#pls read the trigger warnings

[onetimetwotimesthreetimess]

the fact that the news about Neil Gaiman first broke out months ago and it is only now, after the horrific Vulture article are most people finding out about it proves that just speaking out never works out for women; they have to rip themselves out completely apart and relieve the most graphic details for the world to believe them

[literallyjustforlurking]

Being told you were not supposed to be born and you're meant to die has an effect on a child.

Look I'm not saying that the little three (Thalia, Percy and Nico) being told that they were supposed to die and that they shouldn't have been born affected them but I wouldn't be suprised if it impacted their self worth.

Like none of the really try to survive combat. Do they try to win? Obviously, people die if they lose, but if they survive the fight? Well that's secondary.

I'm just saying that while none of them are activily suicidal they are all at minimum passively suicidal.

[allagashed]

that one part in the book where patrick randomly eats several (?) handfuls of sand like it’s a normal thing that normal people do

[tired-lamb]

lone honeybadger: bunga

what did you bury, before those hands pulled me from the earth?

trigger warning — the following post includes mentions of dead animals and loved ones, hunting and killing of animals, hallucinations, a brief mention of dissociation, and talks about grief. please proceed with caution.

[ pt: trigger warning ]

briefing . . . lone honeybadger is a tlg au exploring a ‘what if?’ situation where ono is unable to save bunga in the volcano in the battle for the pridelands and bunga dies. the events that follow include kion losing control of the roar and causing the volcano to erupt— killing more than half of the population of the pridelands and the outlands, as well as resurrecting scar (again). the survivors are now forced to live a life under scar’s rule, for there is no longer anyone to save them. fast forward a few years into this apocalyptic-like universe, and a miracle occurs. bunga, the honeybadger, returns.

[ pt: briefing . . . ]

character’s importance . . . bunga is the cause and the catalyst for the eruption, though he is unaware of it. he is revived presumably by the circle of life (which, it seems, is not yet ready to let bunga complete his journey). there is no explanation given to him whatsoever. for bunga, he was gone in a blip and returned in the same way. he is the same age, in the same state as he was during the battle for the pridelands. he has no knowledge of the events that passed after his ‘death’. 

he serves as a reminder to the survivors, both of the outlands and the pridelands, of all that they had been promised and all that they had lost. none of them have had the time to properly process or grieve those they’ve lost— and so when bunga returns all that they can think of upon seeing him is how betrayed they feel by the guard, how they wished they had escaped the pridelands before any of this happened, and how lovely things had been before they realised they had lost. 

the survivors form the group known as the resistance, led by jasiri. apart from the young ones and jasiri herself, none of them accept bunga and none of them are willing to take him in. they barely have the heart to even tell him what happened. bunga, on the other hand, is in severe denial about the events that followed his ‘death’ and of the death of his friends, too. he tells them that they are lying, and that there’s no way they failed to defeat scar. unfortunately, bunga being bunga, he then plans an.. adventure, of sorts, and travels to the volcano in order to prove that scar is defeated. 

of course, bunga is met with his worst nightmares and is forced to accept that he, too, has lost everything while the glowing head of scar floats not far from him. he is lucky enough to be saved by jasiri and the resistance before scar sees him, however he’s put the entire group at risk and thus has forced them to relocate. the entire resistance is unhappy with this development, and insist jasiri to let him go. before jasiri can turn around, however, bunga’s gone already. 

[ pt: character’s importance . . . ]

character in present timeline . . . bunga in the present timeline is.. rogue, in all senses of the word. he’s not himself anymore, nor does he feel like it. this is where his character takes heavy inspiration from ronin from the tmnt last ronin comics. he goes missing for sometime before, all of a sudden, there is news of a honeybadger in the lands. there hasn’t been one since the time before scar’s reign, and so this catches everyone’s attention. fruit and hoards of insects are found near the resistance’s ever-changing base, mysteriously appearing just at the right time and the right place. hunting is usually reserved for scar’s army (a law that the resistance don’t follow as much as they can), but these days both sides find animals dead and bearing scar marks that none of them can recognise. there’s a chill, a sense of someone new in the game. the resistance hope this will mean something good for them. scar’s army fail to make scar think of this as a serious situation. after all, how could a single honeybadger ever break the hems of his carefully stitched and crafted plan? 

as most of you have probably guessed by now, the ‘mysterious honeybadger’ is bunga. he does, indeed, go on rampages and ‘killing sprees’, though he doesn’t do any of this on .. purpose. it’s a panic reflex; an involuntary action. maybe even a coping mechanism, of sorts. he blanks out— dissociates, in a sense, and next thing he knows he’s back with blood on his claws and a dead or injured animal in front of him. he never means to do this. it takes some time before he gets used to it and decides to at least have something good come out of it, and leaves the animals close to where he believes the resistance base is. the resistance are always relocating, so sometimes he gets it wrong, which leads to scar’s army getting to know that there’s someone else, someone more bold, in the lands now. someone who dares to hunt and leave it out in the open like this.

another important aspect of present lone!bunga is that he carries the ghosts of the guard with him. not in a positive, ‘I’ll carry their memories and hopes with me’ sense, but more of a literal sense. bunga is plagued with hallucinations of the guard in spirit form, and they come and go as they please. they never say a lot. they first started a couple of days after bunga ran away from the resistance. bunga is not at all ready to process the death of his friends nor is he ready to process the raw loneliness that is bound to come with it. at the back of his mind, he knows they’re dead, but instead of letting himself move on from this he lets himself live in the past— that’s all bunga does, really. live in the past. can you blame him, though? 

[ pt: character in present timeline . . . ]

character as grief . . . bunga is one of four main characters in this au that represent something. he, in particular, represents grief. the way I portray this is bunga going through the stages of grief, while also being a symbol of grief for everyone else. as mentioned above, he reminds everyone of what once was and what was lost. he’s a walking corpse, literally and figuratively. he was meant to stay dead. he was not supposed to be revived. he is grief and grief is him. the stages of grief he goes through each and every day consume him entirely. bunga’s current fate was never meant to be— he was never meant to be. not now, not here, at least. he is not of this world. he will never be. 

[ pt: character as grief . . . ]

[st4rbwrry]

yall gotta understand, sometimes when i write fics, i just wanna be messy lmao. if i want drama, if i want the main character to be a dummy and go back to stupid ass mfs? ima do that. bc it’s fanfiction, and some of you have a hard time separating that from reality. in no way am i saying go for a man who will treat you like utter shit and put you last. obviously, you should go where you are loved and respected. when i write shit, i rlly be doing it just for the plot. so it’s okayyy! lighten up! ♡

[all-for-the-recs]

Chapters: 31/31 (TECHNICALLY INCOMPLETE i will elaborate)

Words: 119,457

Author's Summary:

The doctor took a pause, which Nathaniel was able to use to ask, “what about my leg?”

The two pigs had the audacity to look surprised. The doctor looked over at them with a hint of confusion. “You didn’t tell him?”

Towns shook his head as Browning said, “you told us not to.”

Dr. Byrd nodded her head in approval and turned back to the bed. “Nathaniel…” she trailed off, reevaluating her words. “Would you mind if I sit?” and only after his own nod did she. “The damage done to your leg… it was unlike what most of the staff at this hospital had ever seen. The surgeons tried to save it, but…” She looked down at where his legs were and Nathaniel did too, only to feel himself pale at what he found.

“The surgery took about three hours,” Dr. Byrd continued. “The only reason why it took so long was because the surgeons really did try to save your leg. They did. Amputations usually take only half that time. Eventually, Dr. McCoy called it. Because of the damage done to your leg, we couldn’t wake you up to ask. It had to go. I’m sorry.”

~ or ~

the one where neil goes to baltimore and comes back missing a leg

another amputee neil fic! raise your hand if you are surprised!

except this one focuses more on the direct aftermath (and a little on the actual process of the whole reason why he needed it amputated, so be warned!) and is just so sweet and so soft even if it also heartbreaking and angsty.

this fic is very heavy and there are a lot of fucked up things in this because it's the foxes, but the author did an incredible job at tagging these triggers at the beginning of each chapter so be vigilant. the author has also done quite a lot of research as well on the topic of amputation and recovery from such an injury. this is such a beautiful fic, guys, i cannot recommend it enough.

that being said - it is incomplete. well. kind. check out their last chapter for more info on it. i don't believe there's any spoilers in the last chap so it's free to check out before reading. ik it can be a bummer to reach the end of a fic that doesn't quite have a finish to it and find out there's no more, so i will let y'all know in the future if that ever happens.

that being said, it is still an incredible fic, and i don't think it being "unfinished" takes away from the enjoyment i got from reading it!

[aandrewscotts]

seblaine fandom you would love andriel

[ljubimaya]

I will have to add more trigger warnings on the masterlist

[snow-and-saltea]

finished like 153 chapters in one night. i love these kinds of executions for yandere characters so much. i love it when a story takes mental illness and psychological brokenness seriously and still be able to create a beautiful interpretation without fetishizing that appeals to the very raw and basic nature of wanting to be loved so badly that fractures a person. i love stories like this that show us the worst of a person but doesn't rush to ease them again. i love stories that show the darkest pits of the human psyche and makes you go, "this is happening but it isn't the end. wait just a bit, and ill show you how things get better." i LOVE when stories do that; get all meta and create a story within the story that the actors/characters have to now see their way through and reach the scripted happy ending that feels impossible and illogical to reach as a conclusion, but happened anyways. stories that are seemingly taken out of the author's hands and into the characters instead and them being like "i know you believe this happy ending to be false, because you can't believe it'll be achievable through anything but delusion. but just wait, i'll show you." (thinking particularly about the princess iron fan arc in act age bc that still makes me tear up)

the depiction of ptsd and mental illness was something i was particularly touched by, too. the "problematic" aspects, ugly aspects, of mental illness were addressed so kindly and compassionately, and the solution never felt like it was straight up telling you "you're messed up. this isn't right, you're not normal". this is something i would've expected reading a story with a yandere character, because for most people the appeal of a yandere is to be attracted to someone who is Fucked up but hot. but like. even rebuttals like "no that's not normal! that scares me!" were handled so casually -- almost to the point you could call it carelessly, but it wasn't careless at all. it was a deliberate choice to not make a Huge deal about being turned off by someone's thoughts or preferences that made for a much more judgement-free and loving environment to agree or disagree with each other.

rindo is really the ideal wish fulfillment for mentally ill buddies like me along w kim kitsuragi sjjdjdjfkfkf. like i kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, to see the twist that oh this guy is gonna be fucked up too! bc of the Genre! but no. he's kind, steadfast and humourous, and is so generous w his capacity to love people. he might be understood as a selfless martyr type with the way he keeps wanting to reassure amane even during really troubling events in the plot, but he was never traumatised by those events and he had a clear and sane mind the entire time. its so easy to think of him as a "victim" in an overbearing codependent relationship in the story, but he's just really emotionally resilient. he doesn't give up, he doesn't take hurtful words at face value because he knows something deeper is at play, he doesn't hesitate opening up first and being vulnerable or pushy if it helps amane feel less ugly being vulnerable with his thoughts and desires towards him.

this is a fictional story and not irl, so obviously like. irl, you wouldn't want to enmesh yourself so deeply with someone that you'll die if they do. but he was willing to do that. not necessarily that, but the same gesture -- "if i ever betray you, you can kill me, and then we'll both be the last thing we'll see". on paper, even just writing it, makes me sound insane and delusional. how could this be something someone sane could say? but he WAS sane, because he was also saying "you said you love me so much you want to die with me, so you must also mean that you love me so much you want to live with me forever. this means your heart wants to be with me, so stop deceiving yourself into thinking you'll be fine. know that my heart and yours are joined in the same way, because i want to see you at the end of my life too, and there's nothing wrong with that."

rindo has such a great talent for finding multiple meanings, often positive, to amane's thoughts. because his mind is often muddy and swamped with unpleasant words and memories when he spirals / ruminates , he can't stick his hand through it long enough to see what comes out when he pulls out of it. very natural, normal and human desires you form with someone you love: "i love you. i'm scared you'll leave me someday. i want to be with you forever. i don't know if i deserve to be this happy. i love you. i love you. i love you. i don't want to spend a day without you. i want you to be happy and i want to be involved in making you happy, but i feel so incompetent that i'm worried i'll fail too much. i love you. please love me back.”

the way the characters in this story is so kind genuinely ... makes me want to cry. like rindo's mom accidentally saying homophobic things at first out of surprise but then her Maternal instincts took over and she could have another son to shower with love. the way everyone looks out for them but doesn't judge their relationship or try to messily break them away from each other or intervene for their "own good". there's no unnecessary drama or misunderstanding that isn't solved within 1-2 chapters in a really clear, reassuring tone (while also maintaining a natural pace so as to be thoughtful to the writing).

man. i cried multiple times reading this story. i was just here for the yandere BL ride, not the unexpected feeling of love and validation for my mental health issues?!

[cecexoxo]

If you haven't read Alan Scott Green Lantern yet what are you doing???? He's such an interesting character and the story is so good

[fellhellion]

Very slowly inoculating the spiderman mutuals with rev gal utena posts 🌀🌀ooooo you wanna watch the anime that changed my life ooooooo 🌀🌀

[miiyumei]

i just finished the death i gave him by em x. liu, which is pitched as a “lyrical, queer sci-fi retelling of shakespeare’s hamlet” but make it a locked room mystery/thriller and god!!!!! GOD!!!!!!

[goth-link]

10 Characters/10 Fandoms

Rules: list 10 favorite characters from separate fandoms/ media, then tag (10) people

tagged by @kiddokori FRIEND

Witcher 3: Yennefer of Vengerburg

Castlevania (Netflix): Isaac

VTM:B: Therese Voerman/ Jeanette Voerman

Silent Hill 3: Alessa Gillespie/ Heather Mason

Bloodborne: The Plain Doll

RGU: Anthy Himemiya

BG3: Karlach

RDR2: Lenny Summers

Ginger Snaps: Brigette Fitzgerald -> Childhood fav

Dracula: Mina Harker -> Childhood fav part 2: Electric Boogaloo

@ottos-pseudopods, @jaw-the-fandom-hopper, and whoever else! i don’t wanna tag people i haven’t talked to rlly but go ham, everyone!

[ihopeinevergetsoberr]

academic rivals request! viktor x fem!reader, nsfw

request: @4-leafed pls... if u have time pls write a viktor x reader that r both geniuses at the academy but very much toe the line of rivalry and sexual tension...i love competitive smart people that fall in love when the rivalry becomes respect ... and they FREAK IT!!! possibly in a lab ! up to you : 3c

i liked this request so much that i ended up writing a decent-ish one-shot….

update: i wrote a part 2 because it was highly requested! you can read it here :)

rating: explicit

word count: 3,5k

warnings: academic rivals. LOTS of dialogue and bickering. dubious science because i skipped it in school, had to do some basic chemistry revision to write this pornographic catastrophe, so please pat me on the back. rough sex? rough… foreplay, that’s for sure. dirty talk, if you can call bickering that. penetration. reader tries to slap viktor, spits in his mouth and he cums in his pants. normally, i only write vanilla stuff, so i have no idea how it turned out THIS kinky (at least for me okay). not proofread (yet). nsfw under the cut:

—

“How do you take your coffee?”

His voice betrays the feeble intention of civility, fusing that polite inquiry into a hiss—a phonetic torture you didn’t even know could occur before. So much for killing you with kindness. Outstaging quips by desecrating courtesies. 

“I don’t care,” you mutter on autopilot. Can’t let him in on any personal preferences, no matter how insignificant. “Just don’t put arsenic in it.” 

Viktor scoffs. Puts the kettle away and peers at you over his shoulder, all wretchedly complacent. 

“So the rest of the periodic table is welcome, I presume?” 

Viktor. The local Nikola Tesla knock-off. Never a moment of peace with him; and the fierce taste of competition grows coppery in your mouth whenever he’s in your sight—the most handsome trigger of your cheek-biting reflex.

His name is an insult on your lips and you want to taste it. Chew it, crush it with your teeth and spit right out, preferably aiming for those poignant eyes seeking you in every classroom—so eager to light up with objection the second your opinion differs from his. 

Always the first prick to disparage your input. A never-resting generator of all the meticulous ways to denounce your projects. 

“If I may.” 

Sickeningly polite, too. With that lithe finger pointing in the air— so irritatingly comical. He may not, but there isn’t a chance he’ll shut up, now, is there?

And so he’d clear his throat, straightening his tie in that ridiculously solemn fashion. As if stepping on a pedestal to deliver a life-changing speech—not some shallow nitpicking regarding your circuit breakers. All eyes on him while his kept staring only into your soul. Special treatment, if you will. 

You will not.

“Using magnetic frames is careless,” he’d state. With his hand imposingly pointing to the blueprint on your slide. “Copper coils may oxidize. Not to mention the overheating. I would use thermoplastics. They’re significantly more efficient. And heat-resistant.”

Oh please. Like someone here gives a shit about what you’d use. 

But you can’t say that. Not in a room full of professors. And, judging from the countless nods of approval, the shits were, in fact, being given. 

“Too risky,” you oppose. “Thermoplastics often degrade at high temperatures. Electric insulation is not worth the damage of releasing hydrocarbons. I assumed that you’d be aware of that, Viktor. But I suppose that was an omission on my part.” 

More nods of approval, now in your favour. Here it goes again—the ever-lasting spectacle of hatred. Elegant, when entertaining the audience. Anything but discreet, in private. A perpetually drawn game of chess. By repetition, not agreement. Both of you refuse to retreat until checkmate. 

Oh yes, the sentiment was mutual. You and Viktor were notorious for tearing at each other's throats. The things you’d sacrifice to make that more than a mere metaphor, though. To pull him by that neat tie to sweet asphyxiation and hear him rasp for mercy with eyes full of pathetic condemnation. And he dreamed of that, too. His cane was itching to give you a smack—to paint your behind a plum so deep you’ll have troubles sitting without wincing. When it came to making metaphors literal, he’d pick being the pain in your ass.

However, your mentors couldn’t care less about the rivalry. The Collegiate Inventors Competition was coming up. And who could possibly make better candidates than two greatest minds of the engineering department, with academic excellence so accurately neck and neck that both of your names now occupy the honorary first place in every ranking table? 

That’s how you ended up with your sentence—three weeks of after-hours cooperation in the lab with the incorrigible bastard himself, a quarter of which you’ve already wasted on pointless bickering. Well, not without achieving some common grounds. The choice of prototype landed on one of your personal ambitions—a wearable exoskeleton for post-surgery rehabilitation, with plenty of robotics involved. Endorsed by Viktor, for once. The greater good must have swallowed even his dispute. Off to a nice start, if someone were to ask you.

However, the first issues struck early: on the very stage of development. Viktor volunteered for modelling: meaning, the framework would be custom, to accommodate his spine specifically. An object lesson for everyone involved, it would seem—but only in an ideal world. Which, considering what you had at hand (acrimony, bitterness, an entire picky bit of gall), was filtered out by default.

Now, five gruesome days and who’s-even-counting-anymore restarts later, you’re nowhere near close to at least a draft, yet borderline keen on murdering each other. And you’re certain the latter is approaching. He did just contemplate putting arsenic in your cup, after all. 

Viktor stirs the coffee. Watches his reflection smudge in the dark, whirly water, shooting you an askance glance from beneath thick brows when you start stirring yours—the spoon clanking a tad too loud, as if you were doing it on purpose. Which, you undoubtedly were. 

“Stop that,” he groans, almost leaping out of his chair. His heavy, disturbed gaze meets your cheeky simper. “You don’t have to stir it so thoroughly. It’s not like you take it with sugar anyway.”

“Of course.” You shrug. “I don’t drink slop.”

“Oh, I figured. There’s nothing sweet about you, so why would your coffee be any different?”

“There’s plenty of sweetness about me. I simply don’t squander it on entitled pricks.” 

That finally grounds him. And you’re giddy for the way his sturdy hand grips the cup so hard that it almost shatters into his palm, knuckles growing pale enough to match the porcelain. More so when you take a loud, languid sip, feigning innocence. Fully wallowing in his darling, defeated speechlessness. 

“Excuse you,” he mutters. “Entitled?!” 

“So you agree with the ‘prick’ part?” 

“Yes, and I take great pride in it. You may mark me flustered.” 

“Don’t forget to bust in your pants.”

Viktor sneers: chapped lip twitching, scowl growing defensive. Lanky legs untangle as he rises to his feet, towering above you in an angry lean on his cane—long frame transforming into your personal, scrawny menace, pissed exhale sharp and nasal above your head. And you admit to looking small beneath him—all hunched shoulders, weak smile finally tumbling lopsided. 

“Don’t you dare call me entitled,” he demands—and means it. It’s palpable in the way he twists the handle of his cane, the squeaky sound violently scratching your brain. “I sweated blood to achieve my privileges in this establishment.”

You huff, rolling your eyes. “So did I, and yet you keep ordering me around as if I’m some braindead apprentice. We’re counterparts, Viktor. You’re supposed to be mindful of my perspective.”

“I never see you being mindful of mine,” he counters.

And, well. You can’t argue with that. 

Your coffee break continued in avoidant silence, but the ambience simply reeked of hostility—stifling enough to make you leave the lab feet first. The deadline’s chokehold besieging your neck wasn’t of any help, either—you had to submit the draft for approval by Sunday. And, so far, you haven’t even agreed on the design plan. 

You shoot Viktor a reluctant glance. Pensive, he sat slouched over his parchment, emitting pure peril. Like his shoulder blades might stab you if you attempt a single tap, belligerently peeking through the thin shirt. You tucked your lip under your teeth, chewing hard, tongue running over every small, neurotic wound inside your mouth. Fruitless negotiations held a special spot amongst your least favourite endeavours, but this conundrum called for a desperate measure.

“Viktor.” You winced at how chocked up it came out. He noticed that, too—because of course he did—turning in his chair to nod at you, ever so shit-eatingly. Lancing eyes scrutinised their way up to your face. What an affront. 

“Yes?” Always chiding in that condescending tone of his. Hissy ‘s’ echoed in the lab, gnawing at your nerves. 

“We have to submit something by the end of this week. Let’s at least decide on the blueprint.” 

“Fine.” He shrugged, returning to his sketch. “We’re going with mine.” 

“No!” You snapped. “We’re coming up with a new one. Together.” 

Viktor hummed in mock consideration. The strand of hair he’s been twirling unraveled, claiming more attention than you deemed him worthy of. Sighing, he lazily reached for your graph, frowning as his eyes started skimming over the scribbles. You made your way to the desk, claiming a spot behind his shoulder. That required a tacit truce. 

“You really want to wield… hydraulic actuators?” He winced, looking up at you. Had your breath hitching at that respectful attempt, the effort prominent in the very way he uttered those words—as if struggling to filter out swear ones. 

“Yes,” you mustered. “For high power.” 

“But they’re so heavy.”  

“Well, what would you use?” 

He chuckled—rich and malicious. Flipped the page and finally averted those curious eyes, arching a bushy brow. 

“I thought no one gave a… crap about what I’d use.” 

Oh, well. It felt nice while it lasted. 

“How did you even—“

“You ought to be more discreet with your vitriol,” he retorted. “I’ll let you know that I’m a decent lip-reader.” 

“Then don’t stare at my mouth next time. What would you use, Viktor?” 

Now that left you both startled. His fingers stilled above the diagram, flexing in disbelief, hollow cheeks hued a puzzled rouge as you almost chomped your tongue off, showing an embarrassed curse back into the depth of your throat. 

“Ahem. Electric motors,” he chanted, pretending to overlook the slip-up. And for once, you were grateful for his tact. 

“I see. Well, er… put that down, please.” 

He instantly complied, fetching a pen. Left you to reflect on your misery to the rhythmic sound of his scrawling, pressing a sweaty palm to his forehead. 

“Right.” He sighed. “What about the power supply?”

“Rechargeable batteries?” You suggested weakly. “Lithium-ion.”

“Very well. Frame?”

“Something durable. Titanium?” 

“Absolutely not,” he scoffed, pushing the notes away. “Why must you always insist on using the heaviest equipment?”

“I don’t know, corrosion resistance?” You muttered back, hovering over him. “Biocompatibility?”

“That’s perfectly manageable with carbon fiber!”

“So it shatters after the tiniest bump? Bravo, Viktor, how ingenious.” 

He lurches forward—rigid breath quivering over yours. Close enough to crush that thick skull with your forehead—if only you ventured, that is. But, alas, you’re not as brave just yet. Some brief eye-stabbing is about all you’re good for. 

“Fine,” he agrees, pulling away. “We’ll use aluminium alloys. Corrosion resistant and easy to machine. No one wins. Does that suffice?” 

“Yes. Now will you finally let me take your measurements for the sketch?”

He doesn’t answer—at least not verbally. Merely stands up and nods to the measuring tape, face still heavily contorted with displeasure. But you don’t oblige just yet. How can you, when Viktor’s fingers suddenly reach for his collar, fumbling with the button? And—oh no—now they’re sliding lower, reiterating once, twice, thrice, until his chest (flushed, but that might just be wishful thinking) is fully peeking out, teasing the smooth scrap of ivory skin. 

“What… are you doing?” You mumble, utterly startled. 

“…Undressing?” He says matter-of-factly, looking up at you so askance as if you’d just asked him if the sky is blue. One more ministration and the shirt is neatly folded next to the parchment—waiting for you to be through with the measurements to be slid back on his bony shoulders. 

“That, I can tell,” you mumble. “Why did you undress?”

Viktor’s gaze daggers into you again. “Don’t tell me you were actually intending to measure me clothed? Can you not comprehend precision?”

“Precision?”

“The prototype is expected to cling to me. I don’t see how that’s achievable with my shirt on— I assumed that was rather obvious.”

“Shut the fuck up.” 

“Ah, sweet civility. I even started worrying that other entitled pricks must’ve depleted your decorum, but it seems like you saved some up for me after all. I’m flattered, really—“ 

You don’t even register when it happens.

Next thing you see is Viktor seizing your wrist—sternly yanking your slap off his face before it gets the chance to land there in a flared handprint. Nothing but pure rage and prickliness—right where his short nails are lancing your skin, engraving an ugly bracelet you’ll wear for hours.

Well, maybe there is something else. Something inexplicable, and tremendous—deep in the way your eyes keep drifting south—where his pants sling low on defined hips, and the pretty trail of dark hair runs from navel to waistband—no doubt circling exactly what you manage to make out in the convex slope of his crotch. And you want to slap him for that, too—sonorous, and frenetic. Going in again with full force, but his force always turns out to be fuller—and in an instance he firmly twists your arm, pinning it behind your back—pale face barely five inches away from your flushed one. 

What happens next is beyond any explanations. Later, he’ll blame it on inertia—that stupid urge to maintain the speed, to stay in motion with your messy antics until some external force stops him—a simple need to claim you before the inevitable collision.

But there’s no inertia in escalation. In the way his free hand grabs you by the nape and clashes agape mouths together, teeth bumping hard enough to make you consider booking a dentist appointment later. Not a sign of inertia when you grab him, either—a little clumsy through the sharp pain in your twisted arm—bold fingers raking his scalp in a vengeful tug on his hair. 

And it’s more than a kiss. If anything, it looks like you’re trying to eat him—tongue out and thrusting into his throat so fiercely that he gags on it, almost tearing up. Now you know what sheer desperation sounds like, and it’s grunting against your mouth, suddenly pitching to a pathetic moan when you grab a handful of chestnut hair and pull so hard that his eyes roll back, lean frame shaking under your violent approach. You use that startled momentum to try and pry your arm free, but he still keeps it in place. 

“You’re hurting me!” You hiss, attacking his neck—the very one you always shamefully admitted to finding the sexiest any man can possess, and your teeth roughly pinch at his voice box, coaxing another whine. 

“Good.” He groans with spite. “I hope I am.” 

And yet, he releases your aching arm, trading it for a calculated squeeze of your waist. But the audacity overshadows his little mercy. You instantly use the unrestrained privileges to force a finger into his mouth—astounded at the way he instantly opens up, almost mockingly pliant. More so when you spit on his tongue, sparing no shame—as if trying to rile him up beyond recognition. Grinning, when your saliva dribbles down his chin. 

“Ah.” He huffs, instantly licking up the remnants. “Thank you. Ever so disrespectful.”

“You haven’t earned my respect,” you lie, nudging him towards the chair. Not even bothering to wait until he lands, impatient hands already messing with his belt—so treacherously earnest as you shake, unfastening the buckle, and the bastard chuckles at that, looking down at your eager work. 

“That’s a new low, then,” murmurs coyly, helping you into his lap, heavy head leisurely thrown back. “Sleeping with someone you don’t respect.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Oh yes. You’re about to.” 

You glare at him from under heavy lids, but the anger refuses to linger—not when he stares back full of indignant awe, so clearly basking in your attention. With his cock half-springing out of undone pants, shamelessly twitching against your palm. And not a single breath was hitched to conceal his excitement. 

“Must you always be so insufferable?” You reproach, pushing his hair back—too domestic for your own liking, and yet it doesn’t feel unfitting. Especially when he leans into your hand, welcoming your touch on his sweaty forehead—like he wanted you to feel it fever up with want.

“No.” He shakes his head. “But if it can grant me this, I’ll triple the effort.” 

“What happened to new lows? You don’t have a fraction of respect for me, either.”

“You’re right.” He shrugs. “Fractions could never encapsulate my tribute to you.”

And his hand slipped under your skirt, shakily crawling home—precisely where you’d never confess to needing him a mere minute ago. But the sentiment did a decent job at diluting your rancour. There came no protest when he introduced two long fingers into your underwear, openly gasping at the evident dampness. And you allowed him that with no regrets. Moreover, you helpfully sank yourself knuckle deep, wincing at the brief burn, arms wrapping around his neck as he sweetly looked up, seeking your  permission. Which was instantly found in the pretty moan you spilled into his mouth, slick tongues back at their futile attempts to strangle each other. 

However, your patience was running thin. As much as you wanted to indulge in proper foreplay, whatever masochistic dance he exposed you to had you in agony ever since it started—and it was getting unbearable to ignore the ache, no matter how bad Viktor  craved to postpone the main course. 

Your thighs clenched hard as you crouched above him, fingers wrapping around the hilt to awkwardly line the tip up with your cunt—the slick sound of it slowly sliding down suddenly igniting some tender bashfulness. Like you didn’t just spit in his mouth with a vile smirk. Like he never had to confine you from slapping him in the face. 

That stretch felt different from the one after his fingers. Significantly richer, it made you whine—a pitiful sound reverberating against his skin as you held on tighter and allowed him to bottom out, savouring every little crevice inside you. Raw, yet neither of you seemed to care—that concern was pushed alongside your underwear, then forgotten altogether when your walls clenched him, offering tight bliss. 

“Move,” you demanded, grabbing him by the chin. Viktor rasped something back, but you didn’t catch it—already too busy tongue-fucking his pretty neck, turning your teeth into sharp tools ready to stain it mauve with bites. 

And he complied again. One hand trembled on your hip while the other crawled between your legs—first missing your clit in the chaotic pace of thrusts, then finding it again as it grazed his fingertips. So cheeky when he dared to pinch it, avenging every pull on his hair. Though, he couldn’t gloat in your wince. Not when it clearly was one of the pleasured kind. 

But you didn’t feel like letting him regain composure. You already missed his husky groans—ached to test what else fucking you could make him mutter. Fogy gaze found his face again, softening at the sight—all wet forehead full of concentrated creases and thin lips bitten to bloodless paleness. 

You took over. Let him lean back and rest as you roughly rode him into the chair—and for that he gave you a grateful moan, the insistent thumb toying with your clit never stopping even for an instant. Good with his hands, and he knew it—proudly grinned when you struggled to keep going, taut legs treacherously giving up astride him. 

That didn’t please you in the slightest. You wanted him to be close, too: slid a hand up his chest and angrily tugged at one nipple—chortling when his mouth dropped in a stunned gasp. Bewildered, but he didn’t mind it—amber eyes squeezed shut when his head lolled, and you finally got his lovely moans back—raspier than before, ravenous enough to make your head spin. 

You could already feel it, pulsing somewhere deep within. Blurry vision couldn’t make him out anymore, the lab smudging into a mess of weird shapes—you were about to cum, hard, and Viktor threatened to follow suit any second—his thumb failing to hold steady, and yet the pressure was still there, courtlesly helping you chase that sweet relief. Such a gentleman. 

“Close,” you chanted. “So, so close.” 

“I know,” he answered, choking on a groan. “Me too.” 

And you melted, almost crushing him with your weight. Quivering in a spasm so intense that it had him struggling to keep moving, and yet he was mindful of the risk—used the last fractions of his brain capacity to gently nudge you off his cock and pump it fast and hectic. Cumming in one endlessly thick rope, with a moan so vocal that it reached you even through the layers of foggy, ear-buzzing aftermath. Had you shuddering when you clung off his shoulder, glassy eyes wide with trembling astonishment. You stared at him through the approaching wave of disbelief. 

No signs of regret so far, or maybe it was simply still forming—for now, you silently admired not a snarky bastard, but a pretty, fucked out boy beneath you. 

“Oh, would you look at that.” Viktor chuckled, sheepishly looking down. “I didn’t forget.”

“What?” You mumbled in confusion, following his gaze.

And when it finally caught your attention—sticky and relentlessly staining his pants—you slammed a hand over your mouth, muffling the hysterical laughter. 

“And here I thought I finally fucked your remarkable memory out.”

“Oh, by no means. As, eh… intense as that was, that misery of mine is not going anywhere. However,” he trailed off, his hand skittishly moving towards yours, “sex clearly proved beneficial for our… dynamic.”

You smile, sliding your palm into his warm grasp. 

“Can it ensure us enough civility to win the competition?”

And Viktor scoffs, coyly looking you in the eye. 

“Why should we limit it to just that?” 

[xxstarryxeyedxx]

who the absolute hell wrote borrasca i will find them and pee in their socks and bed

[csainzoperator]

"let's break up" ☆

summary: you text your f1 boyfriend "let's break up" as a prank.

trigger warnings: fem pronouns, mentions of seperated parents, mentions of killing (as a joke), nicknames, idk if there are more (?)

charles, carlos, lewis, george, max

lando, oscar, alex, logan, daniel

an: omg pls i need such responses. especially logan's cos that's literally me. but hope you had fun reading this, my loves!