention the most. He watched her, amused—and in a way, thankful he came with her, doing one of his press-friendly fashion moves and giving her a perfect night.

“What are you doing?”

“Making you a playlist with a horrible title,” she smiled, like the song they’d just heard hadn’t been full of innuendos.

“You’re horrible,” he laughed, taking her hand, still leaning on the barricade.

“And yet you love me.”

Lando paused, looked into her eyes, then slightly down at her lips, still a little damp from singing—but instead of thinking about kissing them, he focused on that happy smile.

“I might,” he said softly. “You make it really hard not to.”

He didn’t let go of her hand. Not when the concert ended, as they took a few photos and joined in chanting for the singer before she left the stage. Not even as people started filing out, chasing a bit of fresh air after the heat of the night.

When she was ready to go and turn the night into a memory, he started walking toward the exit, her smaller hand still in his large driver’s hand—the one she’d always wanted to hold but never dared to, afraid it would ruin things.

Her eyes were locked on him, on how confidently he walked, the black shirt hugging his back and hinting at the return of that mullet that made him look even more stylish than he already was. How he’d turn and glance at her, pointing out small details they’d missed, keeping her close in the gentlest, most genuine way.

He stroked her palm. He knew she was behind him. That everyone knew he was there. That the gorgeous, seemingly unattainable Formula 1 driver—the one everyone said Tate McRae’s songs were about—had come to her concert. And he’d come with a girl.

“You’re kind of the hot boyfriend everyone wants right now,” she said once outside, as he sat on a concrete cylinder, arms resting on his knees with that post-concert calm she’d always dreamed of. Some girls walked past, still singing, snapping their final photos.

“Kind of?” he asked, tilting his head.

“Well, I’m still deciding,” she smirked, as he placed his hands on her waist and pulled her closer, locking eyes with her again.

“Decide now,” he said, wetting his lips. “You dragged me here just to roast me with pop music. And now you’re getting soft on me?”

“You liked the pop music.”

“I loved it.”

“And the lyrics?” she asked, burying her hands in his hair, still stunned that someone so impossibly handsome could be so impossibly hers.

“Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been a country concert.”

She rolled her eyes.

Knowing it was just the first of many concerts. And the start of a beautiful, messy, perfect unfolding.

guess whose birthday is it? if your lucky guess was me, then yeah, I'll gift you this little lando x reader 'cause you were right! I have been pondering for days if I should get tickets to tate or not, and the obvious answer is that I should but I've spent way too much lately...

[velvetbeeez]

𝑌o𝑢r𝑠 𝑒t𝑒r𝑛a𝑙l𝑦… 𝓥𝖆𝖒𝖕𝖎𝖗𝖊 𝖉𝖗 𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖗𝖔

Born to mourn, to dream...but to never sleep

౨ৎ . . .

In the midst of a harsh cold thunderstorm on a moonless night there echoed a cry of a babe, a princess. her first cry was a prophecy, bitter as truth and sharp as a firefly's light. The astrologers folded their charts in silence. Her fate, written in bone and sand, could not be rewritten.

They raised her in silk, mahogany, gold & silence…Her eyes learnt to read men’s smile before she could learn to write. By five, she walks around the castle, tracing her footsteps so she never gets lost, by ten she falls into a monotonous pattern of life, by 13, she weeps like a widow. Lost in a loop.

Her father, the king, with firm words set in stone, and laws thrown like worn out clothes, promises her to the son of a noble, a rich young man, loud- voiced, drunk on his own shadow, pride as swollen as the sun. The match was sacred, sealed by wax, turmeric and trembling hands of mothers…

Despite that, In the hollow of her heart, something rings, and chimes. She was made for more…

As the monsoon calls for the yearly festival of seven days, It brings the scent of wet earth, of rebirth, of things buried long ago rising in the night. But this year, the sky carries more than rain. It carries something heavy, humming low in her marrow. Hope. Something so forbidden, so out of touch for her. Dreams, in which she hears an unknown yet familiar voice, sees a hazy, inviting face… nightmares she calls them. The seven day festival begins, and with it, the gates of the city swings open like a wound. Boats drift in from distant lands. The air is brought to life with music, spice, and foreign tongues. Her father’s castle is brimming with guests from across the lands and seas. That is when she sees him.

Pale as twilight, with eyes like flaming emeralds, too alive, too cold. He calls himself Edmund from Greece, but she knows lies when she hears them. Something changes when his eyes land on her. It feels like he has forever been there, watching her from the shadows…

He speaks to her first beneath the silks of the spice pavilion. His voice is too even, too knowing. She replies with clipped words and sharpened stares, but his smile lingers like a wound that refuses to bleed. He plays the game with an elegance that infuriates her, his subtle flirtations, the ways he twists her own words to fluster her, the way he tilts his head when she pretends not to see him, the lazy grace with which he spars words as though born to it.

She despises him because he makes her forget the chains she had learnt to wear on her wrists like bangles. She despises him because he makes her stumble, stutter and lose the stillness in herself that she had mastered for years.

A day or two later, a duel takes place in the silence and privacy of the secluded weapons’ room. Clashes of swords ring in the castle…an attempt to push him away. But his cold sharp sword lands on curve on her neck, a kiss of ice.

She tries to forget but forgetfulness is not a luxury cursed daughters can afford.

The days pass slowly, painfully, with burning of hearts and stolen glances.

Then, on the seventh evening, the stars were dimmer. The winds were sharper, the whispers were louder. The world turns.

Her fiance, bloated with drink and bruised pride, finds her alone in the moonlit balcony. Words turn to fists. Her voice breaks. Her wrist bleed against the golden railings. And then, snap, something inside her shatters like a mirror. A knife. a scream. Silence haunts.

She runs. Wherever her steps take her. Past the festival fires, past the textile stalls, the spice lingering in the air, the music, the ghost of her past self.

The river waits for her, endless, blue, cold and deep. It calls to her. She wades in…or tries to.

And he is there. Edmund. He holds her. Promises an eternity, freedom, and his devotion. Offers her his world. His icy, dead heart.

She should recoil, turn back, run to her father’s palace, fall at his feet, sob and beg for forgiveness. But she does not. That life is not for her. She carries the weight of stars beneath her ribs.

So, under the weeping clouds, he sinks his canines into her slender naked neck. Gently. Like a prayer. Sealing a pact written before the dawn of time.

They vanish into the midnight. Travelling along with the stars.

The people searched for their princess for long, some say she drowned in the river, some say she lives like a commoner in some hut. Some say she was a witch who burned in her own sins.

But she travels the world with her immortal lover. Castles in Transylvania, markets in Tokyo, pyramids in Egypt, crowns in England. It is all theirs.

No one knows about them. No one wants to. Some creatures are meant to be unknown, to never be found, to bask forever in their own sacredness.

[mysteriousxgirls]

Liyana just stared at him—actually stared. Mouth parted, heart doing this ridiculous flutter thing in her chest like it had absolutely no intention of slowing down. Her arms were crossed, but more to keep herself from doing something reckless, like pulling him in by the collar and kissing that smug, sweat-damp grin off his face right then and there. Because—God. She forgot how good he was at this. How his body moved like it belonged in motion, like every shot was a memory his muscles never let go of. The rhythm, the confidence, the way he barely glanced at the hoop and still nailed it—it was infuriating. And stupidly, stupidly attractive. Her cheeks were already warm, but now she could feel it spreading—neck, ears, all of it. The neon lights weren’t helping, casting her in deep pinks and electric blues like her blush needed the extra drama.

When he turned, grinning like he owned the whole damn arcade, she let out a soft laugh and rolled her eyes—but there was no heat in it. Just that dangerous kind of fondness that made her knees feel untrustworthy. He held out the ball. She arched a brow. “You mean after that?” she said, gesturing loosely to the high score still blinking like a taunt behind him. “I think I just witnessed a sports documentary disguised as an arcade game.” But her fingers closed around the ball anyway, slow, deliberate, like she wasn’t already melting inside. She looked up at him, lashes low, teasing smile curling her lips. “You know, I’m starting to think you’re only good at games that involve showing off.” Then, after a beat, she leaned in just enough for her voice to drop—a whisper meant only for him. “Which is fine... as long as you remember who you’re trying to impress.” She stepped up to the line, heart racing, hands slightly shaky on the ball—but the kind of shaky that felt like excitement. Like falling. Like him.

The moment Diego stepped up to the basketball arcade game, something shifted. The noise of the arcade—chiming machines, overlapping laughter, the pop of skee-balls—dulled into a kind of background hum. He rolled his shoulders back, loose and easy, like his body remembered this rhythm before his mind even caught up. The timer blinked 30 seconds in bold red. Lights flashed. The machine spat out the first ball, and in one fluid motion, Diego caught it, bent slightly at the knees, and launched it with practiced ease. The ball arced perfectly, clean through the hoop. No rim. Just net. Another ball. Another shot. Swish. He didn’t rush—he didn’t have to. It was like muscle memory, like music. His hands moved with precision, each motion smooth, deliberate. Bend, release, follow-through. The clatter of missed shots from the machine next to him only made his focus sharper. He didn’t even glance at the growing crowd forming behind them, just exhaled through his nose and kept going. Ten seconds left. He started sinking shots faster now, each ball barely a beat behind the last. The scoreboard blinked higher with each swish—86... 89... 93...98. At the buzzer, he nailed one final shot just as the machine let out a triumphant jingle and lit up with flashing lights. New High Score.

Diego finally turned, grinning, sweat glinting just slightly along his temple under the harsh neon glow. “Still got it,” he said, chest rising and falling with that electric buzz of adrenaline and pride. He held out a ball to Liyana with a raised brow. “¿Tú quieres probar, nena? Or should I keep embarrassing strangers tonight?”

[callumturnercrush]

Settle the Score

18+

After a hard day at work Callum wants to watch his team score, you want to score something else, so he makes you wait, patiently warming his cock until the game ends. 

Daddy kink, lap sitting, edging, cock warming, orgasm denial, spankings, girl in top, orgasm, cream pie

DT @kulturalismellektermek

Settle the Score

Callums living room is dim lit only by the flickering glow of the massive flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. Chelsea’s blue jerseys clash against Arsenal’s red and white, the roar of the crowd spilling through the speakers. 

It’s a crucial match, Champions League semi-final, ‘do or die’ for Callum’s beloved Blues. He’s sprawled on the plush gray couch, his broad frame sinking into the cushions, those wonderful thick thighs spread wide in his tailored black trousers. 

His tie is loosened, the top button of his crisp white shirt undone, and a glass of whisky sits within reach on the coffee table, the amber liquid catching the light.

His dark hair is slightly rustled from running his hands through it during a tense moment in the game, and his sharp jaw is set, blue eyes locked on the screen with an intensity that makes your stomach flutter.

You’re curled up beside him, legs tucked under you, wearing one of his old Chelsea jerseys that’s too big for you, the hem grazing your thighs. 

You’re bored out of your mind. Football’s never been your thing, and Callum’s obsession with it is the one thing about him that drives you up the wall. He’s been ignoring you for the past forty minutes, only humming in response to your attempts at conversation. 

You get it, he’s had a brutal day at work, some nightmare on the set of his latest film, and all he wanted was to come home, pour a drink, and lose himself in this game. 

But those thighs, straining against the fabric of his trousers, and the way his large hands rest on his knees, fingers twitching with every near-miss on the pitch, it’s doing things to you. Things you can’t ignore.

You shift closer, pressing your side against his, and trail your fingers lightly over his forearm. “Callum,” you murmur, your voice soft and teasing, “you sure you don’t want to take a break? Just for a minute?”

His eyes don’t leave the screen. “Love, it’s 1-1, and we’re in the 70th minute. Not a chance.” His deep British accent is clipped, distracted, but the way he leans into you, just a fraction, tells you he’s not completely immune.

You pout, resting your chin on his shoulder, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “But I’m so bored,” you whisper, letting your breath fan over his skin. You feel him tense, just for a second, before he exhales sharply through his nose.

“Behave,” he says, low and firm, but there’s a warmth in it, a warning that sends a shiver down your spine. He reaches for his whisky, taking a slow sip, and you watch the way his throat works, the bob of his Adam’s apple. 

Callum is gorgeous, even when he’s being infuriating and you can’t help yourself, sliding your hand onto his thigh, fingers tracing the hard muscle beneath the fabric. 

His thighs are a work of art, thick and powerful, and you squeeze gently, biting your lip as you imagine them flexing under you in an entirely different manner. 

“Callum,” you say again, voice dropping to a sultry purr, “I could make this so much more fun than the game.”

He finally glances at you, one brow arched, his expression a mix of amusement and exasperation. “You’re trouble, you know that?” But his hand covers yours, stopping your wandering fingers, and he gives them  a don’t test me squeeze. “I’m watching this. You’ll survive another hour without my undivided attention.”

You huff, pulling your hand back, but the heat pooling low in your core isn’t going anywhere. You nuzzle into his neck, lips grazing the sensitive spot just below his ear, and you feel him shift slightly, his breath hitching. “What if I don’t want to survive?” you whisper, letting your tongue dart out to taste his skin.

“Christ,” he mutters, gripping the armrest of the couch. “You’re not making this easy, are you?” His voice is rougher now, and you know you’re getting to him, chipping away at his focus.

You smile against his neck, emboldened, and slide your hand back to his thigh, higher this time, dangerously close to where you know he’s sensitive. “Just trying to help you relax, Daddy,” you whisper, the word slipping out as your secret weapon. He loves when you call him Daddy it always gets his attention, and sure enough, his head turns toward you, eyes darkening.

“Careful love,” he warns, voice low and gravelly, the kind of tone that makes your thighs clench. “You keep that up, and you’re not gonna like the consequences.”

But you’re past caring about consequences. You’re aching, restless, and the sight of him so composed, so in control only makes you want to unravel him. 

You climb onto his lap, straddling one of those glorious thighs, the jersey riding up to expose more of your skin. “Please, Daddy,” you say, pouting, your hands sliding up his chest to tug at his tie. “I just want to make you feel good.”

His hands settle on your hips, gripping hard enough to make you gasp, and he pulls you closer, his eyes flicking back to the screen for a split second before locking onto yours. 

“You’re pushing it,” he says, but there’s a heat in his gaze now, a hunger that wasn’t there before. “If you can’t behave, I’m going to have to find a way to keep you occupied, aren’t I?”

Your heart races, and you nod, biting your lip. “Yes, please.”

He smirks, slow and dangerous, and leans back, patting his lap. “Alright, love. Come here. You’re gonna sit on Daddy’s cock and keep it warm while I watch the game. But you’re gonna be quiet, yeah? Don’t want to hear a peep.”

Your breath catches, arousal spiking at his words, and you scramble to obey, fumbling with his belt and zipper. He helps you, lifting his hips just enough to free cock, and you nearly whimper at the sight of him—thick, hard, and already flushed a deep pink. 

You position yourself over him, sliding your panties aside to sink down on it slowly, and the stretch is exquisite, making your eyes flutter shut as you take him inch by inch.

“Fuck,” you breathe, unable to stop yourself, and his hand comes down on your ass with a sharp crack, the sting blooming across your skin.

“I said quiet,” he orders, his voice vibrating through you. “You gonna be a good girl for Daddy, or do I need to remind you again?”

“I’ll be good,” you whisper, cheeks flushing as you settle fully onto him, your hands gripping his shoulders. He feels so satisfying, filling you completely, but he’s still, not moving, his attention already drifting back to the game. 

His large hand rests on the back of your head, pulling you against his chest so your face is tucked into the crook of his neck, his other hand steadying your hip.

“Now be still,” he murmurs, “and let me watch the game. Make Daddy proud.”

You try, you really do, but the pressure of him inside you, the heat of his body, the faint scent of his cologne, it’s overwhelming. You start to move, just a subtle rock of your hips, chasing the friction, and a soft moan slips out before you can stop it.

Another crack against your ass, harder this time, and you yelp, the sound muffled against his skin. “I said be quiet,” he snaps, his hand tightening in your hair. “You’re testing my patience, love.”

“I’m sorry,” you whimper, biting your lip hard to keep silent. You force yourself to still, but it’s torture, the ache between your legs growing with every second. You can feel him twitching inside you, and you know he’s not as unaffected as he’s pretending to be.

Minutes pass, agonizingly slow, and you’re trembling with the effort of staying still. The game’s getting intense Chelsea’s pressing for a goal, the crowd’s roaring and Callum’s grip on you tightens, his thigh muscles flexing under you. 

You can’t take it anymore and you lift your head, eyes meeting his, and the desperate need in your expression must hit him hard, because his jaw clenches.

“Alright,” he says, voice rough. “You want to move? Fine. Kneel over Daddy’s thighs and ride me. But you do all the work, and you keep your eyes on me. I’m still watching the game.”

You nod eagerly, scrambling to reposition yourself, straddling him properly now, your knees sinking into the couch on either side of his hips. 

You start to move, slow at first, savoring the drag of his cock inside you, and his hand returns to the back of your head, holding you close your foreheads are almost touching, his eyes flicking between you and the screen.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, “just like that. Keep it steady, love.”

You bite your lip, fighting to stay silent as you pick up the pace, your hips rolling in a rhythm that has you teetering on the edge. 

It feels so good, too good, and despite your best efforts, a soft moan escapes.

His hand cracks against your ass again, and you gasp, tears pricking your eyes from the mix of pain and pleasure. 

“What did I say?” he demands, voice low and dangerous.

“I’m so sorry…” you whisper, your voice shaking. “It’s just… it feels so good.”

He grins darkly, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. “I know it does, baby. But you’re here for Daddy’s pleasure, not your own. You gonna behave, or do I need to stop you?”

“No, please,” you beg, desperation creeping into your voice. “I’ll be good, I promise.”

“Then keep going,” he says, his hand guiding your hips now, controlling the pace. “But don’t you dare come until I say so.”

You nod, swallowing hard, and focus on moving, your muscles burning with the effort of pleasing him while holding back your own release. You’re so close, every grind pushing you closer to the edge, and you can feel him watching you, his breath hot against your skin.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he mutters, almost to himself, his eyes flicking back to the screen as Chelsea’s striker lines up for a shot. 

“Keep going, love. Don’t stop.”

But it’s too much. Your rhythm falters, your body trembling as you teeter on the brink. You stop at the top of his cock, gasping, your hands clutching his shoulders. “I’m sorry,,” you whimper, “but if I keep going, I can’t—”

He cuts you off, his hands guiding you back down on his cock, rough and unrelenting. “I wasn’t asking,” he rasps, his hips bucking up to meet you, sending a jolt of pleasure-pain through your core. “You don’t stop until I tell you to.”

“Yes, Sir,” you choke out, tears spilling down your cheeks as you force yourself to move again, your body screaming for release. You bite your lip until you taste copper, determined to stay silent, to make him proud.

He senses how close you are, his eyes narrowing as he watches you struggle. 

“Don’t even try it,” he warns, his voice a low command. “Not until the games finished,”

You nod, a broken whimper escaping as you fight to obey. The game’s reaching its climax Chelsea scores, the crowd erupts, and Callum’s grip on you tightens, his own control fraying. “Fuck, that’s it,” he mutters, whether to you or the team, you’re not sure. 

“Keep going, baby. Almost there.”

You’re a mess, shaking, gasping, but you don’t stop, your body moving on instinct now, driven by the need to please him. 

His hand slides between you, his thumb finding your clit, and you nearly scream, the sensation pushing you right to the edge.

“Callum Daddy, please,” you beg, your voice barely a whisper. “I can’t hold it—”

“Not yet,” he snaps, his thumb circling faster, deliberate, cruel in its precision. “You wait for me.”

The game ends and Chelsea wins, 2-1—and the second the final whistle blows Callum’s attention is fully on you. 

His eyes are piercing , his breath ragged, and he thrusts up into you, hard and deep, his thumb still working you. “Now,” he groans, “come for Daddy.”

You shatter, your vision whiting out as your orgasm crashes through you, wave after wave of pleasure that leaves you sobbing your head tilting back. He follows a moment later, his grip bruising as he spills inside you, a low groan rising from his throat.

For a moment, you’re both still, your bodies pressed together, the only sound your ragged breathing and the distant hum of the TV.

He strokes your hair, gentle now, and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Good girl,” he praises, his voice soft, warm. “You did so well for me.”

You smile, exhausted but sated, and nuzzle into his neck. “Worth it?” you ask, breathless. 

He laughs, low and rich, and pulls you closer. “Absolutely worth it.” He grins.

END

[hpowellsmith]

Hartmann my beloved! Do their feelings about a rebel MC with good grades shift as their romance grows? Like, as in do they still find it infuriating deep down, or do they slowly begin to admire it?

(this is related to this post and this post about Hartmann)

I'm not sure if they'd chill out and come to admire it within the scope of the game because the romance is fairly early and they're still in that hothouse Gallatin environment. Those who have played the Hartmann romance will have seen that they're not exactly relaxed even when they're committed to the MC romantically!

But for the future, I think it would depend a lot on the relationship and the other things that were going on.

For instance, in my head Hartmann does not find it easy to study at university because they're used to being in a smaller pond and working independently is more difficult for them than being in a more strictly-structured environment*. So if they were both at university together and Hartmann was struggling while the MC wasn't, they might find that hard and bottle up their worries because they SHOULD be able to handle it.

But you know, as they became more secure in themselves and in the relationship, I could see them being more chill about it, and potentially finding it endearing. (They might also learn to recognise the downsides of it - for instance the MC might be going through stress when pulling their miracle essay out quickly or sorting things out last-minute, but Hartmann wouldn't necessarily understand that without knowing the MC and themselves better.)

*this was me when I went to uni! it was very challenging!

[hsrwife]

here's my one piece self insert with some minor changes from before! info is pretty much the same - which ik i havent shared here before but ive had them since FOREVER so!!! all the details can be found under the cut!

BASICS

Name: Julian Jay Species: Skypedian (hides it pre-timeskip) -- Epithet: "Smiling Stowaway" -- Bounty: 56,000,000 (first), 700,000,000 (current) Age: 18 (pre-timeskip), 20 (post timeskip) Pronouns: it/any Gender: Unlabeled Orientation: Queer (technically abro but doesn't care to label it) Height: 5ft 6in

PERSONALITY

PRE-TIMESKIP Julian is a snarky and sarcastic individual. Though not outwardly hostile, it's not considered the nicest person either. It jokes about everything, it doesn't take anything seriously, and sometimes it's attitude can get on the nerves of other people. Deep down it really care about those it loves, though, it just has trouble showing it. But with it's enemies? It's vindictive, hateful and angry - ready to fight whenever the opportunity arises.

POST TIMESKIP Julian had time to grow from it's previous self. The two years away from it's only friends had shown it just how much of a huge jerk it was being, and slowly but surely, it began to see the kindness around them in the world too. Such a perspective change practically changed it as a whole. Now optimistic and cheerful, it is much more open about it's care for others and have an open heart for other's situations as well.

COMBAT

weapon of choice: fists strengths: hard hitter & very good defense w/ devil fruit weaknesses: slow and can't dodge very well. devil fruit - rock rock fruit (iwa iwa no mi) the rock rock fruit allows the user to harderntheir skin, creating rock-like layers that act as both an extra layer of damage and a protective shield. -- pros: the rock-like layers are hard to penetrate with blades or bullets, making the user a very good tank. -- cons: the rock-like layers add weight, making the user incredibly slow to move. it also makes them susceptible to heat exhaustion if they don't crack the shell off for too long. the layers when removed can leave the skin tender and red, and is often painful to the touch.

BACKSTORY

Julian grew up on the streets on an island where a clear hierarchy was established between the authorities, the rich, and the poor. It doesn't remember how it got there or why it was there, all it remembered was the cold winter nights alone, bundled in whatever it could find. That was until a homeless man who it affectionately called 'Pa' took it under his wing.

Pa taught it everything it had to know about surviving in a cold, cruel space. He basically raised it from a child to a teen - that was until the authorities tracked him down and arrested him. They claimed he stole an ancient artifact from them. A prize locket that was fabled to be a clue to the One Piece. Julian was furious, knowing that it's adoptive father was innocent. So it began their search.

Eventually, after many break-ins and robberies, it finally found the culprit. A fellow marine who'd been there at the arresting of Pa. Presenting the evidence to the authorities, they wished to take it back - but it only would give it back if Pa was released.

That's when the marines revealed that Pa had died in prison. Sick, frail, hungry. They laughed in their face about how it probably was better for him than being on the streets as a poor man. Infuriated beyond belief, Julian smashed the locket into the ground and stomped on it, shattering it completely. Now not only a pathetic peasant, but a criminal in the eyes of the law, it ran away and hid in an idle ship - it hid until it set sail, and since then, it jumped from ship to ship, hiding in their stock and stealing their supplies for itself until eventually meeting their forever home: the Going Merry.

TRIVIA

it joins the strawhats after robin and before franky

it perceives objects with names, personalities, etc, but still recognizes that they're objects with no sentience -- they perceive zoro's swords with different personalities and likes one of them, is neutral with one, and hates another

pre timeskip julian is a smoker and often steals sanji's cigarettes

it ate the rock rock fruit on a ship it was hiding on, not realizing it was a devil fruit. it's fate was sealed that day /j

paired romantically with luffy, zoro, nami, usopp, sanji, robin, franky, jinbe, yamato (yes, all at the same time) paired familially with chopper (little brother), pa (father)

[haunt4haunt]

i will say i’m not a fan of how in the last week or two the barbenheimer stuff just became straight up girls vs. boys

[hyacinthsdiamonds]

I'm sorry but James Vowles criticising how Red Bull has treated their drivers in the past, only to go and then treat Logan far worse while pulling the exact same shit Red Bull did, ie the exact behaviour he criticised and called them out for, is so freaking infuriating like the sheer hypocrisy -

[postingmerlin]

So I'm going to need Agravaine to have an unfortunate incident with a very long staircase

[unopposablethumbsao3]

Garak doing drag* under the name Obsidia N. Order and then when Julian's like "a plain, simple tailor, eh?" he's like "my *dear doctor* what an *imagination* you have, you really read *far too much* into these little coincidences"

*Please note Garak came up in the balls on Cardassia Prime he is serving pure, unadulterated cunt

[peliginspeaks]

Yeah I'm not done Veilsposting actually. Woops. Anyways, the longer I think about it, the more its bounty has a very clear class implication that goes along with Veils' desire to not so much have a rival, as have a victim who draws out the killing. 4 billion Echoes. Think about who would go for that. A bounty like that, a share big enough to fund your life many times over and ridiculous enough to be a warning in itself, is going to pull out the overconfident, the overly curious, and the desperate. The type of people baited into hunting Veils would end up being: 1. Rich hunters armed to the teeth looking for glory, 2. The odd curious Neathy newcomer who's about to get way in over their head, and 3. Anyone too desperate to turn down a chance at the money, even if they know the chance is low if anything.

The first kind it could be flashy about dismantling, and prideful in its ability to overcome a well-funded arsenal. The last two kinds of people will be afraid. Openly, miserably, viscerally afraid. It enjoys that. There's a reason it takes its good sweet time actually showing up to try and kill the PC in the late stages of BaL, even though it can travel through Parabola and definitely has the resources to just have them assassinated at a distance if it really came down to it. It wanted desperate people to come to it, and it wanted them to jump through the ridiculous side-quest hoops the Scarred Naturalist set out, and it wanted them to show up and be afraid, for its own entertainment. For a chance at prize money they never had a shot at getting.

What I'm saying is modern-day Veils would fund those humiliating game shows.

[ohitslen]

Uuh major Trigun spoilers I guess (??

It’s not news to anyone how Vash is incredibly stubborn, and idk why but it’s so funny to me like, not haha funny but rather oh shit ain’t that funny (tragic) that, what it took for Vash to budge his beliefs and way of being was his literal best friend dying like. I’m barely starting Trimax but I get the gist of the whole situation with 98 and all the spoilers that have been shoved down my throat I guess

It reminds me of the times that people say something like “what will it take for you to change?? For someone to die???” And to Vash yeah that’s what it took actually lmao (sobbing)

[deliajackson]

Searches "Perseus + Greek Mythology"

See hate on Perseus for killing Medusa

See arts of Medusa with the head of Perseus

See the doomed ship of Medusa X Perseus or Perseus X Andromeda X Medusa

Gets pissed

Leave without saying a word

[violasmirabiles]

actually kind of obsessed with this cover