#no prose fic

[petricorah]

scenes i loved from Real Enough to Get Me Through by @marriedzukka <333 [ids in alt]

[faiell]

inspired by a scene from this heaven of mud by @garagepaperback

Sitting near but far, legs spilled off the edge of the bed, Potter turned to look at him. There were two wide windows on either side of the bed, drapes drawn back. The lights in Draco’s bedroom were off but it didn’t matter, the flat being in the city. Draco learned it was called light pollution- It meant you couldn’t see the stars. It meant it was much harder not to see what was right in front of you.

Potter looked beautiful. It should have ended months ago, preferably before it started.

[saradika]

hello babes! i hope you're doing well.🖤 i don't know if you're taking divider requests (so if you're not please disregard this message), but i fell in love with the first divider on this set and was wondering if i could get it in a dark red? or just a gothic roses set? your choice.🖤🖤🖤

hello my lovely friend! I would love to make it in dark red for you! I picked a couple shades based on the different app modes (and included a few more styles as well!) (but if there’s a particular shade of red you like, I’d be happy to edit!) 💖 hope you’re having a great weekend!

[Free] Masterlist Headers & Dividers!

Please consider liking or reblogging if you use 💕

[spindlewoed]

Look, listen. The smoker on the balcony is obsessed with beauty and the fine arts while Cindy the skull is a contemporary artist all about activism and I need them to interact so badly because they would have THEE most heated art debate of the century. Cindy would eat him alive but that's not the point their back and forth would be legendary you don't even know. Lesbian on gay man violence.

[burstfoot]

Your name is Kristen Wright. You’re barely 10. You’re at the outdoor funeral for your parents, a pair of genius scientists that Terra will never see again. You’ve spent the last two weeks giving false smiles to women and men who pretend to grieve them while spending every moment they think you’re not looking lauding them for their ‘foolishness’ and ‘hubris’. Sitting amongst a crowd of these intellectuals, your feel nothing looking at their crocodile tears, knowing they’re just happy there’s less competition for next year’s grants. Your new guardian grabs onto your hand in an attempt to grant you a modicum of comfort. You stare blankly at the sky above.

You’ve never felt so alone. You don’t think this feeling will ever go away.

Your name is Joyce Moore. You can hardly communicate anymore. Your best friend killed herself trying to replicate the experiment that gave you permanent brain damage. Every scientist at Rhine Lab now treats you like a child at best, and an animal at worst. Your parents have not come to see you. None of your colleagues seem to understand that you are still you, with a sense of humour, good taste in TV shows, and fucking feelings, god damn it.

You’ve never felt so alone. You don’t think this feeling will ever go away.

Your name is Ferdinand Clooney. You’ve lost everything you’ve ever worked for in a futile grab for power. The department of defense has you by the dick after saving you from a group of Pioneers who (justifiably) nearly beat you half to death. It’s playing fiddle to their whims or the rest of your life in prison - or, most realistically, a tragic accident report. Your aspirations aren’t within your reach anymore, and you know that it’s your fault. You will never be Kristen Wright, and it’s eating you alive.

You’ve never felt so alone. You don’t think this feeling will ever go away.

Your name is Parvis Ahrens. You’re not that old. You’re only 58. But you’re losing your mind. Every day, a little more slips away. You rely more and more on encyclopedic entries for information you took immense pride in knowing from your heart. You’ve spent the last few years focused on the pursuit of progress of all else. As part of this, you manipulated your star pupil in an attempt to permanently get her under your wing, outside of the influence of the Defense Director, a weak-hearted woman everyone else seems to think is cold as ice. She has years of life to change Columbian science. You don’t.

You’ve never felt so alone. You don’t think this feeling will ever go away.

Your name is Jara B. Wilson. You feel like you don’t see the girl who lived for you with so long in Kristen anymore. You’re a washed-up movie star, working for her cause above all else. Do you have anything that you’re working for for yourself anymore? She’ll be gone soon. You know that.

She hasn’t even left yet, and you’ve never felt so alone. You don’t think this feeling will ever go away once she leaves.

Your name is Nasti Londrey. Your people have never had a home. They might never have a home.

You’ve always felt alone. You will always be alone. That’s fine.

Your name is Justin Fitzroy Jr. Your dad died a week ago, and the cure has just been found for the hereditary illness that threatens to cut your lifespan in half. It was found by accident.

The sword of Damacles no longer hangs above your neck. Why then, do you still feel so alone?

Your name is Loken Williams. You reach out to a girl you tortured, who you know can’t remember what you did to her, because you’re going to die soon, and you need someone to remember what you did with your life.

Even if she kills you, at least you won’t die alone.

Your name is Trevor Friston. It’s been thousands of years down here. You just want to see your daughter again, and it will be another thousand until you do.

You’re very familiar with the loneliness that wraps around every single nanometer of your circuit board.

Your name is Dorothy Franks. Your whole family was killed in a Catastrophe. Your name is Elena Urbica. Your whole family, besides your twin sister, has disowned you. Your drive yourself head-first into the sciences to distract yourself from the loneliness.

Your name is Ho’olheyak. Centuries of ancestral memories swarm around your mind. Because of this, your lifespan was cut to a fraction of the life you should be living. You are obsessed with the history of your people, and you resent them from tearing your life away from you. You tear over books and tomes of history to find all means of unspeakable knowledge, hoping that somewhere in there you’ll find something that you can connect to.

You don’t even know you’re lonely.

Your name is Muelsyse.

You saw the writing on the wall. Saria and Kristen just had a massive fight. You’ve been drifting apart since college, but the only two people who you’ve felt a real connection to on all of Terra will hardly speak to each other anymore. Do you try and mend what happened between them? Can you? You don’t know what to do besides take all means to protect yourself in the fallout. You wish you weren’t so paranoid, so self-centered, that all you know how to do is ensure your own safety.

Is there anything on Terra for you besides loneliness?

Your name is Ifrit. It’s cold, and quiet, and you’re pretty sure you’ve killed everyone around you. Your eyes are blurred, you hands are shaky, and shards of black crystal stick out all over your body. Before you pass out, you think one thing:

Hell, you might be alone, but at least those bastard whitecoats got what was coming to them.

Your name is Olivia Silence. You pull yourself out of the rubble in a destroyed laboratory, where you see Saria looming over Ifrit, beaten half-to-death. You beat yourself up for thinking you could trust her - that she was there to protect Ifrit, and you. You can’t trust anyone in Columbia. You run to embrace Ifrit with your entire body, to protect her from the cold eyes of Saria standing above her. You look back at her with nothing but fear in your eyes.

You’ve never felt so alone. You have to get Ifrit out of Rhine.

Your name is Saria. You’re barely 8 years old. You went your father in tears, as a group of bullies came after you and destroyed your toy car. He tells you to stop crying. You’re not accomplishing anything by throwing a fit in front of him. He tells you to fight back - take responsibility for your weakness.

You’ve never felt so alone.

You won’t ever be this weak again.

Staring up at the sky, looking up as Kristen’s ark sends her out through the hole she tore in the false sky, you know that you were foolish to believe you could bypass your own weakness through sheer will.

And you’ll be lonely for the rest of your life without her.

[kittybricks]

Do You Love the Colour of the Sky? (Or: This Must be the Place)

(I apologize for the resolution in advance. Still troubleshooting.)

[heavenlyraindrops]

Forced Proximity Prompts

Locked in a classroom together by the teacher on accident after serving detention

Hiding in a cramped space when they’re almost caught somewhere they’re not meant to be- end up getting stuck

locked in a room or a closet by their friends.

Door gets jammed

one of them gets their foot/ clothes stuck

There’s only one bed

only one horse/ other small methods of transport

forced to take a carriage together

forced to work on a group/ paired project together

A is forced to tutor/teach something to B

prisoners in the same cell/ something along that concept

arranged marriage

servant/master dynamic (NOT SLAVERY, *SERVANTS* e.g., maid attending to the prince)

they end up in an unfamiliar land and are forced to stick together

A is B’s bodygaurd

Forced to be dorm mates at an academy/school/institute

A is a wanted criminal, B is the knight/gaurd/mercenary/officer/ ect. Who captures them

[holy-puckslibrary]

━ 𝐚𝐥𝐥-𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐨 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬.

main masterlist

pairing(s) — bull-rider!MATTHEW TKACHUK x barrel racer!hughes!reader (can be read as an unnamed oc) wc — 1.8k synopsis — wear the hat, ride the cowboy—even if it might get you disowned.

note — there's one line referring to the reader as jack's twin, but no physical description is given. also, this one-shot is a "party favor" from our feb slumber party

specific content warnings under the cut.

cw — quinn being a dramatic, misogynistic douche-canoe 3000 for the entirety (ratty matty has his moments, too), no actual smut but it's heavily implied they do the dirty on the reg, a disgustingly intimate situationship — ick, off-color comment(s) relating to first times and the concept of virginity, lots and lots of familial angst (jack is a snake), oh! and more than a few loose ends... but you know the drill by now, i'm incapable of keeping a story contained

“Go on, Palomino Princess. Ride me like one of your ponies.” 

Condescension drips from the lazy taunt. Matthew earns a palm to the chest for it; her ire lands with a faint thud, but he doesn’t mind. He gets off on riling her up, and after two years of backseat meetings and hushed phone calls, he’s damn good at it too. That, and she might be the most reactive person he’s ever met—and that’s saying something. 

Matthew’s been going head-to-head with all three of her brothers for over a decade, and he’s known their family for even longer. Having a short fuse must be genetic.    

“Y’won’t break me if that’s the hold-up. S’gonna take a hell of a lot more than a dry humpin’ buckle bunny to put me outta commission, sweetheart.” 

He knows damn well she ain’t anywhere close to the derogatory term, but he likes what the complete disregard for her accomplishments does to her deceptively cherubic face. 

It may look less harrowing than every other event on the card, but barrel racing ain’t for the faint-hearted. The event is a death wish personified, and it feels about as good as someone taking a metal pipe to both shins. It takes balls—metaphorically, in her case—to charge into an arena on an American Quarter horse with the intention of guiding it through a cloverleaf pattern around three barrels while sprinting at top speed, but it takes dedication and skill to succeed the way she has. The winner is determined by just thousandths of a second. 

The woman perched on his tailgate is unmatched—undefeated.  

Flames of pride lap at his loins, the fire of desire stoked by the wicked roll of her hips. 

“Ohh—shit!” Matthew hisses, his head lolling back as his hips buck into her heat. 

She smirks, apparently vindictive as ever. “How’s that, cowboy? Everything you dreamed?” 

“And more,” he growls as he grabs a fistful of her backside. 

His grip is tighter than it needs to be as he switches positions. Not nearly as rough as she would prefer it; beggars can’t be choosers.  

Matthew steps between her knees, and, despite herself, she shivers with anticipation. Chuckling, amusement twinkles in his baby blues. “Now give me a kiss, sweetheart. My lips are feelin’ a little lonely tonight, and you happen to be wearin’ my hat, Little Miss.” 

He flicks the brim of his hat. She catches it before it hits the ground before plopping it back on the rightful owner, the damage already done.  

“You just love that antiquated rule,” she shakes her head while most definitely laughing at his expense. “Y’wouldn’t see any action without it, now would you?” 

Matthew grins. Trading insults is his favorite form of foreplay. “Neither would you. Isn’t that your signature move, outlaw?”

“I should kick you to the back of the line with that attitude. Hell, I’d probably be better off keeping you at a distance anyway.” 

“Keep mouthin’ off and see how far it gets ya. Definitely nowhere near that McMansion castle you call home, that’s for sure.” 

“Oh, don’t you worry ‘bout me, sugar. I’ve got plenty of options if I need a ride home.” 

“I’ll bet, show pony. Sexiest can chaser east of the Mississippi; who wouldn’t be chomping at the bit to carry Cinderella home to her Daddy?” 

Men have a habit of gawking at her; Matthew has a habit of relieving them of their teeth. 

He leans in to taunt her ear with greedy lips and barbed arrogance. “Best of luck finding one that’ll fuck you better than me.”     

“Do you think about other guys fucking me often?” she fires without missing a beat.

More than he would like, actually.

With a heavy, drawn-out sigh, he runs a hand over his face. His patience is running thin, and his jeans are starting to chafe. Exasperated, he tries coaxing her to reason, “Sweetheart, c’mon. We both know you want this—want me. Stop makin’ this so damn hard.” 

“Why? Because you already are?” 

Matthew makes an exaggerated show of play-biting her scrunched-up nose. 

“Woman, you drive me insane.”

“It’s why you’re so obses—“ 

Her teasing is thwarted by the sound of her own name. Spat out of her older brother’s mouth like a heirloom gone sour, it's no great surprise Quinn looks at her like he can’t recognize her. Like a stranger—like a traitor. 

Guilt, thin and fleeting, pieces the tenderness between her ribs. 

She squirms, attempting to put some distance between them as if that could erase the discovery—and her culpability—from his mind. Matthew and his shit-eating grin keep her from getting too far but don’t be fooled. This is no chivalrous encouragement to stand her ground. It’s got nothing to do with her and everything to do with her brother. 

Quinn rages outside the hauler housing Matthew’s precious 3500 Laramie. Walking by, seeing the main trailer hitched Brady’s F-350 made his stomach churn. It didn’t sit right, and now he knew why. 

“You can’t be serious! Nuh-uh, no—no fucking way. Get out here before I drag you out myself.”  

At his tone, what little remorse she felt dissipates. They were both far too old for his tired, overbearing song-and-dance. 

��Who died and made you king?” 

Quinn, blinded by overripe anger, sweeps over the irritation, twisting her tongue and the disbelief arching her brow. “I thought I made myself clear last time. Don’t make me repeat myself.” 

“Oh, crystal, Quinny.” Matthew snorts at the juvenile nickname but is swiftly cajoled into silence with a pinch to the side. “Message received.” 

“Then quit screwin’ around and get your ass back to the truck before Dad blows a gasket. He’s been lookin’ all over for you. So, you best be thanking your lucky stars I got here first. That its me catchin’ you red-handed colluding with the enemy.” 

He’s so serious, nearly shaking with rage, it’s difficult not to laugh. She can count on one hand the instances wherein her brother became visibly angry—all of them involving the man standing between her dangling feet. She fares better than him, but that’s to be expected. Unlike her accomplice, for her, there’s real risk involved. 

“Just ‘cause I heard you don’t mean I have to listen.” 

Lips pressed to her temple, Matthew clicks his tongue in approval. ‘Bout damn time she started giving back what Quinn so readily dishes out. 

“Look, y’can spread your legs for anyone with big dreams and a buckle some other night. Parade around the circuit acting like a slut, see if I give a shit. But not tonight. And not with him.” 

The knowing glint in Quinn’s blackened eyes is telling, but it isn’t as menacing as he thinks it is. The Hughes heir apparent couldn’t be judge, jury, and executioner. He doesn’t have a lick of proof. Just suspicion and a personal vendetta the size of Texas. 

A safety net swaying below, Matthew decides to have a little fun. “Whoa, settle down, Trust Fund. Y’can’t talk to a lady like that, ‘specially not your sister.” 

He’s no white knight, but he can pretend. 

And isn’t that what you’re all doing? Pretending to be people you aren’t. Acting out your roles, putting on a show. After all, a performance will always be more entertaining than the truth. 

“—and here I thought etiquette classes were a Rodeo Royalty rite of passage. Glad t’know she ain’t the only roughneck hellion in your family tree, Huggy.” 

Quinn’s jaw tightens. His tongue threatens to put a hole through his cheek. Hands on his hips, the eldest sibling only nods. He ignores Matthew entirely. 

“Real winner y’got there. A class act. You really know how to pick ‘em—cream of the goddamn crop. Say, what’re you gonna do when he inevitably gets bored of you? When he gets his hands on a fresh doe-eyed virgin to tarnish?” 

After she finishes with Matthew, she’s kicking Jack’s sorry ass. 

Those anxieties—and that majorly personal tidbit of information—were shared in confidence. Because unlike her older brother, she trusted her twin. Well, she used to, at least. Luke’ll be over the moon at the chance to be her favorite. 

She bares her teeth like a scorned lapdog. “We’re not kids anymore, Q. You can’t push me around whenever you want or tell me what to do like you’re my father. And you sure as shit can’t bully me into submission, either. Give it up, or get lost.” 

“Whatever,” Quinn barks as he backs away from the trailer. “Your fuckin’ funeral.” 

Listening to the fading sound of her brother’s Ariats pounding through the dirt, she buries her face in the warm, familiar crook of Matthew’s neck; she needs a moment alone. He seems to understand this, his mouth zipped shut as he runs calloused hands up and down her sides. She’s breathing heavily, but he does her the simple mercy of leaving it be. 

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think I was growing on you,” Matthew hums, a low-maintenance attempt to lighten the mood. 

They don’t do the touchy-feely BS. It’s one of the things that reeled him in—and kept him coming back. 

“But you do.” She pulls away to look up at him, chin resting on his sternum. He hates that her melancholic eyes are red-rimmed. “—and stop thinking, it doesn’t suit you.” 

“And what does, princess? I’m dyin’ for your insight.” 

“Shut the door and I’ll show you.” 

He blinks, taken aback. Who is this brazen tart, and when did she take your place? Matthew wonders to himself. Maybe he is the bad influence everyone paints him as… He hasn’t really thought about it until now, and it's troubling the way it makes his chest tighten. 

Matthew clears his throat—and, from his mind, the distressing notion that he’s ruined someone good with his carelessness—as he leans over. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

He pulls the hauler’s heavy metal door shut with clamorous finality.  

Matthew Tkachuk might be the most self-serving swindler on dirt, but Quinn Hughes is just another name on his list. A box to tick and then forget. He wouldn’t lose sleep, it wasn’t like their friendship meant a damn thing. Not anymore. A friend turned foe, reduced to another obstacle in his way, a hurdle to jump. 

Tonight, his sister’s fealty; tomorrow, his title.

Retribution is at his fingertips, so close he can taste it. Yet, it would seem that Matthew merely traded one hornet’s nest for another. 

At least this one’s easy on the eyes. 

⤑ to my inbox💌

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⬸ back to the main blog 

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[thecrickwitch]

Calling all BKDK fanfic curators:

As a relatively fast reader who just joined the MHA fandom a couple of months ago, I’ve read through most of The Big Ones. Those one-shots with hundreds of kudos, those long, complete multi-chaps with thousands of bookmarks on AO3. I think at this point I’ve read most of what many people would consider the BKDK “classics.”

What I want now, and what I’m struggling to find because (bless) this fandom is so big, are those hidden gem fics with GORGEOUS writing. One-shots or 300k+ words, I don’t care. I just want prose that makes me weak. I want sentences that give me that gut-punch “holy shit there has never been a more perfect or beautiful sentence” feeling.

Folks who have been in the fandom for a while and read a lot of BKDK fanfic:

1. Hi, can we please be friends, because I don’t know anyone

And

2. Can you please send me your BKDK fics with beautiful writing recs? Pls? 🥺

[37sommz-archive]

✼. MOTHER, MAY I | 2019.

CH. 06. NOW PLAYING: stfu! by rina sawayama [fluff, lil angsty]. ✼.⠀summary: michaela and lewis have a chat, 1.5k. ✼.⠀view:⠀masterlist⠀⸻⠀join the taglist⠀⸻⠀request.

✼.⠀NOVEMBER 02, 2019 — austin, usa

If the pounding in Michaela’s head told her anything, it was probably that Austin had been a dizzying show of form. Though she was slated to start sixth in Sunday’s race, Michaela found herself begging the racing gods for mercy. 

The Austin wind paired with the fantastic glimmer of shuttering cameras, had left her struggling to keep her happy smile plastered to her face. Those who noticed the absence of her familiar joyfulness were loud about their observations. She had been put on blast all weekend by reporters, drivers, and social media alike, her thrilling qualifying performance forgotten amidst the generous flow of speculation.

Dodging questions about her personal life—one of the more helpful recommendations Sebastian had gifted her during her time as a reserve—she quickly settled on repeating the same half-assed response every time, “I’m taking a page out of Kimi’s book.” They would laugh and move on, realizing they would be wasting precious airtime attempting to get much of anything out of the Australian driver.

The tiny bit of solace she finds against the wall her blonde waves rest against is stolen in a millisecond as she hears footsteps approaching her. They are gentle yet confident, the contrast perfectly matching the driver to whom they belong. Slowly releasing a sigh of mild grief before beginning to straighten her form, any conscious thoughts are pulled from her mind once she matches the footsteps to the driver. With his hair tucked underneath his Mercedes cap, braids carefully pulled into a signature ponytail, finding Lewis Hamilton smiling down at her practically shakes any aches from Michaela’s system.

“Easy,” he laughs, the sound as relaxed as it was worried. His eyebrows dip as he frowns at the state of the 19-year-old sat below him. Pulling a stray chair to sit beside her, he recovers his frown with a tight-lipped smile. Michaela pales in response as she suddenly finds herself shy of his attention. The two drivers had barely had any time to talk during the younger’s debut season. Though words of congratulations had been exchanged through press conferences, there had been little time for any personal chats. 

“Sorry, I’m a mess at the moment,” she rushes to explain her current condition. Waving a hand at the frantic cope, Lewis shifts his body to face Michaela head-on. 

“How has everything been for you? The team, the media, the fans?” His voice is a calming force settling over the air shared between them. It is then that Michaela takes notice, with self-admitted shock, of the clearness of his skin and the cleanliness of his parts. The famous stud adorning his left nostril seemed to catch the lights brilliantly in a way that only seemed to mock the headache they had given to her. 

Nodding slowly she responds with a practiced carefulness, “Not the easiest.” 

Lewis simply laughs at her answer. Throwing his head back as if she had told the grandest of jokes. His amusement is quickly explained with a loud, “Welcome to Formula One!” 

She chuckles at his reaction. Though it is measured and ends as soon as his does, her shoulders relax as the tension holding them up begins to ease. An air of calm falls between the two drivers as they settle into candid conversation.

“You’ve done pretty well though,” He hums as he nudges his chair ever so slightly closer to hers. Attempting to keep her cool, Michaela nearly misses the caveat of, “From what I’ve seen so far”, that he adds to the thought, a shrug added to emphasize his point of view. 

She sighs in response to the addition. The roll of her eyes, so natural with a practiced ease, draws another laugh out of Lewis. 

“I’m in an Alfa Romeo, it’d be pretty hard to make it worse than it already is.” 

The Mercedes driver moves a tattooed hand to cover his mouth in mild shock the Australian rookie could be so bold. His eyes widen with another bout of amusement, the deep chuckle he tries to suppress managing to escape against the brown of his skin. Her typically subdued nature in press conferences had surely misled him of her true personality. There in the seldom-used hallways she had managed to find in Austin, Lewis found a spark in her eyes typically hidden underneath the pink and white of her famous helmet. 

The older driver leans back to take a peak around the corner, muttering, “You never know who’s around these fuckin’ corners.” 

Clearing his throat, he moves to offer a bit of sympathy to the rookie. With eyes shifting again, this time to true poise, he levels his speech. “The first few seasons are always rough. But I think you’re one of the more capable drivers on the grid. No doubt you’ll be in a better car before long.” 

As Michaela flushes, shying away from the compliment, he attempts to wave off the show of humility. 

“I’m serious, anybody who says otherwise? Fuck ‘em.” His shoulders rise in a show of nonchalance. Hands gesturing outwards catch Michaela’s eye as they crinkle in amusement.

It is Michaela’s turn to laugh out loud. Though her amusement is more subdued to be shared between the two of them, the grace she extends to the great seated in front of her is tangible. Waves of gratitude roll off her being and surround the two of them in a blanket of understanding. 

“Can’t say that in these pressers yet,” She chuckles as her laughter subsides a few beats later. “They’d have me out on my arse by the morning.” 

Her eyes roll again, annoyance replacing the ocean of gratitude she had previously been submerged in. The shift catches Lewis’ attention as he leans back against his chair. His comfort is immediately obvious to the rookie whose cheeks redden to her embarrassment.

“Yeah, that clause in your contract? What’s that all about?” His eyebrows furrow as the slightest of wrinkles around the perimeter of his eyes crinkle just the same. His lips pull into a frown as he awaits Michaela’s response. 

“The shut up clause?” She huffs in reply. A graceful, manicured hand reaches up to massage at her temples. Her dark eyes close as she feels the weight of all the season’s pressure fall back onto her shoulders. 

“If that’s what we’re calling it.” Lewis hums. The concern remains on his face despite his gentle curiosity.

“It’s supposed to keep me ‘in line’.” Her fingers signal quotations around the phrase. “They could fine me for any statements they think unfairly scrutinize them or the FIA.” When Lewis cocks an eyebrow with a questioning tilt of his hair, Michaela offers a clarification: the ‘them’ in question being Alfa Romeo.

“Damn,” He mutters with a disapproving shake of his head. “Didn’t know they could even put that in a contract.” When Michaela doesn’t respond, her head finds its way back against the white linoleum-lined walls, and Lewis takes a breath. 

“Who negotiated that?” He inquires as his lips pull into a line.

An ironic chuckle escapes the younger driver who offers a simple response. “They wouldn’t sign me without it… had to… compromise.” The words are just barely strung together, loose and uncommitted as they hang in the air. 

“Shut up clause.” Lewis muses with a scoff. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip before he sits up in his chair. “How long’s the contract? Two years?” When Michaela only offers a nod in affirmation, Lewis’ arms cross as if communicating his disappointment through solidarity.

The silence continues to freeze the previous ease of conversation. As the rumble of the anxious press floods through the walls separating the two from the waiting craze outside of their presumed sanctuary, Lewis’ phone begins to ring. The contact name of his Press Officer appears in bolded white at the top of the screen. Both drivers release a sigh through their lips, moving to stand from their comfortable seats. Though Lewis’ fingers twitch in an effort to respond to the call, he takes a brief moment to encourage the rookie driver.

“Being the first is never easy. There’s people waiting to see you crash, literally.” The added warning draws a tight-lipped chuckle from the Australian. “Don’t give them the satisfaction of failure, yeah? Experience everything with a cool head, make them eat their words.” Michaela nods in understanding, eyes wide as she hangs on to every syllable of the British driver’s wise words.

With a final, “Keep pushing, kid. You’re the shit”, he departs from her side. His phone raises to his ear as he huffs out an excuse to the woman on the other end, a jog in his steps as he disappears down the hallway. Taking a deep breath, Michaela’s feet carry her to follow him.

✼.⠀taglist:⠀

@cha-hot @certifiedlesbianbaddie @nichmeddar

@d3kstar @thewannabewriter @hwalllllllelujah

@pacmacs-macs @thearchieves @doodlehunz

@lavisenri @evie-119 @bxdbxtxh

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@emilyval1 @scarlettwidow3000 @anotherblackreader

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@melancholyy-hill @emmma323

[thornsnvultures]

this would be with eddie and i'll die on that hill

I was thinking the same thing!! like irl me isn't allowed to go in haunted houses for Reasons but this is fiction so...

(help idk what happened here I didn't mean for this to turn into smut 👀💦 cw: thigh riding, eddie being a perv) 18+

---

"C'mon it'll be fun!"

You looked from Eddie's excited face to the entrance of the old barn that had been converted into a dark, looming haunted house for the season. Black curtains concealing the entryway fluttered in the cool autumn breeze, curling like hands beckoning you closer. But the muffled screams coming from inside kept your feet glued to the ground.

"Eddie, I don't know..." Your hands curled tighter around his arm, digging your nails into his leather jacket.

"I was a scarer here last season and it's the same every year. Trust me, it's not that bad."

"Not that bad" meant different things to you and Eddie. Sure it was just a bunch of teenagers in masks and makeup, but the fear was real. At the very least you knew Eddie wouldn't run off and leave you, (that had happened to you once before, it wasn't fun).

"How 'bout this?" Eddie held you in front of him, suddenly serious. "Every time we make it to the end of a section, I'll give you a kiss."

"Eddie," you roll your eyes, "if you wanna make out we can just go back to the van."

"Don't tempt me," his playful growl teased a smile from your lips. "C'mon, pretty girl. I think I make a pretty good distraction." Eddie waved his hands over his front and wiggled his eyebrows. You could help but laugh, hitting his chest and begging him to stop when he started to gyrate his hips at you. He captured you in his arms, his whole body shaking as he laughed with you.

"Okay," you took a deep breath, Eddie's leather and weed scent settling your nerves the tiniest bit. "I'm ready."

"That's my girl." Eddie smiled and pressed a kiss into your hair before leading you in.

Whatever braveness you felt before walking into the mock-house immediately disappeared when you realized how dark it was inside. You clung tighter to Eddie's arm.

"It's okay. They make the first hallway super dark to fuck with you."

Eddie didn't whisper which somehow made you feel safer. He tromped down the hallway and through the first creepy area in his shit kickers like his raucous feet would keep the monsters away.

The first area was unsettling, but not bad like Eddie said. It was even kind of cute with the fake bats hanging from the ceiling. Once you made it to the end, Eddie took your face in his hands and planted one on you. It was a wet sloppy kiss, purposely so to make you laugh and push him off you.

"Eddie!"

"There's one," he grinned. "Man, this was a great idea."

The rooms got scarier as you went of course, and you screamed more than a few times when someone jumped out from behind a corner or banged an old shovel on the floor. Your heart was hammering harder in your chest with every room.

"How big is this fucking barn?"

"Who cares?"

Eddie had you pressed up against a wall somewhere between the fifth and sixth area. His mouth was too busy kissing down your neck, hidden in the shadows, to care about whoever was going through the house behind you.

His rewards for being brave had gotten a little too "rewarding" and after the last one Eddie couldn't seem to stop. Not that you minded. You'd much rather feel Eddie's lips on your skin than go through the rest of the house.

"Fuck, Eddie, what if someone sees?" The sharp suction of his mouth on your neck was your answer. Who cares? His lips and teeth and tongue whispered, "Let them see. Let them see you're mine. My brave girl."

"Eddie," you whine and grind against where he's straining for you in his tight jeans.

"That's it, pretty girl, doing such a good job."

You didn't know if Eddie was talking about your progress through the haunted house or how you were grinding against the thigh he slotted between your legs but you didn't care.

Eddie squeezed your hips, guiding you towards your release. The rings on his fingers were cool against your heated skin as you worked faster. Eddie could tell you were close by the way your hips stuttered, how you held your breath and shook against his chest.

"That's it, that's it, baby. Show me, give it to me."

Just as you reached your peak, Eddie slammed his mouth on yours, stealing the scream from between your lips and swallowing it down. Your thighs shook around his as you came down, the fake house around you totally forgotten.

"Fuck me, that was hot."

You couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but smile at Eddie as he smiled down at you. You weren't sure if you could walk, but Eddie pulled you through the last two rooms anyway. You stumbled out of the house like you were drunk, barely able to stand and giggling like a lunatic.

Outside one of the workers running the haunted house was speaking with two security guards when they suddenly turned and shouted, pointing at you and Eddie.

"Shit! Run!"

Eddie grabbed your hand and made a dash for the parking lot and his van, hauling your ass behind him as you cackled like a goddamn witch.

Yeah, haunted houses with Eddie might be your new favorite part of Halloween.

[gazkamurocho]

Prison buddies

[patchodraws]

y’all i was thinking about the bees last night while falling asleep and imagining a scenario where they actually get to discuss their feelings post-confession, now that the cat’s out of the bag and they’ve had their tongues down each others’ throats

and i just imagined yang confessing that she’s liked blake since beacon, but knew that blake was going through some shit and didn’t want to come off too strong or catch blake at a bad time, instead just wanting to be there for her however she could. and also, yennow, the sun of it all, and yang worrying blake might not even be into girls, before blake reassures her by saying something about having a thing for “hot blonde bombshells”

and that got me imagining how fucking adorable yang would be if she heard blake call her hot and be all “you think i’m hot? 👉👈👉👈” god i need this

[ducotte-real]

Ok so AO3 user Eggio's Sampard Divinity AU fic series has me going Bananas mhm mhm so i had to scribble or I'd combust (EDIT: AND THEY HAVE A TUMBLR @/SHOEZUKI OOOOHHHH IM GONNA DOUBLE COMBUST)

[sunshine-dies]

I BROUGHT FOOD!!!!!

just read @nyoomerr's new drabbles today and they inspired me to draw this lovely coquettish little Bingwife. read them, they're super good!!!!!

[ID: Scum Villain fanart of original Luo Bingge standing in a modern kitchen and wearing a frilly apron, turning back to look at the viewer with a flush as he asks, "Could I be your wife?" The art is done in cool blue with dusty pink accents. End ID]

[lady-sapphyre]

Art is a commission by the lovely @/lonelymagpies on Twitter (hence my different username in the watermark)

DIVINE FOLLIES:

Rating: explicit

Categories: F/M

Relationship: God!Gale/(named)Tav

Words: 26,771

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘥?

Four decades hence his divine ascension, the God of Ambition hungered still. Hungered for power, for glory, for worship— and for love.

Scorned by his love, a mere mortal, a slight which the mind does not forget easily, he jumps at the chance to rekindle their love affair and bring her to the heavens.

The only way they can be together still... Or is it?

Aka. Tav [redacts] the godhood out of Gale, but also God!Gale character study