#look at him! all angular and stuff!

[sashimew-the-cat]

I have’s been able to make anything in two weeks, so I re-drew my Twitter profile, after almost a year since I drew it! (Jun 4 2024 vs aug 3 2023)

(click for better quality)

[stervrucht]

“Just a second,” Eddie calls from halfway beneath his bed.

Steve taps his foot as he looks around Eddie’s room. It’s messy and there’s a lot of stuff. His eyes drift around, taking it in. There is a poster with ‘Corroded Coffin’ on it in scrawled graffiti and from what Steve can see, Eddie has at least two guitars.��

On Eddie’s desk, he spots a skull — some sort of animal, but Steve has no idea what.

Steve hears Eddie groan as he tries to move back from under the bed.   

“You need any help there, Munson?”

“Nah, I got it.” Eddie turns with some difficulty and then he’s out from under the bed, sprawled halfway across the floor. He sticks up his hand and holds out a book to Steve.

“There you go.”

“Eh, thanks.” Steve flips the book over in his hand and it’s just stupid D&D stuff. “Dustin better be grateful.”

“Is he ever?” Eddie responds while he works himself in a sitting position. There is dust in his hair and his shirt is risen to expose half his chest. 

“You got a point there.” Steve lets out an unamused laugh.

When Eddie finally stands, he readjusts his shirt and quickly combs his hair. Dust still clings to his dark curls.

Steve’s eyes fall on the skull again and from his periphery he sees Eddie follow his gaze.

“You looking at the skull?”

Steve hums in response.

“It’s a fox. Pretty sick, huh? I found it myself.” Eddie’s eyes find his and he looks oddly proud.

“Pretty cool,” Steve echoes. “How do you know it’s a fox anyway?”

“Oh, just you wait.” Eddie leans over, reaching for the skull and holding it up to Steve.

“Skull size, teeth, and see these babies—” Eddie points at the eyesockets. “They’re huge.”

“Aren’t fox heads larger?” 

“All muscle and fur.”

Muscles and fur. 

Suddenly Steve comes to the horrifying existential realization that humans are also just bone and muscle and skin. He looks over at Eddie, studies his face, and suddenly it’s like he has never seen him before.

The way skin pulls over muscle, the lines around his mouth as he smiles. And how smiling pulls Eddie’s jaw taut, appearing more angular than when it’s relaxed.

“You okay, Harrington? Guess skulls are a bit morbid, huh? I sometimes forget how normal people think.” Eddie laughs sheepishly and puts the skull away again. 

When Eddie looks back, Steve is still staring. 

The skin over collarbones is thin with little muscle. 

He looks down at Eddie’s hands which have grown nervous under Steve’s eyes. 

Silver rings, skin, muscle, bone. 

Without thinking, Steve reaches out. He holds Eddie’s hand, runs his fingers over Eddie’s. 

Soft warm skin. 

“Eh…Steve?”

Steve looks up and the urge to touch is overwhelming. He raises his hands and touches Eddie’s cheeks with curious fingers.

The skin is more coarse here — marked by a five-o-clock shadow — but it’s also warmer.

“What are you—”  

Eddie stops talking when Steve runs a finger over his lips, pulling them open, just a little. 

They’re different from regular skin; warmer and wetter. 

And then Steve has no idea what he’s doing, but he moves forward and brushes his own lips over Eddie’s. Under his fingers, Steve can feel the muscles in Eddie’s jaw grow taut. 

That piques his interest. 

He slides his hand from Eddie’s jaw to his nape. From there he can feel the muscles in the jaw, thin over bone; those in his neck, thick and strong. 

He runs his tongue across Eddie’s lower lip and he feels Eddie’s lips part, his body growing soft under his actions. Eddie’s lips are moving, tentative and testing against Steve’s. 

There is no bone there.

He licks into Eddie’s mouth, feels the smooth skin under his tongue; runs his tongue over Eddie’s teeth and takes in the contrast.

Steve pulls back, his hand growing slack against Eddie’s neck as he realises he just let himself go.

Eddie stares at him with dazed eyes.

“I didn’t know skulls did it for you, Harrington.”

[misctf]

Me and my buddy get along well but I don’t have a father and for some reason I feel like I look up to him. He’s a brunette hockey player who really cares about his body and tracks all of his cals. Any way you could spike one of his beers and give me the best exjock dad ever?

“Let’s go!” Your bro throws down his game controller and looks over at you. His confident smile adorning his handsome, angular face, “I used that same move on the ice the other day.” His clear excitement is infectious and you can’t help but smile.

It was another one of your usual game nights with your bro. The two of you sitting on the couch, controllers in hand, playing some hockey videogame. And even though he always seemed to win, you just enjoy the moment. Your friendship started out when you were younger- the two of you meeting in grade school. And as the years went on, you grew closer. You’d go to his hockey games and cheer him on. He’d fill in as that male role model you needed. When you went to college, he’d continue playing hockey, while you focused on your studies. But you continued to enjoy each other’s company. But this was your last year, and he planned to move across the country. The very thought was painful. Losing him would be tough.

“Hey, you good?” He asks, “I told you I wasn’t going easy.”

You smile, “I was wondering,” You begin, “I know you don’t like beer...”

“Gotta keep these toned.” He says, running a hand down his exposed abs.

“But it’s bro night.” You continue, “I got some special beers for us.”

He seems to consider the offer. Part of him looking a bit apprehensive. After all, he spent much of his time focusing on maintaining his body. His lean muscles and thicc hockey butt were all products of his careful diet and dedicated workouts. But he could tell it would mean a lot to you. He nods slowly.

“One won’t hurt.” He says with a grin, “Cheers to another game night.”

Part of you feels relieved. Another part of you feels somewhat apprehensive. If the man you bought this beer from was telling you the truth... well, you didn’t know what to think. It was probably some prank anyway, and you probably wasted the money. You hand him a solo cup with the beer in it.

“To bro night.” He smiles and takes a sip of the beer, “You know, I’m gonna miss this.” You feel a pang of sadness in your chest, “But we’ll always be bros.”

You nod, taking in his words. Feeling a sense of impending loss. Wishing you could just enjoy these moments forever.

“I’m gonna miss this too... dad.”

He looks over at you and raises an eyebrow, “What did you just call me?” He chuckles.

And you can see it. A few hairs starting to emerge from his once clean-shaven face. A few greys appearing in his brunette locks. Was it true? Was this stuff really going to do what the man said it would?

“Nothing, dad.”

And as the words leave your lips, your buddy groans. His youthful skin starts to lose its glow. A few wrinkles appear on his forehead. And the hair on his face sprouts into a full beard. His hands rush to scratch his new facial hair and his eyes widen.

“Bro, what the hell...” He whispers, “Something’s wrong...”

“What do you mean, dad?”

You watch as his brunette locks begin to recede and his tan vanishes. All the while, small, itchy hairs start to sprout from your buddy’s chest and abs. At this point, he stands up and runs his hands down his new body hair. There’s a look of disgust and confusion on his face, and you can’t help but feel bad for him. After all, he did pride his clean-shaven look.

“You keep calling me dad.” He says, staring at you, “And now...” He catches a glimpse of his receding hairline and aged skin in the mirror, “Bro, please. Whatever you’re doing, you gotta fuckin’ stop.”

You could tell he was getting angry. But you were still marveling over the effects of this drink. You couldn’t believe it was actually working.

“Bro, are you even listening to me?” He says, “Please! You can’t...”

“Sorry dad.” You reply, putting even more emphasis on “dad.”

The effects are more dramatic. Your buddy lets out a pained moan and falls to his knees, gripping his abs. You can see tears fall from his eyes as he realizes his firm abs are feeling softer. And in only a few moments, his abs are covered by a thick layer of fat. And another. And another. And although your buddy is too busy squeezing his new flabby stomach, you can see his pecs fill with fat and sag, resting atop his new gut.

“This can’t be...” He winces at his new, gravelly voice, “Oh god, I sound so old.” He looks up at you, tears still staining his eyes, “Dude, come on... please... I can’t be this.”

A part of you feels bad, even guilty. Your friend’s anger replaced by fear. His confidence shattered. His toned physique truly replaced by that of a middle-aged dad. Part of you wants to reverse this. But you don’t even know how.

“I...” You bite your lip, “Look, I don’t even know if I can undo this, dad.”

Your buddy shuts his eyes and shakes as the short hairs erupt into longer follicles. You watch as a forest of hairs emerge from under his shorts and travel down his legs. His new gut and soft chest are covered in a forest of gray and dark hairs. And you realize now there’s nothing left of your old buddy, at least physically. His receding hairline, gray hairs, gut, and hirsute form all scream middle-aged dad. He slowly stands up, wincing at a pain in his lower back and knees, as he becomes more familiar with his new age.

“Dude...” He whispers, “What did you do?” You can hear the anger return to his voice.

“I didn’t want to lose you, bro.” You say, “And I’ve always looked up to you. And truthfully, I’ve always wanted a dad and the beer promised it could do that. Just as long as I called whoever drank it dad.” Your friend looks shocked and picks up the solo cup.

“Good one dude.” He laughs, “Okay, okay you got me. Maybe if I drink the beer and you call me bro or something, I can return to normal.” He says hopefully, “I promise we can forget all about this.” The desperation starts to creep back into his voice, “Just... please I don’t want this.” He begs.

You’re not a bad person. You even feel a bit guilty. And part of you even wants to do as he suggests. But another thought enters your head. Would he be able to forget all about this? Would he forgive you? You bite your lip and sigh.

“I’m sorry,” You can see his eyes widen in terror, “Dad.”

He drops the beer in his hand, causing the beer inside to spray everywhere. His eyes glaze over and his jaw goes slack. A part of you worries for a moment, but slowly he smiles. There’s no evidence of concern on his face.

“Ah sorry, I spaced out there for a second.” He chuckles, “Looks like I made a mess.” He goes to bend over to pick up the cup, but winces, “Damn back’s been acting up.”

“Don’t worry dad.” You say as he sits back down on the couch, “How’re you feeling?”

“I’m good, I’m good.” He reassures, “Come on, we have to finish our game.” He says with a grin, grabbing the game controller, “You know, I was quite the hockey player back in my day. Well before this.” He chuckles, patting his beer gut.

“I know.” You reply, sitting next to him, “You tell me all the time.” The two of you start to play, and you immediately notice his videogame skills are not where they used to be. But you’re enjoying this moment- going on as if nothing changed.

“Look at that!” He cheers when he scores a goal, “I told you not to take it easy on me, son.”

You go to reply but you feel a warmth coarse through your body. You quickly shake your head and return to the game. And only a few minutes later, he scores another goal.

“You doing okay there, son?” He asks.

And again, you feel a warmth coarse through your body. You look down at the controller and can’t help but notice that your forearms look a bit thicker- your hands meatier. You shake your head and look up at your dad.

“Uh, I’m good dad.” Your voice even sounds deeper- somewhat dumb too, “I-I gotta go to my room.”

You stumble towards your room, feeling somewhat off balance. Entering your room, you’re immediately hit by the smell of intense BO. The same way your bro would smell after a hockey game. There’s gear on your bed and random posters of hockey players on your walls. You barely have time to comprehend what’s going on, when you hear your dad’s voice.

“Hey son, are you okay?”

You groan as your muscles begin to contract violently and your shirt tears from your growing musculature. You can see yourself in the mirror- abs, thicc ass, and lean muscles- the body of a hockey player. And you realize that you’re becoming your dad’s ideal son. Somehow, the beer that splashed on you had the same effects as drinking it.

“Wait dad!” You call out, wincing at the oafish jock-like tone that saturates your words, “Please...!”

“Son?” He asks opening the door.

And your eyes glaze over. Your jaw goes slack. And you feel your mind warping and changing. Any memories you had of your old life or self are being forced into the very back of your mind- all to make room for your new existence as a smelly, ripped, hockey jock. Your dad’s perfect son.

“God it reeks in here.” Your dad laughs, patting you on the back, “Must be workin’ hard out there.”

“You fuckin’ know it.” You reply, eyes dull, “It’s gonna be a good game tomorrow, pops.”

“You learned from the best, champ.” He smiles, “Now come on, we got a game to finish.” You smile, “I want to show you one of my favorite moves. Worked every time. Maybe you can try it out on the ice tomorrow.”

“For sure, pops.”

You follow your dad back to the couch. The two of you playing videogames late into the night, filling the air with boisterous cheers as you played. You couldn’t have asked for a better dad. And he couldn’t have asked for a better son.

[choas232]

G/N Chatty reader x Steb 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞

Summary: In which you grapple with feelings you don’t yet understand by talking a certain enforcer’s ears off. Forced proximity makes everything worse, as it tends to.

CWs: Profanity. Canon typical violence. Reader has some bias about Zaunites they probably need to work on. I wrote most of this at 10pm at night, so be warned.

No use of Y/N, neutral terms and they/them are used to refer the reader. Set in episode three, season 2.

Word count: 2.9k

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝

“God. I’m starving. And tired. I barely slept at allllll last night. Do you think the Grey’s keeping us awake? Our glorious leader Kiramman sure wants it to, dragging us along at this cracking speed. It’s been a whole week, too. I’m gonna drop dead, at this rate.” You lament. Your fellow enforcer does not comment from his place behind you, his footsteps echoing around the pipe.

Graffiti crowds the metal surface, amateur artworks, declarations of love, violence, and scripts you don’t recognise cramming themselves over one another, space sparse and sought after. It’s not Jinx’s work. Still, there’s a chill on your back you choose to attribute to the profanities.

The people of the underground sure know how to decorate, that’s for sure.

You two have been chosen to scout out a fairly low-danger area in search of a Zuanite’s sighting of Jinx. He did say it after a hefty heaping of Grey was funnelled into his lungs and a gun was held to his head, but Caitlyn is paranoid enough to bark at shadows, and you will oblige, if only to keep her happy.

It’s not like any of you are much better. Loris is quieter than ever, Maddie jumps at the smallest sounds and of your companion… you have no idea. You never have. Steb’s inner workings remain a mystery to you.

You turn. “Are we there yet? We should be there soon, right?” Steb nods distantly, more focused on the setting around you.

This part of the pipes is yet to be flooded with grey, so you can see him clearly without the obscuring mask.

His light teal skin, thin lips, nose, sharp, angular features. His neat uniform. His polished posture. He is distinctly and utterly out of place amongst the chaos that surrounds you. His eyes are so blue. So opalescent, shining like pearls in his eye sockets. Is that weird to notice? How much detail is it normal to notice about someone? You should probably stop looking.

His ribbed ears flick back, ever so slightly, eyes flicking to meet yours for a brief moment.

You look away. “Uh.” His eyes. His blue eyes. Blue. “God. I’m sooo hungry. Hah. I haven’t eaten since this morning. The rations are running out, and all the Zaunite stuff Vi is bringing in is uhm, questionable.”

You don’t look behind you again, your mouth moving quicker. Your breath is tight, probably because of the steady stream of words flowing from your mouth. You think. “I would kill for a good sandwich. Or two. I might have to resort to cannibalism—”

Hands enclose around your collar and yank you back with force.

Below you, a human sized-hole lined with rusted, broken metal grating, a slowly, ever spinning fan—

Your heart staggers in your chest like a drunkard. Images of your empaled, scraped, body twisted and pressed beyond recognition cram into your skull, rattle and scream.

“Fuck.” You mumble, quietly. Steb’s hand releases your collar. “C-close one. Thanks. Fish-sticks. How didn’t I see that?” You laugh. He doesn’t. It isn’t funny.

He brushes the shoulder pads of your uniform off, carefully but hastily looking you up and down. He keeps a respectable distance between you, but you can still see his adam’s apple bob as he swallows. You mimic him. Your mouth feels dry.

He fixes you with a look as his hands drop to his sides, and although his face usually retains some semblance of ambiguity on it, you know exactly what he’s thinking. Watch where you’re going.

“Sorry doc. I…” You trail off. You should stop talking. You probably talk so much around him because he makes you nervous. Why does he make you nervous? Your usual slamming of thoughts trickles dry. You have no idea.

Carefully, you two traverse over the great gaping hole in the pipework. How did you miss it? You don’t sure don’t miss how Steb watches you hawk-like though, and the following guilt is low and prickling in your gut. He goes first, and every small unprompted movement of yours has him stiffening, arm moving to steady you.

“Jeez. Don’t mother hen me, I’m all grown-up, I assure you.” You bat him away, landing with a clang! of the metal against your boots as you leap across the last segment. His frown is resounding.

A corner stretches before you, now. You let him go first with a swing of your arm just in case the metal of the pipe opens up to attempt to swallow you yet again. “All yours,” He obliges.

It’s an open space. Milky green light filters through the roofing, painting the graffiti stained flooring monochromatic and hazy. Two other pipes adjoin to the room, and a mural of Janna clad in white laced with metallic armour bounds over the walls. It looks exactly like what was described, which is worrying, because hey, Jinx!

The sniffling child is even more worrying, though. Looking up, she brushes away dark locks  from her face and bursts into prompt tears. “Please, m-my-my… my leg. it really hurts.” She wails.

Sure enough, one of her legs is crushed under a slab of tin, making itself known as the cause of the light filtering through the roof. “Please. Please.” Snot dribbles down onto her ragged shirt, her big brown eyes blown wide.

Steb is already gone before you can access the situation, bounding over.

Poor kid. You wince, tapping your fingers against your lips. Probably just playing with the ball you see perched nearby when shoddy craftmanship led to tragedy. Still… “Jeez. Think to consider a trap? No? Just me.” You mutter.

“Just you.” The voice from behind you amusedly whispers, and then you feel the cool rim of the gun pressed against your skull.

Fear makes a mockery out of you. Your thoughts accelerate, snapping at each others heels, but you cannot think. You aren’t really the brawlers of the team. He’s the field medic, for fuck’s sake, and while you can handle yourself in a fight this is more of a Vi job. You regret mocking her cuisine choices. This is probably some kind of sick karma. Sick? You feel sick. God, your stomach is writhing, your insides eating each other up.

Steb, still blinded by his tunnel vision, hauls the tin off of the girl. His ears flick down as he peers down at the clean space beneath, clean of blood and gore. Her leg, unblemished and by all means healthy looking, curls back into her body, and then she bursts outwards like a spring, down the nearest tunnel.

Too late, he looks back at you.

“I’m sure they require you topsiders to rattle a few braincells together to wear that fancy uniform. They don’t need allll of them, do they?” The man holding the gun to your head calls out to him. Flesh drips from his arms, lanky and lean, pressing against your neck as he holds you into him. You smell the shimmer on his breath before you see his blood lined eyes.

Steb jerks forwards. Bruisingly, the gun slams into your skull. “Move and their brains go BOOM! Hands in the air. Now.” He snarls, and Steb freezes in place, slowly raising his hands. You can see him breathing, hard, heaving breaths.

More people clamour their way out of vents, behind slabs of wood. You count at least four. Shit.

Shit.

This is bad.

“Woah! Talk about dramatics, huh?” You start, and almost in shock, the man holding you to himself grip loosens. From Steb’s place, you can see the wrinkle that lines his mouth when he gets stressed creep into existence. (That’s normal to remember. You should know when your coworkers get stressed. Part of the job, and all.) He slowly shakes his head. You mouth, trust me. He shakes his head harder. “Maybe we should talk this out? Civilly, tea and biscuits? …No?”

“It stopped being civil when you went for one of mine.”

Of course that guy you beat the shit out of gave you the location of an ambush. He was all too eager to speak, and when you go poking your hand down foxholes, it’s going to get bitten off. You feel both incredibly stupid and incredibly self-satisfied, you knew it, and you went here anyways.

“One of yours? I mean, we probably didn’t mean to? It was probably a mistake—” he shoves the gun down your throat. Spittle drips down the barrel. You taste dirt and gunpowder. You taste the blood leaking from your tongue.

You taste fear.

“Well? Your bag.” He gestures loosely to Steb.

Steb locks eyes with you as he gently tugs the straps off of his back, letting the hefty bag land to the floor with a thump. Carefully, he steps back, raising his hands in the air once again.

One of the hovering goons quickly snatches it, tugging it open. Medical supplies, bottles, all-the-like clatter the ground, but she continues shifting through hastily, eyes slowly narrowing. The last of our food supplies…, you mournfully think, quickly followed by Caitlyn is going to kill us, and she’s probably right to.

“You told us there would be hex tech, you fucking liar.” She drops the bag carelessly, starting towards the man holding you. “Well, do you think I’m some sort of prophet? You knew that it was an estimate.” He snaps back, grip on you loosening, the gun shifting out of your mouth to point towards the soft flesh of your cheek, spreading out your blood clouded spit as it does.

“I think you set us the hell up. You promised we’d split the money, but where’s the money now, huh? I gotta family to feed, hired work is dropping like flies with the chem barons at each other’s throats, which means I missed on any number of begging clients for this shit.”

You get an idea.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

It’s a terrible idea.

Steb tears his gaze from the arguing pair to meet your eyes, perhaps on some precognition of the mistake you are about to make.

You wink, grab the gun pressed to your cheek and then you yank.

It comes as cleanly as expected, the man’s adrenaline rattled, drug loosened reflexes nothing for the shock you give him when you take the gun from his hands, and than run. Surprise gives you the upper hand, yells clouding your soundscape. You still manage to pick out Steb’s footsteps, clean and even behind you as you barrel down the nearest pipe.

You run harder than you’ve ever run, past graffiti, with only your breath, the calls behind you, your heartbeat and the echoes of his and your boots slamming against metal to guide you.

You turn the corner so hard you slam your side against it, feeling your already bruised cheek cry out in pain in time with your yelp, and you stumble. Steb catches your shirt and yanks you right back up, and then you’re in another wide-open space.

Your head swings around, fear hammering around your ribcage like a desperate songbird.

Steb grabs your shoulder, gesturing with his head. You follow his gaze. There’s a smaller pipe in the wall, covered by a draping of torn fabric, and you rush towards it before you have any time to think, the fabric draping over your hair, the surface cool under your fingers.

He follows, your pursuer yells barrelling into your ears as the curtain draws shut.

The space is tight, circular, not even big enough for you to stretch out an arm and not brush the opposite end. Your back is pressed flush against the concrete and plaster. Your legs cage Steb, as do his, looping over one each other, his knee bent at an angle that’s for sure going to hurt later. His arms clutch the walls of the tube, yours resting bent in your lap.

He leans down, and his fingers gently grasp that stupid beret of his and tug it down onto his lap, before he pulls his head back up, his head scraping the roof. He’s a least a head taller than Maddie, and although you’d like to think of yourself as average, you are now grateful for the height you lack.

“OVER HERE!” Did they see you? Is this it? What can you do, two against at least five or so. You mean, counting has never really been your strong suit under pressure, and who’s to tell? Are you going to die? Are you going to die, your legs pressed into his midriff?

The gold smattering across Steb’s undereyes and nose adjoins with the darker turquoise scales lining the cavities his eyeballs are strung into, carving out little gold, blue, orange stripes, like the ones on the fish you and your parents used to gawk at the aquariums had.

Are they going to cart out your body to your parents, after your fellow enforcers find you, crammed into a hole in the underground? What would you had died for?

His eyes are so blue.

He blinks, smooth, deep lapis overtaking the gleaming surface of his eyes before his eyelids do. He has a second eyelid. How did you never notice?

His lips, perpetually downturned as they are, his steady line his eyebrows carve themselves into, his perfect posture, even as you are cramped within the pipe, the smooth, angular frame of his cheekbones all of it make him look like one of those forever uninconvenienced paintings the councillors hang from their mansion walls. He looks calm. His stupid snooty resting face cannot fool you. You know he isn’t.

His lips are parted, the gap between his front teeth visible as he stares down the opening of the tunnel like a loyal family dog. His little giveaway.

Maybe his inner workings aren’t such a mystery, after all.

He makes you nervous. He makes you so nervous. He makes you into a wreck.

You think you might be in love with him.

—and your pursuers are rushing past you, all until you can’t hear their voices and you’re alive. You’re alive and you’ve never been so happy to tomorrow eat shitty Zaunite food and have Caitlyn yell at you for loosing supplies and talk and talk and talk until your throat is raw.

You don’t. Talk. You don’t talk.

He’s looking at you.

You feel like a fool.

You sit there, just looking at him too. His eyelids slip halfway, letting you count the short lashes that frame them. His expression relaxes, loosens, ever so slightly, his arms moving from the wall of the tunnel to his lap.

You could sit here with him for hours, death inches from you both, and you could be happy. You could be suspended in disbelief and plausible deniability; you could allow yourself to lie. Your heart is pounding from the adrenaline, of course. Your face is pink because of overexertion, and you kind of want to kiss him because you’ve never kissed anybody and you may as well as get it over with before you die, right?

He points to his face. You blink, and then he points to yours. You brush your finger cheeks against the flesh and feel the sting of injury, spittle and blood on your fingers. Right.

Right. He’s looking at you because you’re injured right?

Of course he is. (Disappoint is still food, and you swallow it.)

Gently, he reaches into his breast pocket, pulling out a handkerchief. Instead of sparring you and handing it to you, he merely carefully holds your head, one hand on your jaw and the other gently patting down the mess on your cheek. His head is tilted. You feel your heart slam up your throat, a throbbing, horrible pain that lets you part your lips to let the breath escape you before it can choke you.

The hand cradling your jaw moves a careful finger up to brush your lower lip.

Accident, of course. He’s not even looking at them, rather, the mess, taking his sweet time as he does, so very gentle.

You think he might be the danger, not the hell that is the pipework, nor the Grey, nor not the man with the gun

He pulls back, tucking the handkerchief back into the pocket and shallowly inclining his head towards the opening.

With a long look back at you, he crawls out of the hole first. You follow, dizzily. Ever the gentlemen, he offers you a hand as you push your way out of the hell that made you. You take it and feel incredibly guilty for doing so, stumbling to your feet.

He fastens his beret, usually a sign from you to inwardly (or outwardly) mock his silly hat, still watching you. You do not, in fact, mock him. You might be shaking, in fact, and that thought makes you hate yourself more than you could ever despise that ugly navy piece of fabric.

He frowns, and then he gestures to your mouth. You flinch without meaning too. “Huh?”

He mimes speaking, shallowly opening and then hastily closing his mouth

He's right to be concerned.

You haven’t spoken since you two trapped yourselves in the tunnel, after all.

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𓆝

Notes: Thank you for reading!! :)))) STUPID. IDIOTS IN LOVE. Him under the guise of medical assistance letting himself touch you... bro isn't slick whatsoever. If you have any ideas, be sure to drop them in my ask box, there is lack of fic on him holy hell. As a side note, we all need the comfort after season two part two holy cow…

[latenightdaydreams]

Thinking about them stealing Königs shirt from the bases laundry room. Sneaking it back to their room and sleeping in it ♡

If he catches them would he be embarrassed? Mad? Horny as hell? Punish them?

I think ALL of the above🤭

Little Thief (fem)

MDNI🔞

Master List

>cw: fem/afab, theft, domination, p in v, unprotected

1.0k word count

👕

.

.

For the last two months, König has noticed that he’s been missing shirts from his laundry. He is a very meticulous man; he remembers exactly how many shirts he has. What the fuck? He whispers as he folds his laundry and realizes he has only eight shirts and not nine.

Little does he know, there is a little shirt thief. You. In your defense, you’ve only taken three shirts. Since you joined KorTac two months ago, you’ve become somewhat infatuated with König. His eyes are like a clear spring sky. Tall and strong, like an Olympian. As rough as he appears to be, he’s always kind. It’s hard to not fall for him.

It all happened one day when you were on your period and very horny. König had his dirty laundry in a basket, but was called away for a quick minute. You took the opportunity to steal a shirt. Taking a deep breath in, a powerful wave of König’s musk took over your senses.

Tonight was like any night. You did your beauty routine before bed and slipped into one of König’s shirts. Lights off in the room, you pull back your covers to get into bed. Exhausted after a long day, your eyes close quickly once your head hits the pillow.

Only a few moments later, you're woken up from your deep sleep by a banging on your door. You jump out of bed and rush to the door. Seeing Colonel König, you stand up straight.

“Yes, sir?”

“Y/n, have you seen—” his voice cuts off as he looks up from the tablet in his hands. You’re wearing his shirt.

He pushes you back, but not hard, and closes your door behind him. His eyes travel up and down your body, his shirt fitting you like a night down.

“That’s my shirt.” König points at you.

You can feel heat rise to your cheeks as you just gaze at him, totally speechless. “I…I.” It's hopeless. You’ve been caught.

“WHY ARE YOU TAKING MY STUFF?!” His Austrian accent makes his yelling seem harsher. He’s pissed. Why is this random recruit just stealing from him? Is she crazy?

“I’m sorry. I just like…you.” Your stomach drops, waiting for König to yell again and reject you.

“Give me back my shirts.” He says in a softer tone, feeling a blush form under his mask. Women like you don’t like men like him. He felt as if you were teasing him.

You quickly turn to go to your dresser and pull out two of his shirts. You hand them to him, trying to hide the embarrassment written all over your face.

“And that one.” He points to the one that you’re wearing currently.

Without a second thought, you obey. Grasping the hem of the shirt, you pull it off in one fluid motion. König’s jaw drops as he sees that you aren’t wearing a bra and only a tiny pink pair of panties. His eyes shamelessly trail up and down your body.

“You…” Now König is the one lost for words. He’s only ever seen you in your gear or in baggy clothing, he has no idea you were shaped so…perfectly. A beautiful face and the body of a goddess. His mind cycles through different options on how he can handle this situation.

A few seconds pass, but it feels like an eternity until König snaps out of it. He drops the shirts in his hands and moves forward to you. His gloved hands grasp the sides of your face and kisses you passionately, mask in the way. To your surprise he just pulls it off and tosses it to the side. His lips passionately coming back down to kiss you again.

His hands grab your thighs and lift your body effortlessly, rushing you both towards your bed. He lays your body near the edge of your bed before pulling away. You gaze up at him and take in his messy blonde hair, angular face, and a deep gash on his chin.

König pulls his gloves off and tosses them with his mask. He leans back in to continue to kiss you, hands caressing your delicate flesh. A low groan escapes his lips as his hands cup both of your breasts, his mouth leaves your lips and trails down your neck. His lips attach to your neck and suck, marking you with a hickey.

“You want to be mine?” He whispers as one of his hands trails down to the smooth fabric of your panties.

“Yes, I want to be yours.” You beg him.

“Fuck you’re so wet already.” His fingers feel the wet patch forming.

Leaning back, he fumbles with his belt buckle, trying his quickest to undress. His pants fall to his knees. Next, he turns to your panties, grabbing them near your hips and pulling down. His movements are frantic, as if he can’t control the lust that has taken over his body. He holds your panties to his face and takes a deep inhale.

“These are mine. You take my shirts; I take your underwear.” He teases before tossing them aside and grabbing your hips.

Once he sees your wet pussy he freezes, slapping his heavy cock on it. “Are you ready for me?”

“I have condoms—”

“Nein, you want to be mine?”

“Yes.” You look into his eyes as you speak.

“Then you’ll let me fill you with my cum.”

“Okay.” You don’t argue, you just want him.

He grabs one of your legs and holds it out to the side, his other lining his cock up with your pussy. “Beg.”

“Please give me your- oh fuck…” Your begging is interrupted by the feeling of his enormous cock stretching your tiny little cunny. A loud moan is followed as he looks down between your legs to see his fat cock being hugged by your lips.

“Fuck you’ve got a tight pussy.” He growls before rolling his hips and slamming into your roughly. “You think you can just take my things and get away with it?” His free hand reaches out and slaps your breast before grasping it tightly in his palm.

“I- I’m sorry.”

“You’re mine now, Schatzi.”

“Yes, yes, I’m yours.” Your eyes flutter as you drop your head back.

That’s all you’ve ever wanted, to be König’s. Now he’s here gapping your cunt with his monster cock and claiming you. This must be a dream.

[caesium-55]

—seven days. [ iv ]

pairing: max verstappen x manager! reader.

summary: as the third time world champion, max verstappen's manager, you function on the belief that whatever max verstappen wanted, max verstappen shall get. but this time, after four years of working as his manager, you can't give him what he wants anymore and that was to stay.

warning/s: sexual content but it's nothing too explicit. also angst angst angst.

author's note: NOT BETA READ. NOT EDITED. also, lemme know what u guys think!! would love to read it honestly. it was what had been keeping me inspired.

tags: @whatamidoingwithmylife-ramdom @eugene-emt-roe @bellezaycafe @barnestatic @theseerbetweenus @wcnorris @notyouraveragemochii @lpab @vildetry06 @a-beaverhausen @formula1mount @loloekie @alucardsdaddyissues @leclercdream

masterlist.

You have three philosophies in life.

Pussies do not get the good stuff. If you want the good stuff, don't be a pussy.

Hard work will pay off one day. In the meantime, work hard but don't work too hard. You work smart and make it seem like you're working hard so by the time your “hard” work pays off, you’re not too tired from working and still have energy to enjoy your reward, you know? Does that make sense?

Whatever Max Verstappen wanted, Max Verstappen would get.

Now let us focus on philosophy number three. It's a shitty philosophy to have, but when you're working as the manager of Red Bull’s golden boy—after Sebastian Vettel, of course—that philosophy sort of becomes the job description. It's your job to give whatever Max Verstappen wanted, whatever he needed.

When he asks you that question, sounding so innocent as if he hasn't just yanked your entire world off its axis by saying those words, your first reaction is to pull up the middle finger. Fuck you, Max. Max is an asshole for asking you that. Max is an absolute asshole for asking you for a kiss. For the five years you've worked for him, he should already be aware of the power he holds over your head. Should be aware that you'll give anything he'll ask. That's why he should be careful with what he's asking from you.

Said asshole has the audacity to pout. He resembled the pet duck who lived in your Abuelo's farm that you were very fond of in your childhood. Her name was Maria and she was a menace. Your Abuelo even tied a pink bow to the duck’s neck so it could be easily recognizable. A 181-cm tall, broad-shouldered, blond-brown-haired Dutch duck with a blue-eyed gaze that will never fail to make your bones tremble and your heart stutter once you let yourself stare at it. You can put a bow around his neck, too, like what your Abuelo did to that duck. Then, use the bow to choke him in a way that is definitely not sexy or kinky but in a way that screams murder, murder, murder.

“That's not nice.”

“‘M not a nice person.”

“You're a nice person, you just don't do nice things.”

You give him a weird look.

“If you weren't a nice person, you would not be here with me right now,” he continues, in a manner that made him seem like a hundred-old sage imparting wisdom. “But you're here and you're not leaving and you're not hurting me so you're nice.”

His words cause something rotten to bloom in your ribs, “How are you so certain that ‘m not gonna end up hurtin’ you? For all you know, I'm gonna use this billiard stick to make you a human skewer right now.”

He laughs. God. The sound is absolutely beautiful that it terrifies you.

“You're you, [Name]. You would never hurt me.”

In a sense, he's right. You will never hurt him. Not intentionally, at least. If you wanted him to hurt, you'll be leaving right now and flying to Texas the same way Kelly did in Abu Dhabi. Because, for someone like Max, nothing in this world is more painful than to be left alone when all you yearned for is someone to be there for you.

“So……will you?” he asks again. “Will you kiss me?”

He's drunk, your brain reasons. Your fingers gently reach for his jaw—very angular, you belatedly realize—and Max chases the warmth of your skin. He does not know what he's asking, your brain reasons again. You tug him towards you and your mouth meets his, immediately registering the taste of the beer on his tongue. He’s stupid, your brain added. I’m stupid, too, you argue mentally and pushes him against the side of the billiard table and toss your stick to the floor and let yourself take everything from Max Verstappen. Fuck you Max, you think with finality. Your brain replies: You’re also fucked.

He took what he wanted from you. Every day. Every single day. He will ask and you will give. Now, it is your turn to take. One last time before the inevitable goodbye that you know will break both of your hearts.

Anger. Frustration. That's what you feel right now. Anger because this is going to make things more complicated for you and goddammit, why are you making things hard for yourself? Frustrated because you’re not supposed to do this but you cannot fucking stop. Thank fuck you resigned before pulling this shit because this is soooooo unprofessional.

You read somewhere that said something like all people are driven to the point of eating their gods after a time. And is this situation not a perfect demonstration of this? Max is your god. Max was your god. And you are going to devour him—fueled by five years of frustration and anger and a series of why, why, why didn't you talk to Horner? Now it's too late because I'm leaving all because you didn't talk to fucking Horner.

You've forgiven 2021. 2022 made your grudge grow. And you're not stupid to continue staying after his 2023 victory when it's clearly not happening—the dream that will be given to you with Max's power. You will never forgive yourself if you stayed here and be continuously reminded of what you could become, what you failed to become.

Max is surprisingly pliant under your hands. A rare occasion. One would expect Max Verstappen to take the lead because that's what he did in the race tracks. A 20-second lead from everyone else. He's also the type to just do whatever he wanted, you know? And people would let him. Because he's Max Verstappen.

Dominance. Total dominance.

“Wait,” he squeezes your arms and you do not hear him clearly the first time because you're so concentrated on his lips and how it feels and tastes against yours. “Wait, wait. Slow down.”

You pull away and you hear him take a gasp of air, “Somethin’ wrong?”

He looks so beautiful like this. Beneath you. Lips swollen. Blue eyes wide with desire. Hair perfectly messy. Grip on your arm so tight that you're sure will definitely leave a hand-shaped bruise tomorrow.

“Can’t breathe,” he says with a light laugh and you resist the urge to violently bash your head against the billiard table because what the fuck? That's not good for your heart. It's too… too… adorable. Max is not supposed to be an adorable person.

You suck in a breath and lower your head until your forehead meets Max’s firm chest.

“Fuck you,” you mumble.

“Hm?”

“Nothing.”

You raise your head and meet Max’s eyes, the culprit behind your insanity right now.

(Your Abuela said that blue eyes were just blue eyes. Until you fall in love with someone with blue eyes and blue becomes a color that consumed your world whole. You appreciated the sky more because it reminded you of his eyes. You appreciated the color of the seas more because it reminded you of his eyes. Blue became the color of love.)

Now what? Do you continue or…?

“Can you do me a favor?”

“Do you even need to ask?” you deadpan. Max’s hands circle around your waist and he gently guides you away from him. He dusts his shirt once he has fully risen from the billiard table before his hand finds yours. Fingers intertwining together, he leads you out of the entertainment room.

Your heart drums with anticipation. Numerous questions circle around your head but it all disappears in a flash when Max brings you to the room where you found him that morning. You wince when you walk past the broken door.

Yeah…

Making a payment plan will be hell. You're unemployed at the current moment, too. The first thing you have to do when you land in Texas is find a job.

He makes you sit on his bed, the soft mattress dipping down on your weight. You can only stare at him, brows furrowing in confusion and a question sitting on the tip of your tongue that you are yet to voice out. Max makes a beeline to his closet, throwing it open and procuring a box.

A box.

He walks back to you, dropping on his knees and that action makes you panic. Then, Max opens the box, pulling out the most gorgeous pair of five-inch block heels you have ever laid eyes upon and gently slips them onto your feet. The straps have pearls and satin bows and it has tiny white diamonds, elegantly cut, as the centerpiece. Not even the YSL Opyum heels you own can compare to its elegance and beauty.

You almost kick him in the face because you do not expect that he’ll do that.

I bought shoes and they don't fit her. Max has told you. You feel bile rise up your throat.

The shoes. They fit you. Perfectly. As if it was made to be yours. As if it was bought to be yours. As if he was thinking of you, who is nothing but his manager and somewhat friend, when he bought the gorgeous heels instead of Kelly Piquet, his fucking girlfriend of three years whom he had been living with in this fucking penthouse, and parenting little P with.

“They're perfect,” Max whispers and he looks up with that smile playing on his lips. You feel tears sting your eyes and you press your lips into a thin line before moving your gaze away, blinking rapidly.

Max is doing this because he thought you were Kelly.

“They're custom, you know? They're the only pair in the world.”

His words make the taste of bile a hundred times worse. You stare at the shoes on your feet as if it's a sin to have the shoes fit you. No wonder Kelly is mad at Max. If Leo has commissioned custom heels with another woman in mind and got your shoe size wrong after three years of being together, you'll feel hurt, too.

You feel the need to apologize to Kelly. Maybe a quick message to her IG? You also follow each other’s private account.

“You’re thinking,” he says and his voice snaps you out of the rabbit hole known as your thoughts. “What are you thinking?”

“Nothin’,” you lie. The feeling of wanting to puke intensifies so you grab Max by his collar and plant your lips against his to push back the imaginary bile stuck on your throat and from there, the situation escalates to the point that clothes are removed. One by one. When you reach to unstrap the heels, Max grabbed your wrists, almost panicked.

“What are you doin’?” you ask.

“Don't take them off please.”

Whatever Max wanted, Max would get.

Your name built a home in Max’s mouth, the syllables rolling off his tongue with ease at every pleasure he felt, while your fingers explore every inch of Max’s skin. You're only allowed to watch back then. Now, you're allowed to touch.

Hearing his whimpers and little groans and shudders—all done by your hands—you feel nothing but satisfaction. He chants your name like it's a prayer and you're his god and if that is not love then you do not what is.

You wait for Max to utter Kelly’s name midway.

He never did.

“What are you doing?” his voice is groggy with sleep. After doing it, he immediately passes out. Weak ass bitch. You're still waiting for the horror once the realization of what you’ve done sinks into your system. The annoying headache, too. For now, none of them have arrived yet. Probably because you still have enough alcohol in your system to numb things out for you. While waiting, you're on your phone.

Ha, it's past 12 midnight now. You have three days to tell Max before you fly to Texas.

“Talkin' to someone,” you reply cryptically. His brows knit together.

“Who?”

“Just Logan.”

“The American in Williams?”

You roll your eyes, “Yes, the American in Williams.”

You notice how his arms on your waist tighten, pulling you a little closer to him, but you say nothing. This action causes flowers to bloom in your lungs and you hope he hasn't noticed how your breath hitched.

“Why?”

“He’s my friend. Friends talk,” you deadpan.

Logan Sargeant is an absolute sweetheart. He reminds you a lot of your little brother and you both share the same sentiments regarding the feeling of being unwelcomed in Formula One. You suppose he has it worse though. Nobody in the grid really makes an effort to befriend the young racer and you're fifty percent sure that the fact he's American made a contribution to that.

None of the other racers even follow him on Insta.

“Well, what are you two talking about?” Grumpy and bratty Max is back. Welcome back, asshole.

“He’s in Texas right now and he was askin’ if I was back home, too. Said we should grab a drink together. I promised to show him around Austin.”

“You never invited me to Austin.”

“Why would you even go to Austin?” your nose scrunch a little. “You visit your mother for Christmas.”

He rolls his eyes.

“You're befriending too much racers.”

“Excuse me? I only have Logan as a friend. Charles, too, by extension because he's your friend,” you point out. “Checo and Daniel and Yuki and Liam because they work with you.”

“And me.”

“You're not my friend.”

“What am I then? Your dog?”

“I work for you.”

“You work with me, not for me,” he corrects.

You do not know why your heart skipped a beat at that.

“I’m just trynna be a good friend here and you're bein’ unreasonably grumpy,” you try to shift the subject to save your own sanity. “None of you even tried to befriend Logan.”

Max abruptly reaches for his phone on the bedside table and unlocks it. You watch as he opens his Instagram, the public one, and added Logan's account. You gape. He switches to his private account and searches for Logan’s account in your profile's list of followers and adds him, too.

“What the fuck, Max?”

“I’m befriending him,” he says simply. “I’ll invite him over if he ever comes by in Monaco during the off-season.”

You blink.

“Now say goodbye to him and go back to sleep.”

He tosses his phone to the bedside table and turn his back on you in a manner that reminded you of a very petulant child.

You glance at your phone only to see Logan’s freaked out messages.

logan: HE FOLLOWED ME??!? ON BOTH ACCOUNTS???

logan: AM I SEEING THINGS? HAVE I ACCIDENTALLY SNORTED DRUGS??!

logan: maybe it's the texas heat??

logan: *sent a screenshot*

logan: MAX VERSTAPPEN INVITED ME TO HIS PENTHOUSE??

you: congrats child

logan: is this your doing??!?

logan: are you with him now?

logan: wait that's impossible, itd be 2 am in monaco now there's no way youd be together rn

If only he knows.

you: how bout we talk later once the sun rises here in monaco?

you: or maybe once i arrive in the us?

logan: sure sure

you: stay safe out there kid

logan: HE JUST FOLLOWED ME I CAN DIE HAPPY

You toss your phone aside and inch closer to Max, looping your arms around him and falling asleep in his warmth.

Your phone rings and it's not the Max Max Max Super Max Max ringtone. It's the default one.

Mama, the caller ID indicates. 4:31 AM is written on the upper right corner of your phone screen. You press the answer button.

“Your Papa…… It was a dangerous call. He needs to see you before he… He might not make it.”

That alone is enough for you to jump out of bed. You scramble to grab last night’s clothes and slip them on. Fuck, they still smell like alcohol.

“Hey, hey, what's wrong?” Max, who's rudely awakened when you abruptly jumped out of bed, looks so lost and when he sees you run your way out of his bedroom and to the stairs, he panics. The poor man panicked. He falls down the bed and runs after you, having the decency to only grab a towel to cover his lower half. He stops you, grabbing your wrist just as you're at the lowest step of the stairs.

“Wait, where are you going?” his voice is still rough with sleep and he's aggressively rubbing out his grogginess from his eyes. You stop, letting out a breath that you don't realize you're holding before turning around to face him. Then, the guilt rushes in. Max looks so…you don't have the words to describe it. His hair is a mess and he still looks sleepy but he also looks wide awake and kind of panicking and confused.

This is a face that's equally endearing and heartbreaking. You can't believe this will be the last time you'll be seeing him. You're still supposed to have three days left but now it's cut short and you—

You'll miss him.

“Sorry, baby,” you come up a few steps and cup his cheeks, bringing his face down so you can kiss his forehead. His hand comes up to lay on top of yours, eyes fluttering close.

“Where are you going?” he asks again.

“Texas,” you reply. “Dad… he… 'Twas a bad call and I need to see him. I need—I need to go home now.”

This is the reality of being family with a firefighter. You're always in danger of losing your father in one of the calls. And that is happening now.

Max understands because he knows your father's line of work.

“Do you need me to come with you?”

You shake your head.

“Then, I’ll drive you.”

“No,” you shoot him down quickly. “You drank last night. It’s dangerous.”

“I’m not drunk now.”

“Max,” you breathe through your nose to calm yourself down. “I’ll take the next flight available to the US. You stay here.”

“Take my jet.”

“No, Max,” you say. “Thank you for the offer but you’ll use the jet when you visit your mother.”

“I can fly commercial,” he squeezes your hands. “You don't want me to drive you. You don't want me to come with you. At least take the jet.”

You open your mouth to protest.

“Just take the jet, please, [Name].”

Whatever Max wanted, Max would get. So you nod your head slowly because it looks like he'll argue just to get you seated in his jet. And you'll argue with him if it was any other day but not today because you need to leave quickly. Time is becoming too precious. You can lose your Dad any second. You just wish you can see him and talk to him before he went.

“Okay.”

You pull away, whipping around to head to the door but Max doesn't let your wrist go. You turn back to him.

“What is it, Max?”

“Text me when you land in Texas?”

“Of course.”

“One last thing. Wait here.”

He runs back to his room and you tap your foot impatiently, eyes trained on the mismatched shoes that covered your feet. Max returns not even five minutes later and now, he's wearing clothes and he’s carrying the shoe box from last night.

You swallow the lump on your throat.

“Take this with you.”

With shaking hands, you take the box.

“See you around, [Name].”

“Goodbye, Max.”

It's a good thing that you spent the entire morning yesterday packing because this makes everything smoother for you. It is a little past 5 am now and the outside world is still enveloped in total darkness. You gaze at the apartment one last time, three suitcases in tow. The keys feel heavy in your hands as you lock the door behind you.

In the middle of your apartment living room sits a lone shoe box with a letter that says: Sorry, Max. I can't steal more from Kelly.

Beside the box is a folder.

An unfinished guide on becoming Max Verstappen’s manager. (I’ll have the final copy printed, binded, and sent before the 2024 pre-season. Haha, I’m channeling my inner Toto Wolff.)

The first paper you’ll see after you open the folder reads:

Max, I know you’d be the one who’d find this one day. By that time, I’ll be in Texas already. I don't know if I’d have told you that I resigned already. If I didn't, that's because I’m a pussy. Sorry.

Anyways, I will say this as straightforwardly as I can because I think I had been a pussy long enough.

I resigned, Max. I won't be your manager by 2024 and honestly, I am worried. Not for you, of course. You’d win WDC whether I am your manager or not. That's how good you are. I am worried for your future manager. I’m afraid it would take someone with guts like me to work for with someone like you. A powerhouse manager for a powerhouse athlete.

Inside, you can find the following things:

How to bake my abuela’s special cheesecake.

How to make Red Bull vodka

How to make Max’s favorite pasta for lunch

List of Max Verstappen’s favorite places in each city

How to iron Max Verstappen’s clothes

What to do when Max accidentally sets the kitchen on fire

What to do when Max has a bad race

How to protect Max Verstappen from angry Hamilton fans

How to deal with a drunk Max Verstappen

Etc…

I will still be watching your journey, not from the Red Bull garage but from another continent. We worked five amazing years together and now it is time for us to fly on different skies. As much as I liked working with you, you can't be the only one reaching your dreams. Don’t worry, I’ll always reach out.

Thank you, Max. For giving me a home. I’m not talking about the apartment. I don't believe that home are establishments. Home is the people you love and Max, you are someone I love.

In the last page of this folder, you’d see a handmade bracelet tucked inside. It's small and it's made of cheap beads and I do not care if you don't think it's worthy enough to be worn on your wrist. Not even going to be offended. It's dirt compared to the Cartier bracelets you wear everyday. I bought the beads while roaming in Brazil and I just thought I’d make you one.

I cannot give you any gift that you already cannot buy with your money so I went ahead and made this. Money cannot buy anything made by my own hands.

Thank you again, Max.

And I’m so fucking sorry.

Please don't be angry.

I love you.

You watch the sun rise inside Max's jet as you fly over Monaco to Texas.

[sweetimpurity]

❀꫶᳜᳝ᰭ✿⃨ day 28! woohoo!! only three more days to go!! wc: 1083 <<masterlist>> ❙❘❙ ❤︎

“One second baby…” He hums, looking down at a holo-tablet he’s holding and typing into the screen. Holographic glowing forms take shape in the air and he’s looking at them. Working. He’s supposed to leave that stuff at HQ. Especially when it's bedtime. You’ve talked about this before. You huff, rolling back on your bed and into the pillows. Your husband’s been so busy lately, working and working some more. All you want is a night in with him with no distractions, just the two of you. You need it, he needs it too. But there’s always someone else trying to get his time, trying to take him from you. You’re sick of it. 

Pouting and staring at the side of his handsome face, lit up in a soft yellow-orange glow, his strong angular nose and plush lips jutted out a bit as he thinks. It’s almost criminal. You lean up, fingers going to his hair, dipping your face into his neck, ghosting your lips up over his cheek and leaving soft pecks. His hand absentmindedly pats your thigh. Not paying attention, just to pacify you while his mind is elsewhere. 

You reach around to kiss his lips, pecking the corner and he only barely kisses back. You’re annoyed. So you pull away with a huff, taking your hands off him to see if he even notices. He doesn’t. Just studying the screens and seemingly trying to finish up something. That’s what he always says. Just five more minutes to finish up a report or to write up team debriefs. It’s running him ragged and you know it. 

You huff, pouting and sitting behind him on your knees. Before getting the idea. You’re quick to take off your shirt, lifting it over your head and throwing it past him to see if he even notices. But he doesn’t even look up. Rolling back against the bed you work your pants off, your panties soon to follow. Sitting behind him completely naked and he has no idea. For a moment you just look at him. His broad back stretches his work shirt in all the right places. You just want to sink your teeth into him. Maybe that will earn you a reaction. 

Your hands go to his shoulders again, gripping gently and pulling him down. He’s a gentle giant if anything. He could resist your pull easily and it wouldn’t take up much of his strength. But when he feels your hands on him, no matter what, he always seems to bend at the will of them. Of you. So as if his body disconnects from his mind, he’s letting you pull him to lay back on the bed. His legs still hung over the edge. The tablet dropping to his lap and finally looking up at you. 

“Baby are you-”

“Pay attention to me.” You hum, crawling over him, your knees planted on the bed at both sides of his head. His crimson eyes widening and locking on your perfect pussy right above his face. Instantly burying his nose in you. The holographs and reports long forgotten, letting the tablet fall off his lap and onto the floor, his big warm hands coming to your ass and pulling you down on him. Sitting you right on his face and nuzzling into you. Making you moan and gasp, thighs wanting to close around his head, trembling.

“Mmmmm…” He groans into your cunt, lapping at your folds and tasting you. Teasing your entrance with his tongue. Sticking the tip in and swirling around, listening to the sounds you make. Your hands planted on his abdomen as you start rolling your hips on his face. Grinding down on him and feeling his lips, his tongue, his chin pressing to your clit, stimulating your nerves, making you quiver. 

“Miguel!” You moan. So erotic and needy. His fingers digging into the plush of your ass and encouraging you to keep going. To keep using him, using him to get off. Using him to come. He’s hard as anything right now and pleasuring you in this way, gasping for breath against your pussy, it just brings him right to the edge. 

“Oh baby…” He gasps, pulling away for only a moment while still keeping his hands around your thighs. He’s nowhere near done but he also needs to breathe at some point. You take this time to untuck his work shirt, the metal of his belt clinking as you pull it out, throwing it on the floor. Unzipping his dress pants and burying your hand in his tented boxers. Finding him hard and hot for you. Pulling him out of the fabric and rubbing your thumb along his tip. He groans, talons threatening to come out and pierce your pretty thighs. “Nmghhh…” 

“Please Mig, I wanna come…” You whine, arching your back and feeling the tip of his nose brush against your core. He’s quick to soothe you, pulling you back down and pushing his tongue right into you. Pulling a rasping growl from your throat. Instantly coming on his tongue, contracting around the muscle still lapping at you. Squealing high and desperate and he just ravages you. Pushing his face up into your cunt and helping you ride out the high. 

“Ah!hah-” You gasp, rolled over by his strong hands, your back hitting the blankets. He sits up, face covered in your release, licking his lips. Working his tie off. Giving you a wolfish grin and standing up to rid himself of anything that would keep his skin from being on yours. Looking down at you with a face that says you’re in for it. He grabs your ankles, swinging you around and down to the edge of the bed, hearing your giggles as he pulls you around the blankets. 

“Such a naughty girl…” He huffs, leaning down over you and pinning your hands over your head with one big hand. Guiding his cock to your messy pussy with the other hand, slipping in with a gasp, your back arching off the mattress. He keels over, pounding deep, all the way in with one thrust. At least if you’re up all night, you might have an easier time convincing him into a lazy morning... 

Taglist!! love my sweeties!

@spooky-sculder

@slushycoookie @xxyaoi-nationxx @snails-doodles22 @scaryplanetdestroyer @fate13

@divorcepaperz @yeahnohoneybye @zaunsin @tomalymme @drefear

@mrs-pondwater19 @saintdiior @aphinthestars @hyjionie

@palomanh @maxad99 @muuuwoppppp @reader-1290

@sp0ck136 @lazyninjaphilosopher

@pinkdizzyship @opalwitchart

if you'd like to be added/dropped from the taglist, please comment on my masterlist post. Or else I might not see it! thank you! 🩷

[fmhobeus]

morning sex! with nanami! it's all i fucking think about!!!!!!!

(arranged marriage au? slight somnophilia?)

he was usually up before you. like wayyy earlier. he's learnt not to bother you even though you can feel his massive weight be lifted of the bed. you know his routine by now. he goes to the gym early, showers and makes himself a cup of coffee by the time you start cooking breakfast. that's the routine, that's one you're aware of. what you don't know is that he's been watching you sleep... for like... everyday you both have lived together.

and it's !!not!! creepy, of course, you are his wife. it's not creepy, the fact that if he looks at you too long he starts to feel his pants getting tighter, a siege of blood flowing south.

it isn't wrong, when he pulls your covers down from your face. of course he just wants you to breathe easier. it's not lust. just an added bonus that he can now see your pretty lips parted, begging for a kiss and your pretty tits squished by your arms as you lay on your side.

if it's not wrong then why does he... why does he feel this way? this guilt? and why does it make him hornier?

so one of these weekends, as he told himself, he'd try his luck. it was all too unbearable for him at this point. you were fogging up his brain with these lewd images. and worst part was... you were oblivious to the effect you had on him.

it's a sunday. his body wakes up at the usual time. wee hours of the morning. you're by his side this time. it's all up to him now.

he tries to be discreet, at first. try lovey-dovey stuff first, as the internet has told him. you feel him shift in the bed and suddenly your husband's massive arms hug you from behind. the muscles tense as he pulls you to his chest. his heart is pounding. and its barely like 5 am.

"you're sleeping in?"

"yeah, weekend."

"no gym?" you ask. you both sleep face opposite sides, this is one of the few times you've had to adjust your body to his frame. you squiggle as you talk, trying to fit the soft curvature of your body with his flatter, harder frame.

"no.. it's uh... closed for maintenance today." he too has a hard time adjusting to you. to your curves, to your proximity, to how you slept in his arms like a fawn. to how he would conceal his erection to spend time like this with you. too much, too unbearable.

"oh, ok." you smiled. "wake me up if you need anything hm?"

you close your eyes once more. now something else woke you up. nanami's face nuzzled in your neck. his hands, this time, toying with your waist. his bulge apparent. it made sense now. you couldn't help but smile to yourself.

nanami kento is the beautiful man you are married to. gorgeous blonde hair. piercing brown eyes, shaped so angular that it's intimidating. perfect jaw structure. and god... that dick. he was caring and responsible too. how could a man this perfect ever love you? you were convinced he didn't. he always looked stoic, removed, disconnected from you an your relationship. he fucked you with care and gentleness and diabetic sweetness. you couldn't feel him want you. but you'd grown to want him. who the fuck has a one sided crush on their own husband?

but this... this felt different. this felt like all those fantasies were gonna come true. those moments you spent doting on him, creating the nastiest scenarios.

oh god, his soft blonde hair, unkempt and messy in bed. his eyes barely open, his body warm. he smelled like himself and not his expensive cologne. it was all so domestic. all so comfortable. how could you miss this side of nanami?

but you continued to be merry with the domesticity of it all to foresee how your perfect husband was about to perfectly split you open with his perfect dick.

[elsannej]

He got dragged into a wedding dress butique at the girls' night out.

As much as i like putting robots in dresses, i hc that Omega honestly kinda dislikes/doesn't care for women's/fem apparel. In his eyes they emphasize all the wrong things (looking soft/dainty/sweet). Not to mention how impractical e.g. dresses are.

It took a lot of convincing get him to try the stuff on:

Rouge (currently rocking a party dress herself): “Do i give off [any of the words on Omega's list] vibes? How about Blaze (in a light summer dress) over here?"

Omega (who hasn't & doesn't associate either of them with "softness" etc.,): "mmmmmmmmmmm" (If he answers truthfully he's gonna get roped into "Say Yes to The Dress")

And Omega finds out that he doesn't mind some of the dresses. That a select few actually... look quite good on him:

They either clash nicely (depicted dress) in a way that accentuates his form by putting something soft & light against his angular & heavyset build, or bring up other positive aspects - things Omega only now learned to look for/analyse in fashion - e.g. boldness/grandness/fierceness. He doesn't mind that at all.

@generic-sonic-fan

[piratefishmama]

Angel | Steddie Oneshot

Eddie Munson never believed that he’d go to Heaven. Sure he’d been raised in a catholic household, his uncle was religious, he’d been raised to give thanks for the food they ate, to pray before bed that should he not wake, his soul the lord take an all that jazz.

Wouldn’t believe it to look at him, to hear the songs he sang, the music he played. Wouldn’t believe how he’d been raised if one were to go by covers instead of contents.

But despite his upbringing in the very catholic Munson Trailer of Forest Hills Trailer Park, he never believed he’d go to heaven. Something about queers and submitting to sin and blah blah blah it’d been a long-ass time since his last confession, but Uncle Wayne stopped reminding him a few years back, so he had an excuse to keep ‘forgetting’ to do it.

Turns out, one did not need to go to confession to make it to heaven!

Angels would just. Turn up, apparently.

Maybe he’d done something good that he wasn’t aware of, he did go to that Make A Wish thing a few weeks back, DM’d a whole one shot for the kids, he’d spent hours there, a whole dang day just… hanging out with sick kids.

Maybe that was it. Maybe that was what brought this heavenly creature to his side.

To cut a long story short, he was on stage one minute, belting out the lyrics from the final verse of the last song in their set ‘Into the Underdark’, Jeff was slipping into the ending guitar solo, Eddie was gearing up for an end of gig crowd surf and the next.

The next he was looking into a bright, blinding light that kept moving between his eyes.

He’d always been told not to go to the light. If you see it? Don’t go to it, going to it would make whatever trip you were going on a one way ticket, there was no going back when you reached that light. Just hang back, wait for the resuscitation, it’d happen, someone would breathe life back into you, or whack you with enough voltage to get that heart kickin again, just don’t go into that light.

That light was way too close to his eyes, and he couldn’t swat it away. His arms felt tied down. Rude.

And then the light was gone, had he reached it? Was that it? One way ticket stub punched, sorry Earth, Munson out. “Mr Munson? Can you hear me?” Oh what heavenly chorus, the light had momentarily blinded him but shit… when his sight came back, at least enough to make out the vague shape of a very square jaw, of angular features, of warm hazel eyes, and a luscious head of hair surrounded by a halo of brilliant white light.

Angel. He had an audience with an Angel. It could only be an Angel. Neat.

He’d enjoy the ‘I Told You So’ he got from his uncle whenever the old goat made it up there he hoped it wouldn’t be soon though, he’d prefer a longer wait than a short one, thanks.

“Mnn… I hear you big boy, are you sure I’m in the right place though? I’ve been told Heaven wouldn’t want me” it sounded smooth in his head, but he was pretty sure he slurred half the words.

How could he have a slurred voice in Heaven? That didn’t seem fair.

Oh he’d forgive the slurred speech bit if the angel kept making that wonderful music with his vocal chords, that little giggle of a laugh, so bubbly and sweet, yep. Somehow he’d weaselled his way into Heaven. Suck it soccer moms. “Well, at least you can summon the strength to be charming.”

He was charming? An angel thought he was charming? Hell yeah, he’d rock this heaven shit, he already had an in with the big, winged boys!

“I can summon the strength for other stuff too, worship ain’t ever really been my thing but, baby I think I can learn for a literal Angel” he’d subject himself to an afterlife on his knees gladly if it meant he’d have his hands curled around this creature’s thighs, his mouth on—

“Oh wow…” Eddie couldn’t really see it properly thanks to the lovely blinding spots in his eyes that was no doubt his eyes adjusting to heavenly light, but he was sure his angel was blushing, he sounded a little breathless. Good. “You’re uh… wow”

Eddie hadn’t had much charm before becoming world famous but, he’d gained a little experience. Women and men alike throwing themselves at him, knowing he wasn’t all that fussed, babes were babes. All genders welcome to hop on and take a ride. He knew it was mostly the fame, he was still the same nerd he’d been back in high school, but… if fame got him laid then fame got him laid.

At the very least it gave him the experience to flirt with one of Gods pretty little birds. Maybe even score if the reaction he got was any indication.

So much for lust being a punishable sin, huzzah.

Steve was having a day. Okay no, Steve was having a whole week. The only upside to his overtime riddled ass, was that Robin had been on the majority of his shifts with him, so they could at least talk in the ambulance while they roamed the streets waiting for chaos to drop.

Monday, it’d been a seven car pileup on the highway, a few lost limbs, no fatalities but one hell of a close call on two accounts.

Tuesday, it’d been a tumble at a care home resulting in a popped hip and some heavy flirting from a few old ladies. Poor Robin suffering it from a few old men trying to shoot a shot they didn’t have.

Wednesday it’d been crisis after crisis resulting in him not finishing his shift until six hours after he was meant to finish his shift.

Thursday he had one blessed night off, thankfully his on-call status hadn’t dragged him in, and he got a decent six hour nap in.

Friday, another car wreck, he didn’t want to think about that one.

And now Saturday.

Dispatch sent them to the sold out arena, some idiot had leapt off the stage likely for a crowd surf, his foot tangled in an amp chord, it reduced his air time dramatically and he brained himself on one of the guard rails.

Excellent. At least he wasn’t dead.

Which given how easily one could wind up six feet under from such a whack to the head, he was lucky.

They parked by the side exit, shuffled in by security, and right through into the arena. The patient hadn’t been moved as per dispatchers instructions to the person who’d called. No moving the idiot until the professionals arrived and determined it safe.

Cameras, flashing lights, big beefy security guards standing in front of them blocking the majority of what was happening from view, there was… quite a bit of blood there. It didn’t look pretty in that lighting. “The crowd’s too much, let’s get him to the ambulance.” Robin’s patience didn’t exist when it came to large crowds.

Too many people. Plus she’d been on shift five hours longer than he had.

“Alright, you two, c’mere” Steve singled out two of the big security guys “we’re gonna need you to help us get him onto the gurney, we’ll look him over in the back of the ambulance.” There were no broken bones, nothing stopping them from moving him just enough to get him to the ambulance unscathed.

And then, somewhere between writing out paperwork, checking vitals, and Robin googling who this guy was, said guy… woke up.

Steve, being closer, was quick to check responsiveness, pupils reacted well to light although a concussion did look likely, they’d cleaned up the blood and found the cause to be a cut just above his left eyebrow that’d probably make a kickass scar and oh.

Without the blood. Oh. Oh he was pretty. Pretty plump lips, long lashes, deep brown eyes, faint freckles across his nose. All that hair. He was pretty.

“Mr Munson? Can you hear me?” He’d asked, while shining that little torch into those pretty brown eyes, left to right to check the responsiveness. And then he spoke and Steve— well. Robin was eyeballing him judgementally pretty damn hard given how fast his face flamed red.

Her head in her hands, her fingers plugged into her ears as Munson rattled off promises of worship and good lord— Steve didn’t know what to say, what to do, what does one do when a hot yet slightly delirious rockstar offers to worship your ‘angelic body’?

What does one do with that?

One awkwardly stutters through thanks while bright red and toasty until they can part with the guy at the ER wishing he’d met him under better circumstances cause it’d been a long ass time since anyone even touched him let alone worshipped him but accepting that he’d probably never see the guy again, so it didn’t really matter.

Until a few days later when the official Corroded Coffin account slid into his DM’s on Instagram, apologised profusely, and requested very sweetly to make it up to him with dinner the next time he was free.

Signed Eddie. With a little angel emoji. How on earth could he say no to that?

[clerk427]

TAGS ARE NOT ENOUGH OH HEAVENS

I can't believe someone actually took it upon themself to participate! AND YOU DID SUCH A GREAT JOB TOO!!! LOOK AT HIM, SUCH A POOR LITTLE MEW MEW

Man thank you for mentioning me! You made my day!!!:))

I don't draw FAITH stuff as much as I wish I did, but after seeing this I knew I had to try it out

Template and all most of the artwork done by @clerk427

[pastlivesxpastlie]

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

mirror talk fake love

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

adventures in skincare routines with your soft boyfriend, praisekink!vessel.

nswf • mdni • fem!reader • allusions to self-loathing and body dysmorphia • praise • vessel x you

vessel doesn’t know anything about skincare but he knows it makes you happy. well…buying skincare products makes you happy, but he’s been encouraging you to finally use them.

as your bend down to rinse your face, you hear him stalk into the bathroom, humming contentedly. you dry your face and smile at him as he considers your little collection of products. your eyes aimlessly wander over his naked torso and long legs clad in jogger style sweats.

he lifts a small bottle with orange liquid in it. “what does this do, love?”

“it’s a chemical exfoliant,” you say shrugging. “Gets all dead skin cells off without scratching me up.”

“I see, I see. And this?” he lifts a small jar of cream that clearly boasts overnight under eye miracles on the label, but honestly he’s playing dumb just to show interest and be near you.

“oh, that’s just under eye cream. For fine lines. Dark circles. Whatever.”

“But you don’t have those.”

“Exactly.”

Your quick answer elicits a smirk and a little closed mouth laugh. As you apply your moisturizer you, see him take in your form…head to every precious toe…but not without letting his eyes linger on your soft, beloved midsection. His arms snake around your waist as his toned chest and abs press against your back.

You lean back, feeling his smooth skin share its delicious warmth with you.

“does it bother you, Ves, that I feel like I need all this stuff?” you ask, gesturing vaguely to your assortment of products.

He lets out a soft huff; it’s almost like you’ve insulted him.

“tsk. why ever would that bother me? Darling…don’t you see? This shows me…”

his hands begin to trail up your waist…

“that you know how to take care of yourself. You have all the tools…”

his right hand gently caresses your chest, near your heart…

“you simply require the encouragement to use them. To show yourself love.”

He nuzzles against the shell of your ear and whispers huskily, “just look at you…look in the mirror.”

You look and instinctively your eyes meet his. You take in his features. His pouty lips. His short but angular jaw. He shakes his head softly and hisses gently…

“I said look at yourself, darling.”

And finally, you do. You consider yourself in your bralette, which does nothing but look pretty, offering no real support (Vessel approves of this wholeheartedly btw), and your old pj bottoms with some cute character on them. Your hair pulled back haphazardly with a fluffy headband.

“ok, I’m looking.” As if you’re expecting a lightning strike of inspiration and self-acceptance. You don’t look bad, but you don’t look your best. But somehow…that doesn’t matter. You feel an overwhelmingly pleasant sense of…neutrality.

“are you not glowing right now?” Vessel asks as his fingers delicately caress the column of your throat. You let out a soft gasp as his left hand gently grabs at the flesh of your waist and lower tummy. It is the very same flesh you prod at and attempt to hide…and the one that drives him to near insanity when he can only look but not touch. The same that has been marked with teasing bites and gentle bruises from his thumbs…holding you in place as he coaxes out the single prettiest sounds he’s had the pleasure of hearing…of producing.

“is this not the skin of someone who cares for themselves?” He continues, letting his lightly parted lips drag across your neck.

“Is this not the skin…of a good girl?”

[wittymumbledon]

With how much gravity falls stuff I’ve been working on lately it’s taken me a while to get around to finishing this (long enough for me to nearly finish reading over the first “season” for the third time in a row) but here it is!! A double-page spread dedicated to @ckret2’s golden-haired menace, because I wanted NEEDED to show my appreciation for this fucking amazing AU ✨

Figuring out how to translate Goldie into my style was really fun--I tried to stay true to the original, but kinda subconsciously also added elements from my own Bill which I think is neat (namely the angular smile and triangular brows). I dunno why I gave him That One Curl (TM) but once I noticed it I tried to carry it through all the pics--the hair as a whole was really fun, especially messing around with the textures when it was--well, say, messy.

I redrew some of my fav frames/story moments (plus a couple extras: the cleaning one is inspired by when i was cleaning irl, and realized that Goldie made me feel a lot less dysphoric about wearing leggings and tank tops 'round the house. Thus - in tribute to the irony - Bill gets my leggings fdfhjdfhdf)

but that barely even scratches the surface of just the pure, gloriously hilarious chaos that this beast has to offer-- not to mention the simple fact that it is just. REALLY well written: the attention to details from the books, the comics, and the show itself; the way each character is visibly flawed in some way, be it with their morals, or their actions, or the soundness of their morals; the way each chapter healthily mixes random show-like chaos with genuinely useful info that later BEAUTIFULLY Chekov Gun's itself right back into the culmination of each saga -- it all feels so aware and true to canon and so, so, SO beautifully ALIVE. Dare I say it is one of my absolute favourite fanworks that I've ever read.

Speaking of which - if you’ll excuse me - I have some chapters to catch up on. Like I said - I’ve specifically held off reading the latest ones so that i’d finish the fanart faster and so that i’d have an excuse to make more. looking at you - bill’s abomikini /hj

If you've made it through my lil essay there I appreciate it so much <3

Bonus: I wove a lil bracelet inspired by the one Mabel made for Bill✨

Didn’t have the right colours of embroidery thread on hand so I used yarn instead, but that actually ended up working perfectly with the beads I had (just plain ol' blue ones, cause I wasn’t sure if using nazar beads would have been culturally insensitive or not - nor did I have any nazar beads that I could have used in the first place - but hey! these ones are nice and shiny and the colour works well imo)

[electrozeistyking]

Hi, I really like making little personalized references for characters I like when I get into things! I do this to figure out how I wanna draw them, and is a recent-ish development that I haven’t done a lot, but I really like character design and thinking about them! So I made some for Siffrin. How fun!

DO NOTE THAT THIS WILL CONTAIN SPOILERS FOR LATER PARTS OF THE GAME. I did obviously tag it as such for the sake of others and it will be further down, but I figured I’d still warn you just in case. <:3

Now, without further ado, here’s “reference one!”

I’m personally gonna be using this in conjunction with Siffrin’s actual reference sheet (which I refer to as “notes” in mine!!) to make sure he look his best! I also wanted to make sure they’re “in line with canon,” yet still in my style and in a way I can be proud of.

Which isn’t that hard, since I’m usually always proud of my own work. I just like my own stuff. <:3

Due to the brim of his hat allegedly being bean-shaped (teehee), I thought it’d be fun if I carried that over to his torso/body. It’s not noticeable with a cloak in the way, nor when Siffrin’s standing straight up. Basically, the bean shape would only be revealed in certain poses.

(Coming up with that also made me say “Whoops! All beans!” out loud about Siffrin, btw.)

Additionally, I like giving characters is their own set of fangs. One character I draw has a gap between them and the rest of their teeth, one has prominent ones to make them more cat like on purpose — and for Siffrin, I decided to give them rounded ones.

I usually make fangs razor sharp, because I really like big ol chompers like that, so them being round is definitely a very unique thing for Siffrin to have. Well, at least at first.

I’m also a really big fan of certain design elements sticking around after something wild happens to characters… which brings us to “reference two.”

Well, if you’re not gonna be able to find any good references for this version of Siffrin, you might as well make your own, right??

The major thing I wanted to do with this Siffrin was to have him still feel like himself, but also give him somewhat of a unique design in comparison — by playing up elements I noticed during this scene.

Making this Siffrin feel as giant as they are was important to me. I went ahead and made their hat, face, hair and cloak longer. Made their shoulders broader, had them hunch over so they’d practically loom over everyone. Trying to appear smaller while still being an obstacle. Wanting everyone to stay here. Wanting their family.

I noticed that a lot of Siffrin’s hair seemed a lot more angular here, so I felt it crucial to use those shapes, but going a couple steps further and using them for his face as well… primarily his mouth and chin, of course. Which meant replacing those rounded fangs I gave him with a full set of sharper ones.

(I also wanted them to look like they’re too big for Siffrin’s mouth, so two of them — well, four? — will always peek out/fall past their lower lip. It’s like their teeth are not a comfortable fit whatsoever and it makes talking feel weird, but they manage.)

(They stick around after Siffrin “reverts back” or whatever we’re calling it. He never gets his round fangs back, but at least the ones he has now serve as a reminder that he got to the end. Might take some getting used to, though.)

(I also tried making their brows look a bit more angular? Can’t tell if they really come across that way.)

ANYWAY, I THINK I SHOULD STOP HAHAHA. I could go on and on all day, but I got other things to do and I think I’ve already explained enough! Just know that I get a kick out of putting love and care into character thoughts and designs. <:3

[punksocks]

To Tame The Untamable: Lilith & Obsession:

*just based on my experiences, only take what resonates

**This is more so the like analysis portion, for synastry & placements that trigger obsession see part 2

Black Moon Lilith is fascinating. Even in her presence in your birth chart, she’s less of a planetary body and more of a philosophical (I.e. mathematical) point. She’s elusive and hard to pin down, and yet her influence is permeating. Similar to how Scorpio placements bleed through a birth chart like ink bleeds through paper. Lilith has a distinctive presence (Lilith’s energy is especially felt with hard aspects- square/opposition/conjunct to the angular houses -1st,4th,7th,10th).

Lilith is so weighted yet so elusive, and that is definitely a cornerstone of why she triggers such obsession in others. Even in her original mythology, her husband, Adam, couldn’t control her - and she was made for him ! There’s something inherently rebellious and hard to categorize about the impact of her energy. She’s dark, sultry, and heavy. She’s the eternal antithesis of the traditional feminine. Because she’s always sitting in this outsider energy, there’s an inherent challenge to power that is attached to her presence.

There’s something shocking about what she brings to the native’s energy. She swings in extremes so that people with heavy Lilith placements are often derided for being so outside of the norm. Too s*xy, too opinionated, too smart “for their own good”, for having too much of a strong impact in general. The reality of the situation is that Lilith is here to show you how to live outside of a traditional lens and embrace this energy you already have. She’s here to help you step into your power (while keeping your approach balanced and not over indulging in it, of course).

…So… what’s the deal with the men?

I had to restart this paragraph like 3 times lol. From the top, we live in a society ! Lol

Social roles have certain social rules depending on cultural structures. I often wonder what all of this, all of these dynamics would look like if the gender fluid or the matriarchal societies didn’t get so eroded by colonialism but obviously that’s an essay for another day lol. The dominant culture is a not so distant run off of conservative religious power structures. So as a result, our sort of default social standards are set to be white, patriarchal, heteronormative, and many other strict social categories in line with those ideals. The more you culturally align with these ideals by default the more power you tend to have. And, through a sort of simplified lens, to be socialized within, or at least in closer proximity to those ideals can create a curiousity about those on the outside. Those who cannot and do not align with those defaults have this something else. Something else about how they exist in the world, sometimes on the outskirts, does compel people that are committed/used to living within these strict categories.

There’s something about people with that outsider energy, that exude this inherent wildness that sort of captivates the attention of those that don’t have it. Like an it factor with a bit more darkness attached to it. I think there’s a power in like finding your identity outside of these circles. And when any sort of feelings come into play it can make things more volatile. I think the grip that Lilith tends to pull on guys lies in the power dynamics at play in many relationships in -patriarchal- society. If she’s uncontrollable does that mean you have any power at all? It can be dizzying to be vulnerable in a relationship and lose any of the power/control you’ve had your whole life (I assume lol, I’ve never been a man and they know how I feel about them lol).

I think that’s why relationships tinged by Lilith energy/synastry can quickly become a lot. A lot of passion, a lot of drama, a lot of vying for power. When you’re a femme, much of your social power lies in your attractiveness (even when it comes to stuff that should be neutral like getting a job, or getting a fair chance if you get in trouble, etc). And I think it’s so interesting that Lilith has such a strong effect on the girls. She makes you attractive and gives you power but makes you damn polarizing and makes the power you have into this double edged sword.

On the flip side (Mm yes very 90s of me), this is just shadow side energy. Which is to say Lilith doesn’t make anyone do anything. Her energy just exposes the other side of people (all people, but that’s another essay for another day). If a man, any person really, was going to have positive intentions towards you Lilith energy wouldn’t warp this. She just shows you the darkness some people try to hide. If you’re dating someone and they try to cross your boundaries and get controlling after the second date- this was always going to happen, they just were compelled to try to box you in earlier than they may have intended with someone else.

But yeah in summary, Lilith triggers obsession in others because entitlement. Whoever is acting this way had those controlling and obsessive tendencies all along- it was just brought to light. And when someone shows you who they are, take it from me, it’s best to listen.

Disclaimer: 1. This is a generalization of how things can go, not how they always have to go, so yknow grain of salt 2.With great power comes great responsibility, stay safe out there y’all :0 3. Ok so we live in a society lol, and so we have a lot of social conventions we tend to be used to by default. Romanticize even. And I definitely think obsession is one of those conventions. Desire can be enticing. To want to be wanted. But if it’s taking over your life? I don’t think that should be aspirational. I think everyone wants someone to be obsessed with them until they actually are then it’s this wild uncontrollable thing -and frankly that’s terrifying. (We’ve seen the show You right? It tends to go bad lol.) Live your life ofc, just be careful not to romanticize ab*sive/controlling tendencies in others because it’s unhealthy at best and dangerous at worst. Just my two cents.

(Also omg this whole thing took me so much longer to write than I intended lol, thank you so much for the support everyone <3!)

[chettyspagetti]

Camp Race Show Down (CRSD)

Lore at bottom

(Red?) Racekid is illegal racer and has been racing for a long time. Not the best but definitely not the worst. Keeps his cool most the time and pulls off a lot of stuns. He will either win by a smidge or be ran off by the cops and have incomplete race / loose. Always finds a way out of whatever pickle he’s in and has funny quip about it. He’s willing to do anything for thrill of the ride, and frequently doesn’t think before he does something. Mainly just doing it because he belives in himself.

Neeancy is flag girl / with Racekid as not a racer but as more of moral support / love interest (??) She is in the car when he races and is back seat driver but she sits in the front. Shes the brains of the operation and keeps him from killing himself. She doesn’t race at all but is there to help with plans and strategy since she’s still really smart and can calculate like the air and shit and how it drags. She can get kinda crazy but Racekid likes crazy so it’s okay , she tells him off when he looses or does something stupid in the race and he just nods because he knows she’s right

Mad Max , sponsor/manager for Nikki . Schemes their way into races and does shit under the table. Wears a nice outfit and tells Nikki to “do what she does best”. Is a Bookie, makes bets on races but will make it in his favor . Has a watch and a bunch of different ids on him.

(Panther) Nikki is a reckless driver , hitting cars with hers and grinding them on walls. Has no fear with racing and having a fun time doing it. Gets hurt and acts like a wounded dog when hurt . Car frequently has to be repaired and it’s a pain in Maxs ass to fix

( Erode )Ered is cool racer who has a low rider with lots of mods. Purplely/pink with yellow accents. It can glow with led lights and shit. Very chill with her riding and doesn’t try to hurt the racers, not out of kindness it just doesn’t benefit her like Nikki. Top dawg with racing and wins against Racekid but there’s no bad blood between them. More of “you did good, maybe you’ll be a good as me one day :p” and she drives off. Plays music while she races .

Sasha races and is sponsor of Erin and Tabii. Will pay people to ruin the race for others and purposely sabotaged people. Has very nice car , not fully made for racing but it’s still really good. Does similar things to max but both don’t like each other because they are “different “ with the way they do it. She wears a helmet and it has a visor on it to keep her safe. Bought all the tokens and has a lot more then everyone else.

Erin is a slower driver then Tabii is, being more calculated and less or a risk taker. She has a dark blue car and focus more on accuracy and consistency then speed. Tabii can get bad road rage and if she looses she’ll be extra nasty next race or even after . Tabiis car is more angular and has white stripes. Sasha is hard on both of them if they loose and are lowkey scared of her.

Dolph is sketch artist and makes posters for the event. You can see them in dark parts of town with the list of racers on them. Anyone can sign up. Hes also been asked by the police to sketch who he though did it but just fucks with them cus snitches get stiches (sketched max as Barack Obama) (Rouge Racer) (Rou)

Harrison owns a “bar” that many kids reside/hang out in to drink juice / caprimoons/ whatever like a normal dingy bar. He looks like a normal bar tender and does this instead of racing. He helped his brother get into illegal racing but got caught by Gwen and David, and got sent home. (And to a boarding school) he doesn’t mess with that kind of stuff anymore but still needed to make a living.

Everyone else bets on the races , they also bet with Max cus he has higher risk/ higher reward . It isn’t legal but none of this is

Instead of getting money for winning races they get arcade tokens to “Charles Pizza Family diner” A family owned restaurant with Charles the Hamster and his gang as the mascots. They like it and that’s all it matters.