#ITS THE BEST MY GAWD | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

leclsrc · 1 year

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sweet pea ✴︎ cl16

genre: friends to lovers, dad charles/pregnancy au, fluff!, humor, super slight angst

word count: 4.6k

“I thought the puking was food poisoning,” he says. “Jesus, you know how many takeout places I’ve avoided lately?” “Well, it’s not Panda Express. It’s your alien sperm.”

Or: you finally reap what you sow after fooling around with your best friend. The reaping in question is a kid.

notes... some nsfw allusions, nothing too bad. if pregnancy isnt ur thing this is all about it so.

auds here... i hated this for a long time so i thought id never post it hahahah but i will now bec i just redid some scenes and its okay in my eyes... also this is a bit overdue. i hope u like it everyone! :) title from this

It’s an hour before the race and you’re absent from your usual spot greeting friends and guests along the paddock. Instead, you’re leaned against the wall of the tiny motorhome bathroom, silently digging your toes into your sandals. Charles knocks twice before trying to open the door and succeeding. He beams when he sees you, goes, “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

He offers a hand, but you let your eyes shut, refusing to take it. You fail to even make eye contact, holding up the plastic stick that’d been in your clammy grip for about twenty minutes. It’s an omen, a portent, a cursed thing, casting your best friend into silence.

It’s cold and sterile in the bathroom—a stark contrast to where other families might find out they’re pregnant for the first time. You imagine a lemon yellow room bathed in noon sunlight and a happy balding doctor going “It’s positive, mama!” You picture a white family SUV in the parking lot, a happy blonde couple jumping into each other’s arms with unadulterated happiness.

Instead, you get: “Do you have COVI—oh.”

“Yeah.” You say, pursing your lips. You swallow. “Oh.”

“I thought the puking was food poisoning,” he says. “Jesus, you know how many takeout places I’ve avoided lately?”

“Well, it’s not Panda Express. It’s your alien sperm,” you counter, lifting yourself from the wall and bumping past Charles on your way out and into his room. He follows, brows knitted together, muttering something French under his breath.

“By that logic, that’d mean you’re an alien now, too. See, your kinks have finally met their match.”

You turn, effectively stopping him in his tracks. He almost collides with you, his eyes trained determinedly on the positive pregnancy test in his hand. You cross your arms and narrow your eyes, annoyed. “Seriously. Jokes? Right now?”

“I mean—”

“Whatever,” you say, waving him off. “Just go and drive. We can talk about this later.”

“I’ll dedicate the race to the little alien.” He giggles, mimicking a champagne spray, waving the invisible bottle back and forth toward your still-not-showing stomach. His accent switches to a measly English one when he goes, “Oh my Gawd! And there goes the alien Leclerc! Wins in first! From pole!”

“Get out. Or so help me God this baby is growing up without you.”

He ends up winning. (“Should I dedicate every race to the ali—” “Stop calling it that.”)

—

This is nothing but a final culmination of your very layered relationship with Charles. For years, you two had comfortably gone by the “best friends” label, with a hidden “with benefits” clause. You’d grown up together, separated only when you went to university in New York. Your re-arrival in Monaco, coupled with the both of you having grown older and more independent, marked the start of the sex.

It works like clockwork. To relieve stress, to celebrate, to cure boredom. At some point, both of you just inwardly admitted there was a certain weakness to it. A glass of wine, a stick of tobacco, and you’d give in to the temptation easily. Then, in the morning—sometimes in Monaco, other times in foreign countries where your body feels like it’s still three a.m.—you come to a mutual agreement to never do it again.

But you always do, laughing in between kisses, mumbling whispered nothings between the sheets (or in the bathtub, or against the wall, or—that one time—on the balcony.) And now there’s proof of it. Well, barely any yet, you realize, staring at yourself in the mirror of Charles’ hotel room. You turn and flop yourself onto the bed, but face-up. You inch yourself toward the headboard and lean against it in a half-seated position.

“I can’t believe I’m…” You sigh. Finally, the jokes fizzle. This is the real talk.

Charles burrows himself next to you, shirtless and in a stupid pair of boxers with red hearts all over them. You’d gotten them as a Valentine’s Day gag two years ago, but now you’re thinking of the future, of telling this kid their dad has a pair of heart-decorated boxers. Momentarily, and temptingly so, you weigh the options of telling Charles you were joking and running away before sunup.

“Penny for your thoughts?” He asks. He’d learned the phrase from some obscure American rom-com, if you recall correctly. He uses it constantly, and for many years, improperly.

“I’ll give you them for free,” you say, breathless with worry. “We’re having a kid.”

A hand places itself on your knee. You almost jerk away, but you relax. “What do you want to do?”

“With?” You ask, emptily. There’s so much to do. “The baby?”

“Well, I mean, yeah, but also us.”

“We’re not dating,” you say, a bit sharper than intended.

“We could.” He pauses. “For its sake.” He pokes your abdomen.

“I don’t—” You inhale, trying to reorganize all your thoughts. “I don’t want people thinking we’re suddenly dating and engaged and happy just because I’m about to pop a Charles Jr. out. I mean, what are you going to do with your racing? With a kid on the way, how’s travel going to work? My job? My masters?”

“I think… I think you and I are lucky enough,” he says slowly, “to be able to weigh all these options without losing too much time or resources. I will support you no matter what, and you know that. And really, who cares if people think we ‘date’ because of the baby? You and I have been ‘dating’ since we were eleven.”

You don’t realize you’re crying until your laugh is mixed with a sob. You don’t know if you’re sad, pissed, overwhelmed, loved—or all four. “Okay? So… let’s both think about it. More you than me. And tomorrow, we can weigh this all over again. Let’s sleep on it. Remember? La nuit—”

“—porte conseil,” you finish tearily. “Okay.”

—

It’s two weeks later. Charles gets stuck in the paddock doing something or other for Sunday, so you’re left to your own devices in the parking lot. Five minutes of waiting turns to fifteen, then a half hour. That’s the catalyst for your mid-evening freakout—suddenly you’re thinking about all the times you and this weird thing inside you might be alone, left for work, by an athlete dad.

“Are you okay?” A voice asks when you’re heaving out another dry, panic-induced sigh. You turn, finding it familiar, and see Seb behind you. He may have been Charles’ teammate, but he’s a friend to you, too, and you find he’s always the most grounded in heated discussions.

“Seb,” you croak, caught off guard. “I’m fine.” Your voice breaks on the ine, and suddenly fat tears roll quietly down your face.

You tell him eventually, when he asks you again if you’re okay, making him the second person to know; still, the telling doesn’t get easier. You didn’t even tell Charles, you think. You merely shoved a Clearblue stick in his face and waited for the goofy reaction that would undoubtedly meet your ears.

“A baby,” he says softly. Happily. “Congratulations. This is a big step… but you don’t sound excited.”

“I mean,” you say in between waves of tears, “I am? I am. But—it happened so fast—we’re not even officially together—and Charles is—”

“Do I need to talk some sense into Charles?” Seb asks suddenly, concerned.

“No. He’s—he’s being great. Really supportive.” You wipe the tears and fresh ones come. “He’s happy. You know him. I think I’m just overwhelmed. I mean I’m the one who’s toting this baby around.”

“Take it one step at a time,” he muses. “See a doctor, work out non-race schedules with Mattia, get everything in order. If I know you, this baby will be in the best hands. And that’s not even counting Charles.” He pulls you in for a hug that lasts ages, one that says thank you and I love you better than words. You inhale, find the tears have stopped. You realize what comes after this—it’s telling everyone else. Lily, your best friend. Carlos. Charles’ family. Your family. The fans, oh God you’d forgotten about the fans. The social media announcements.

Charles strolls into the parking lot—runs, more like, with apologies spouting out of him, just two minutes after Seb leaves. He presses a delicate, apologetic kiss to your forehead, a hand on your stomach. “Hey,” he says. Then, to your abdomen, covered by a sweatshirt, “Hey there, alien.” You wonder what this will be like in two months. In seven. In nine.

—

You tell your families over lunch on a lucky off day. There is little surprise—just tears from both your moms and Arthur teasingly asking you to recount the details of conception. You’re in a sundress serving crostini when Pascale pulls you aside to the back of the yard.

She presses a kiss to your cheek, one of conviction and faith. “I always knew,” she says. “You’re going to be a wonderful mom.”

—

The drivers all find out one way or another, news trickling through the grapevine like honey. You share it to Lily first, and of course she tells Alex. You tell Lewis, too, over spring rolls that he claims will power up the baby when it’s born. Charles tells Pierre, who tells Yuki, and Carlos, who tells Lando. You tell Mick, who hugs you and says, “Oh my god! I already knew, Seb told me. I kept wanting to say congratulations.”

It’s a matter of two weeks before everybody knows. You know because you’ve barely taken a step into the dimly lit Ferrari motorhome when you halt and bolt back outside, harboring yourself a few metres away at a safe distance. Charles, who had been walking beside you, arm looped around your waist, turns, puzzled.

“What’s going on?” He asks.

“No. Nuh-uh. It smells in there.”

He sniffs the darkness, fumbles for the light switch. “No it doesn’t.”

“It smells like”—you grit your teeth, trying to identify the stench—“cheese. And champagne.”

“Why would it smell like che—”

He bangs the light open and illuminates a surprise party. The entire grid starts cheering, having unheard the entire conversation. There’s a huge banner that says CONGRATULATIONS PARENTS, and on a makeshift table in the centre, an assortment of cake slices, cheese, and flutes of champagne. Charles laughs with delight at the surprise, and then turns to find you squatting on the ground, trying to quell your stomach.

“Give me five,” you say, waving him off.

He returns after ten to find you still trying to calm the waves of nausea. You hear his footsteps and heave yourself up, standing to face him. “I asked Esteban and Max to evacuate the place of cheese and champagne. It’s just coffee and cake now. I even got three fans going.”

“Desolée,” you say, miserable. He wraps two big arms around you, nestling his chin atop your head. “I feel like a high-maintenance monster.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re not the monster. The alien is.”

“I told you to stop calling it that,” you say, shutting your eyes and leaning into his touch. “Before it catches on.”

“Okay. E.T.? Spock? Open to suggestions.” Hand in yours, he walks you gently to the party, arising loud cheers again. In between sips of hot water, he says, “How about Chewy?”

—

The sense of smell proves to be useful in endeavours elsewhere.

“You never clean your car,” you say, lying horizontal on the leather seat and picking bits of dirt off. “I can smell month old Cheetos.”

Charles watches you obsessively nitpick at the detailing. “Last time you looked like this, I gave you a baby.”

“One more word,” you warn sharply.

“But seriously, be careful. The alien might get stressed.”

You brace yourself for the stupid words that will indubitably follow.

“Don’t worry. If it falls out I’ll plop it in a race car and it’ll be the next Hamilton. Imagine how light it’ll be.”

There it is.

—

Your first trip to the doctor’s is interesting. Charles insists on wearing a wig because he’s so easily recognized in Monaco, so now you look like you’re conceiving a baby with Weird Al Yankovic.

The doctor wheels in a cart with a monitor and all the necessary equipment, and even if it suddenly feels all too real, Charles squeezes your hand and you’re calm again. “I’m back,” she says, sliding into a wheely chair beside you and gelling your stomach.

“Hi, Back,” Charles responds in a crude, twangy Texan accent. The dad humor starts early, you suppose.

You grit your teeth to try and excuse his embarrassing behavior, but suddenly the monitor clicks open and there it is. It looks like the ones in movies, print-outs from friends, but at the same time it doesn’t. It looks different. Special. Yours. You zero in on it, breathless. That’s yours. The doctor says a couple minor things—nothing worrisome—and when you turn to relay it to Charles in case he’d zoned out, you find his face splotchy.

“Are you crying?”

“That’s ours,” he says, dipping down to press a kiss to your forehead.

“It’s mine and Charles’, not mine and Bob Ross’,” you say, but you pull him closer anyway.

You order two printouts. The week next, you discover that Charles snuck back in to order an extra eight and has mailed them out to friends and drivers. You find out because Kylian Mbappe messages you “Due in April? Make me godfather!” on Instagram.

—

Gradually, you fall into a pattern of being queasy constantly. You get nitpicky with meals, and not irrationally—Charles had fed you a spicy hotdog and you’d gone half a bite before hurling it, and your breakfast, into the nearest toilet. You find solace in your cravings—all of which happen to be the same everyday.

Chinese takeout from just about any restaurant ends up being your best friend. You somehow can’t stomach anything but that specific cuisine, much to your own surprise. You find new ways to combine them with each other. Rice paper wrappers with chow mein. Hotpot with fried rice. If you’re not eating Chinese, you reduce your appetite to crackers or hot tea to avoid becoming too nauseated.

It’s poetic almost, the way he sets out the food carefully, in the order you like them. He always presses a kiss to your forehead after.

Around this time, you develop a crazy sex drive, waking Charles up at numerous points of the night, begging into his neck for something, anything. You last an hour before you’re asking again. This proves especially difficult before races, where Charles gives in a bit too easily and Carlos has to knock on the door, going “You have to finish somewhere else too, Charles!”

—

You insist Charles hold off on telling the fans, for a few months. It goes okay until your outfits on the paddock evolve into the variety of “Charles’ hoodies” to hide the increasingly evident bloat of pregnancy, and nosy fans start speculating all over Twitter. That’s when he sits you down and gently tells you he thinks it’s time you both announce it.

You’re sitting beside him in his hotel room, after two calls with his bosses, trying to formulate the proper announcement. You download PicsArt to make it pretty and clean and formatted—because the poor guy was about to post a Notes app screenshot—and then it’s on the Internet.

“She’s truly MOTHER,” one fan comments. Despite yourself, you press the heart icon beside it. It’s your bit of comfort when you catch sight of the nastier comments under the post.

—

You’re ironically gifted an ancient 80s aerobic exercise DVD for mums by Lily and Alex. You’re sure it’s older than you. Charles, though, in his valiant effort to connect with you and Chewy, does the routine everyday. You wake up to the electronic synthpop and Charles doing booty squats in the living room.

The permed instructor smiles through the scratchy 80s quality and goes, “You are rocking it, momma!”

“You hear that?!” Charles pants. “I am rocking it!”

—

Your first parenting fight ends up being one over the baby’s name. Yeah. Of all things. You don’t know why you’re so worked up about it, considering you don’t even know the gender of the baby yet. You arrive in Monaco to mark the first of five off days and Charles makes some random, offhand joke about naming the baby Daryl, and you suddenly start rambling on and on about how it’s too ugly, even if you’d never thought about names before now.

“It’s not going to be Daryl. It won’t be Daryl,” Charles says, hands on your shoulders. You heave another sob. “Please stop crying. You never cry. I’m a bit freaked out.”

“It’s—just—that,” you hiccup, “I—don’t—want to name a—our—baby—Daryl.”

“Yeah, yep,” he says, soothingly. “I got you. It’s not going to be Daryl. Never. We don’t need to decide anything. You gonna calm down for me?”

“I can’t—stop—crying,” you snivel desperately, burying your face in your hands.

He presses a firm kiss to the corner of your quivering lips, and you tug him in for a real one. You calm down when you pull away, exhaling. You gaze at him with red-rimmed eyes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“Blame the alien,” you sniff.

He kisses your stomach, which shows signs of pregnancy more and more as the days pass. “Hear that?” He whispers into the skin. “She’s blaming you, Chewy.”

—

Your next trip to the doctor’s is with your appointed private physician, Dr. Davies. Two minutes before the doctor walks in, you make a serious and compelling order for Charles to remove the Weird Al wig, which he does—but stores in your bag, “just in case.” It’s also his opporunity to play teacher’s pet and showcase how involved he is in your pregnancy, which, judging by the amount of weird cultish pregnancy books he’s burned through, is very much so.

“It’s gonna be a boy,” you declare while you’re being gelled up. You’re past the point of denial and bloat, now showing way too obviously. “Mom’s intuition.”

“Well, all the books say it’s a girl,” he says proudly.

“Yeah, they also say drinking lemon juice while trying to conceive gives you a girl. I’m sure scientific accuracy was their greatest objective.”

“Girl.”

“Boy,” you say dismissively.

“Girl.”

“Boy.”

“Girl.” It’s not Charles this time, it’s the physician, with a small smile on his face.

You squeeze Charles’ hand so hard you’re half sure it’s chipped off and fallen to the tiled floor. You’re having a girl. Normally Charles would turn and make some petty statement about he’d been right, but—you’re having a girl. A pretty baby girl. You almost can’t believe it. He totally can’t, pressing kisses to your hair and face.

You let him buy pink paint later that day.

—

You predict it, but it comes—fights and squabbles over nothing at all.

First it’s about work, then housing, then his job, then the danger of his job. It’s petty, and usually you storm off in an emotional cloud of irrationality, brought down after a talk, a play-by-play, compromise, reassurance. It’s hard when you’re carrying around a human being, you want to say. Try being in my shoes.

“Can we talk?” Charles says, in the thick of another fight. You’re on the balcony of your flat, mulling over nothing at all. Your stomach is heavy, you’re always exhausted, you never feel pretty anymore even if Charles is always unfailing at telling you you are.

“Okay,” you murmur, turning. You’ve already developed a habit of placing your hands on your bump always.

He inhales. “I’m scared.”

This is a first. And you realize—in these six months of being pregnant, Charles has been your rock, but has never expressed much fear until now. He’s always been good. Great. Supportive. “Of what?”

“Of—becoming a dad.” He pauses, as if to weigh his words. “I don’t have… a blueprint anymore.”

It dawns on you what he’s talking about. You accept the hug when it comes, holding the nape of his neck. He isn’t crying, but is close to it. His voice is shaky when he continues, whispers against your ear. “What if I don’t know what to do?”

“Baby,” you say, weakly. You push him gently so he’s looking into your eyes. “If the way you’ve taken care of me the past how many months is any indication of how you’ll treat this alien, I know she’s in good hands. You’ve got so much of your dad in you. You’re caring, sweet, you even got a headstart on the dad jokes.” He laughs. “I want this. And the only reason I ever did was because I knew you’d be with me, being an amazing dad, and an even better…”

“Boyfriend,” he says. His eyes hold hesitance—but you quell it with a nod.

“Boyfriend,” you echo. “For now.”

—

The nursery looks like a nursery in February. It was a storage room in Charles’ flat that had really, at some point, become yours, too. Full of boxes and old suits and memories, it’d taken weeks to properly store everything and make way for the furniture. Charles, of course, insists on painting it himself, with the shade of pink he purchased especially for the room.

He hits his head twice and touches the wet paint. There’s a handprint embossed above the bassinet. (Yours is next to it, at his insistence.)

—

You’re a yoga ball by mid-March, having trouble sleeping and dealing with everything being swollen. Charles helps you through it all, turning the heating up and down every time you get even a bit scratchy with the temperature in the flat or motorhome. Your cravings also morph again at this point, into rigatoni that Charles cooked sometime over winter; he requests Ferrari add an induction stove to every race weekend motorhome that you can make it to so he can cook it at your beck and call.

The season begins. Every race is dedicated to Chewy, and every race is won.

—

It’s early morning in late March when Dr. Davies sends you an email with a one-liner that sounds firm enough to set you and Charles in place after two races that involve you being flown around.

Absolutely NO more air and long car travel for Mommy.

“Can we manage?” You mope, rereading the email, genuinely distressed as you watch your boyfriend pack for Australia. It’s a long haul flight, with only one stopover in Zurich, and you’re filled with anxiety. There isn’t a compromise—until you’re popping the baby out, Charles needs to try and score the title.

“You know I can always drop out of races,” he says softly. “That’s what reserve drivers are for.”

“It’s not the same,” you argue. “I’m just worried.”

“You’re not due ’til the 12th,” he assures you. “I’ll be back then, even if it means dropping a race.”

He leans down and kisses you softly, rubbing your shoulders and ankles. “I’ll be back before you know it. Get some sleep first, okay?” He repeats the sentiment to your stomach, adding a kiss and a bye bye Chewy. You drift off to a sorrowful sleep when he departs, a slow ache in your lower back blooming that feels just like many of the other slow aches lately.

You’re up after a half hour with discomfort. You suppose something is just up with your sleep position, and readjust yourself. The discomfort sharpens, then melts. You sigh with relief, a long whistley exhale, and sleep again.

Bliss lasts about three hours, then you’re up again, groaning. You’re not due for a prenatal yoga class until four in the afternoon, and your body isn’t used to being awake. Hell, it’s not used to being this pained. You shift once, twice, trying to sleep with fruitless and exhausting attempts. It takes a while, but in between shifting positions and trying to make yourself yawn, it registers.

“Chewy.” You groan, cupping your gigantic bump. “Seriously?”

—

The first person you call is Charles, naturally. He should be in Zurich, but maybe signal is spotty or something, because none of your texts or calls ping. So you move down the list to the person you know will be in Monaco and not off racing, like everybody you know is—and it just so happens to be Dr. Davies.

You always thought Charles would be nowhere but beside you when you went into labor. But you’re here clutching the straps of your overnight bag being driven to the hospital, exhale, inhale, try Charles, try Carlos. Exhale, inhale. Try Charles. Try Carlos. Your contractions don’t quell; they only grow in intensity and you wince the whole ride through.

“Looks like it’s going to be a fast labor,” Dr. Davies says when he’s done checking you in and making sure everything is in order. You nod, breathless and flushed. You’ve called your mum here and she’s on the way with Charles’ but—Charles is the issue.

“I will weld myself shut if it means I’m giving birth without the dad,” you beg. “Without Charles.”

Charles, who picks up after forty-five minutes of radio silence. He’s in the jet. Give him an hour. “I will pilot this plane myself if I have to. Don’t do anything—don’t make any decisions without me.”

“Too fucking late.” You say, wheezy with labor. “I’m putting N/A on the certificate.”

“You carry Chewy around for nine months and I don’t get to meet her first?” He asks, in a last-ditch effort to cheer you up. You tear up, splotchy and red all over.

“We can’t call her Chewy. We never discussed names. And oh God it can’t be Daryl,” you say, whimpers turning into half-sobs of overwhelm and yearning. You’re scared. You need Charles, who’s been with you for every week, every milestone, every kick, every rigatoni craving. But he’s not here. You have Dr. Davies, and in five minutes you’ll have your mum and Pascale, but they are not Charles. You breathe heavy into the phone.

“I love you,” you say finally. “Please, I love you.”

“I love you more,” he says gently. “I love you. I’ll be there, okay? Just—just wait for me.”

—

Lil 3s ago

does it hurt?

i know it does but i’m trying to make u feel better

love from houston. i will call you ASAP.

You 1s ago

yeah it hurts so bad

apparently they don’t do epidurals

fuck europe

—

In between quiet periods and intense ones, you finally reach your peak. A nurse takes one glance and nods and your bed is disengaged and wheeling around again. Pascale squeezes your left hand, your mum the other. “Wait!” You pant, voice spent, totally tired, flustered.

The nurses exchange a look. “Ma’am—”

“No, you don’t understand. The dad, my—the dad—he’s out—and I don’t.” You pause, the onset of a cry coming on. Pascale takes the lead, firm, asking for a few more moments of patience.

“I can’t do this,” you say hopelessly, throwing your flushed head back. “No. Not without Charles.”

“I’m here,” Charles says, bounding through the door. He’s in official Ferrari gear and his hair is disheveled and he's clearly been crying. Had Chewy not been wedging her way out, you would’ve kissed him right then. You feel nothing but love.

“You’re a sneaky fucker,” you say instead, and the rest is a blur.

—

It’s an hour before the race and Charles is absent from his usual spot greeting friends and guests along the paddock. Instead, he’s leaned against the wall of the motorhome, silently digging his toes into his shoes. You knock twice before trying to open the door and succeeding. You beam when you see him. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

His two girls.

Julia stretches out a chubby hand, but he smiles teasingly, refusing to take it. He holds eye contact, holding up the ring that’d been in his clammy grip for about twenty minutes. It’s a symbol, a sign, a blessed thing, casting his girlfriend into silence.

It’s a bit dark—a stark contrast to where other guys might propose for the first time. He imagines a Caribbean beach bathed in sunset. He pictures a Jeep in the sand, a happy blonde couple jumping into each other’s arms with unadulterated happiness. He figures if you don’t like this, he’ll pay for that.

Instead, he gets: “You’re a doofus—oh.”

“Yeah.” He says, pursing his lips. He swallows, gives you the biggest smile of his life. “Oh.”

It’s perfect.

#f1 #leclsrc1000 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc x reader #f1 x reader

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astrophileous · 6 months

Note

ZAHRA I DEMAND (request) A PART TWO OF JEALOUS REID I AM BEGGINGGGGG 🧎‍♀️😩🙏 I am actually in love with the way you write spencer like MY GAWD. MY GAWD.

your request (demand) shall be my command, your majesty 🙏

Warning(s): gn!reader, more jealous spencer bcs apparently it wasn't enough in the first one, a cheesy narration abt "change" 🤢🤢🤢 bcs why not.

This is part two for this blurb.

This blurb was written as a part of the "Zara's Birthday Bash and Road to 1K" celebration.

Zara's Birthday Bash and Road to 1K Masterlist / Criminal Minds Masterlist

If there was one thing Spencer Reid always found peculiar about mankind, it would be the general lack of acceptance when it came to change.

Before today, Spencer never understood the science behind metathesiophobia: the fear of change. Unpredicted and terrifying as it was, change was necessary to keep the ubiquitous balance of the universe. Change existed in the smallest and biggest capacity of the world, and Spencer, for the life of him, had never been able to berate change for doing exactly what it was intended to do.

Until now.

As Spencer stood next to the copy machine just a few feet away from the kitchenette, eavesdropping a discussion he had no business injecting himself into, Spencer finally understood why many people in the world feared change. The noises coming from the machine in front of him were tumultuous, but Spencer craned his neck and ears to the best of his capabilities just so he could listen in better to the conversation.

"JJ," Spencer heard you say, "I'm telling you, I'm not interested."

"I haven't even told you anything about him yet!"

"Jennifer, it's not about the guy. I'm sure your friend is lovely, but I'm just... not looking for anything like that right now."

"C'mon, (Y/N)," JJ nearly whined. "Please, please, please, just think about this? How long has it been since you broke up with that Bran guy, anyway? You've been single for a while now, don't you think it's finally time for a change?"

Change.

The word tasted bitter as Spencer felt it burn all the way down his throat.

There was a beat of pause where Spencer's heart thundered inside its crate; reeling in suspense over what your answer was going to be. He heard your sigh before your voice arose once more, "Fine. Just text me his number and I'll handle the rest myself, okay?"

Spencer tuned everything out after that, safe for JJ's elated squeal that echoed nearly halfway through the bullpen.

The rest of the day unraveled like a tedious nightmare. After collecting his belongings, Spencer headed out of the bullpen with his car keys in hand. He was waiting for the elevator to arrive, internally cursing his decision for having driven to work that morning, when an unfamiliar voice suddenly appeared behind him.

"You're still here, Doctor?"

Spencer turned around to see you approaching from the direction of Penelope's office. The smile on your face reminded him of cotton candy: soft and sweet; just like the scent of your perfume as it engulfed Spencer's whole being.

"I thought you already left," Spencer muttered.

"No, I had things to take care of. How about you?"

"Yeah. Same."

The elevator arrived with a ding. You walked in after him and pressed the button for the lobby, your scent attacking Spencer's senses even more ruthlessly within the tiny metal box.

"You have any plans for the weekend, Doc?" you asked once the elevator started going down. "A hot date, perhaps?"

Spencer loathed the view of your cheeky smile, along with the teasing gesture of your eyebrows at the suggestion of him going on a date with another person. Here he was, propelling himself to the brink of insanity over the idea of you being on a date with anyone else but him, and you didn't even bat an eye at the prospect of Spencer being with someone else.

"No hot dates for me," he responded. The elevator opened with another ding. "Can't say the same about you, though, can I?"

Your inquisitive gaze slid his way.

"I heard you and JJ in the pantry." Spencer opened the lobby doors, allowing you to walk through before falling into step beside you again. "So, are you going?"

"On the date? I honestly don't know." The night breeze blew against your face. Spencer shuffled closer when he noticed your subtle shiver. "I haven't even texted him yet. I don't feel like it, to be honest. But JJ just seemed so excited about it, so the least I could do is try talking to him first, right?"

An interim silence settled between the two of you. Before long, Spencer spotted his Volvo being parked a few paces ahead. "This is me." Spencer gestured to the car.

"Nice ride." You smiled, humming appreciatively at the vehicle. "Well, I'll get going, then. See you Monday, Doc. Drive safe."

Spencer watched as you started to saunter away. A familiar flame had begun raging and licking up his spine since the moment you mentioned the phrase a hot date in Spencer's face, and now, he could feel that same flame taking a hold of the beating organ inside his chest.

"Don't do it."

You stopped in your tracks.

It took Spencer a few seconds to realize that the interruption had come from him.

"Don't text that guy."

You spun around fully to face him. "Why not?"

"Because I don't think you should go out with him."

You looked at Spencer strangely. "You don't even know the guy."

"I don't need to. I just—" Spencer's jaw hardened, "—I need you to swear to me. Please. Swear you won't go on the date."

Your forehead creased in confusion.

You knew what Spencer was saying didn't make sense, but what perplexed you even more were the words that came out of your mouth next, "Okay. I won't go on the date."

Spencer breathed out his relief as if you just granted him fresh air after years of being buried underground. He gripped his satchel tighter and fiddled with the strap, giving you a curt nod before he slipped inside the driver's seat of his car.

Spencer drove away after that, leaving you standing alone in the middle of Quantico's deserted parking lot as you stared feebly at the tire marks on the ground. A foreign fire had suddenly flickered inside your chest, and even if you didn't understand the significance of it yet, you knew that it must've had something to do with a specific genius profiler who just demanded you to back out of a date that hadn't even been planned yet.

After casting one last look towards his speeding Volvo in the distance, you turned around and headed for your own car, feeling the fire in your ribcage burn brighter with every single one of your steps.

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metalheadsforblacklivesmatter · 9 months

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I'm not gonna find this tweet because quite frankly I don't feel like going on Twitter

Aside from the fact that this tweet is classist, not everyone can afford lasik, and lasik has been known to cause issues with your eyes, and it's a temporary solution (your eyes will worsen as you get older anyways).

This tweet really ignores how much the optometrist industry is just in general a really shitty and gaslighting industry for people that have issues beyond just astigmatism and vision issues.

And you're probably thinking "Like that's only a small fraction of people. What about everyone else?" That's kind of the fucking issue. I've had shit vision my ENTIRE life. Literally. Was so fucking blind when I was born that it caused long lasting damage in the nerves in my eyes.

Which means I've been to a lot of optometrists, and if you have any vision problems beyond what's seen as "common" (near sighted or near sighted with an astigmatism) they don't know shit.

And I could go into shit like how none of the optometrists thought to point out that I probably don't have depth perception until I was 23. But that's a niche issue regarding a disability I have due to my vision being so shit when I was so young.

Let's go into an issue that's less common. My prescription was +5.00 or worse my entire life. Plus I have an astigmatism. And a lot of contact companies don't make prescriptions for such severe farsightedness with an astigmatism. (They make prescriptions for -5.00, but not +5.00)

Every time I go to the doctor they're like OH MY GAWDS YOUR CONTACT BRAND IS SO BAD ITS LIKE YOUR EYES ARE SUFFOCATONG I MUST GET YOU A NEW ONE. And every single year I'm like "Trust me. You don't have any options in my prescription." And every time they're like OAH MAH GODS THEY MAKE ME EVERY YEAR LET MEH CHECK.

I'm like "Sure. Whatever."

Guess what? Last I actually checked 7 brands carry my prescription in monthly. A few carry my prescription in contacts that need to be changed every 2 weeks. But none of them carry my prescription in contacts that need to be changed every week or every day. (Which is apparently better or something. Idk.)

Why the fuck would I trust the doctors that gaslight me every year about what contacts I can use to suggest surgery for my eyes?

And that's not even getting into the very weird specific issues I have with my vision that eye doctors just.... shrug off... like they legit just ignore it. Like no matter what prescription they put me in I can always tell my vision doesn't match up to my peers even though I technically test 20/20.

(I know about the whole relax your eyes when you test thing. I literally tell my optometrist "Yo. Like this shit so blurry." And they just tell me that this is the best they can correct me to. Just try to focus my eyes more. This this isn't fucking normal.)

Idk. Ableds (derogatory) need to stop demanding disabled people get their shit fixed and instead ask "What the fuck is wrong with the system that these disabled people don't trust it to fix their shit?"

(Not everyone that wears glasses considers themselves disabled. If you don't consider yourself disabled, good for you. But my vision literally can't be fixed to match my peers, so... not to mention glasses can cost people hundreds of dollars and if your vision is shit enough the weight of the lenses can seriously wear and tear on your frames and your face.)

-fae

#disabled pride #disability pride #disability awareness #disability pride month #disability #disability awareness month #glasses #visual disability

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ramblingloon · 2 months

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I think I caught a blizzard

I recently replayed MK11 and mah gawd Kuai Liang aka sub zero my boy not the new scorpion in mk1 which is ??!! whyyyyy did they do my boy like that smh. anyways I think the fixation on this fine man is back so why not make a sub zero x reader fic am I right hehehe

‎‎‎⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆୧ ‧₊˚ 🎐 ⋅𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧₊˚🎐𓇼𓏲*ੈ✩‧₊˚୧ ‧₊˚ 🎐 ⋅⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆

I'm so sorry for this GIF, please don't leave lmao.

no horni only fluff and maybe angst

You walk over the snowy stone tiles, the ice crystals glistening beneath your leathered soles. As you step on the snow, the crunching sound is stratifying to your ears. Your formal Lin Kuei attire drags behind your feet.

The heavy blizzard has been going on for four days, the same amount of days Kuai Liang was off on a mission with a couple of his subordinates and, of course, Frost.

You sniffle slightly, feeling the cold seeps through your hands, nose, and cheeks. You muffle a cough as you enter the temple. An apprentice ninja steps aside and bows to you.

You smile at them, bowing your head in return. You watch as they walk away, and you silence another cough by covering your mouth.

It is your duty as the consort of the grandmaster to be strong, and tenacious; to take care of the Lin Kuei as if Kuai Liang is right here.

You pass by the training area, watching as the younglings' harsh training has just begun. Their loud battle cries ring over the storm.

You smile to yourself as you keep going into the empty hallways of the temple when a sudden sharp cough escapes you. You lean on the wall, feeling your breath shorten and pricking pain between your ribs. You cough again, getting dizzy in the process.

You groan in pain as you straighten yourself, " it's just a cold. Pull yourself together, Y/n."

Eventually, you reach the kitchen, and the warm air oozing from the kitchen challenges the hiemal temperature of the empty hallway.

You scan the staff working with efficiency to prepare the best meals for the Lin Kuei fighters.

A maid notices you enter the kitchen and immediately pauses,

"Oh, consort, y/n. what brings you to this humble place."

you smile kindly at them," No need for formality, just checking in. Are the staff low on any sustenance." you reach with your hand over your mouth, worried a sharp cough or sneeze to escape you.

"I don't think so. We're serving rice and salted fish with sou-"

a loud cough rings in the kitchen as you put your hand over your aching chest, coughing, angry at your body for failing you at this moment.

The maid guides you to a wooden chair by a table and sets you down.

"I'll -um, I'll fetch you some herbal tea."

you nod as the stinging pain in your chest subsides and finally disappears.

Not long after, the maid brings you a steamy cup of tea. You glance at the dark liquid. It reminds you of how Kuai Liang likes to brew tea and discuss important decisions over a cup- well, maybe not a cup, but a whole pot of tea-

That reminds you, the tea set in his command chamber is probably empty.

"Maybe he'll come back soon?" you think to yourself

"No...he won't risk the life of anyone in this blizzard." a doubting voice offers its reason within you.

"Maybe he was injured?"

"I hope he's alright." You look at your hands, squeezing them, the tips of your fingers chilly and cold.

Nonetheless, you stand from your seat and order a maid to prepare a tea pot.

On your way to the command chamber, you sniffle, taking a freezing deep breath, which causes the ache in your chest to emerge again, almost causing you to drop the tray with the tea.

"Where are you, Kuai?" feeling overwhelmed and angry at your weakened body, you call for your absent partner.

You enter the chamber and slide the door closed. The whistling wind muffled within the sturdy walls of the room.

You replace the empty cold teapot with the hot one when you notice some of the tea cups have remains of dark green tea at the bottom.

"Oh, he'll diffidently be angry if he saw that." you chuckle to yourself, mental pictures of a frowning Kuai surface in your mind.

Immediately, you put the dirty cups on the tray with the cold pot and put the fresh set on the table.

You look around the room. Serene and calm contradicting the wailing sound of the wind outside. You glance at a kunai at the table, left or maybe forgotten. Reaching with your hand, you scan the blue cloth wrapped around the hilt with the Lin Kuei symbol carved on the metal.

Yet another painful cough escapes you. You sit on one of the chairs, waiting for the pain in your chest to simply disappear.

You exhale, hand over your chest when the door slides open.

Your e/c eyes meet with deep brown ones. the soft orbs you have been longing to see for days.

You watch as Kuai Liang's frown dissolves into a poker face. His mask and jet-black hair were covered in snow, thawing at room temperature.

You stand from your chair with a composed smile and utter ", Grandmaster."

He takes his off mask and takes a step toward you, though he pauses.

"Frost," he addresses Frost, standing by the door.

" we can discuss the possibilities when the men are well rested." his deep, sultry voice cascades over your ears, causing your heart to race in your ribcage, and warmth spreads all over your body.

Oh, how much you have missed this man.

"but grandmaster-" Frost protested

He turns to her, his broad shoulders to you," Frost, give your body the respect it deserves. We've been in this blizzard for four days. The men need to regain their energy."

"Then we can discuss-" yet again she protests, only to be interrupted by his demanding voice, "You're dismissed."

She snarls at his demanding voice, looks at you, and closes the door as she leaves.

You don't wait for him to turn around. You fully embrace him, burring your face into his back. Your hands over his chest, feeling the calm beating of his heart.

A deep chuckle escapes him as he turns around in your embrace," I've missed you too."

Large arms encase you as he pulls you closer to his chest. He buries his nose into your h/c hair, taking a deep breath, breathing you in.

"you scared me, Kuai. I trust your abilities, but," you utter, looking up at your partner, sadness lacing your voice.

He cups your right cheek with his right hand, caressing your skin with his thumb.

"shush, I'm here, y/n, with you."

he delicately grips your chin and leans to your level. Cold lips connect with yours.

Though it lasts only seconds, you feel safe in his embrace, forgetting all about the aching pain in your chest and body.

He breaks away and walks toward the door, "Come, I don't think it will be appropriate if one of the men barged in here."

You pout, feeling the lingering warmth in your stomach disperse ", But I got your tea."

You walk to the tea set and open the lid, the steam escaping its ceramic cage.

He crosses his arms, waiting for you by the door," we can take the tea with us."

You raise your eyebrow at him, "Alright, alright. Just don't complain when it's over-brewed."

You cover back the teapot and walk to the door. With your spouse walking next to you, the cold empty hallways feel much more welcoming than the past four days.

You want to reach for his hand, hold it, and never let it go. But Kuai Liang is a man who has respect for his position. The grandmaster nor his consort can't be seen in any ignominious way.

You reach your shared bedroom, the sound of this obstinate storm still occurring outside.

"This damned blizzard." you curse as you take off your shoes. Afraid; the carpet will get dirtied by the snow stuck to your footwear.

Before you know it, you are scooped off the ground into Kuai's embrace. A sudden yelp escapes you as you circle your arms around his neck.

"Kuai Liang! Put me down this instant." you try to sound serious between your chuckles.

His deep chuckles resonate through his chest as he looks up at you with a teasing smile," or what?"

You bite your lip, a laugh escaping you.

Unfortunately, you feel the gradual pain in your chest surfacing back again.

He puts you down and cups your face with both hands and kisses you deeply.

You break off the kiss, taking a breath, only for him to kiss you more.

"Kuai," you call him, hand over his chest to stop him.

"you're going to get yourself sic-" you cough, and cough. Your chest tightens and contracts. You kneel on the floor, gasping for air, raspy noises escaping your throat.

Kuai Liang kneels next to you, deep concern on his face, as he watches his spouse groan in pain and clutch their chest.

The pain withdrew away back into nothingness. You look at your partner's shocked glare.

"I'm going to get the physician." he declares, only for you to stop him.

" No! No. Not now." you plead, gaining an angry look from him.

"What?"

"The people are already suffering from this blizzard. I can't be seen weak." you calmly explain, feeling the blood rush to your face.

"The younglings are training in this blizzard, and the grandmaster consort caught the cold. What will your image be? What will mine be?" you cough into your hand, slumped on the floor, feeling defeat.

"Y/n, what is this? Didn't you hear me talk with Frost?" Kuai Liang Stands up, only for you to grab his pants.

"Please, Kuai. Just for today." Your e/c eyes well up as you look at your partner in plea.

He closes his eyes, muttering under his breath before he gets to your level and carries you.

"Only for today," he repeats as he walks to the bed and lays you down slowly.

"only for today." You nod, repeating your words.

"Get some sleep, y/n." he brushes your h/c hair back before he pulls the covers over you.

"won't you join me?"

he snickers, shaking his head as he walks to the other side of the bed. He has taken off his bandana and top vest before he joins you in the bed.

You kiss him on the cheek as he slides close to you, his body chilly though not displeasing.

"Thank you, Kuai," you mumble as you bury your face into the crook of his neck and drift into needed sleep.

I wanted to write more but I don't know.. felt like this is a good ending? . if u wanna me to write something for u hit me up. I looked up the mortality causes of cold weather and third cause is raspatory diseases so I was gonna do an " Arthur Morgan from rdr2" but that would be so cruel so I chose just a serious case of the flu. I mean after all they're humans just a little more powerful, right?

#mortal kombat #mk11 #sub zero #subzero x reader #mk sub zero #kuai liang #kuai liang x reader #mk 11 x reader #mortal kombat fanfiction #mortal kombat 11 #sub zero kuai liang x reader

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spideystevie · 1 year

Note

the way i spent 10 minutes ruminating on what to send u from the prompts list 💀😭 but #2 with hangman if you’re up for it <3 its giving childhood bffs to lovers gawd i need him i fear

lovin’ u! 🫶

bee!!!! i am so up for it! love some good childhood friends to lovers. i need him so badly too, i fear. lovin’ you, i hope you enjoy <3 (0.9k)

2. interlocking pinkies

It was a habit neither of you had broken from the time you were seven. You couldn’t remember when it had stuck but Jake did. Any memory that related to you in any sense of the word was crystal clear and golden in his mind.

You were in the first grade, the end of the school year coming to a close and summer vacation on the horizon. He’d made you pinky swear to be friends forever beneath the shade of an oak tree near the playground at recess.

You hadn’t hesitated, your tiny pinkies interlocking in something you treated like an unbreakable vow. He didn’t let your pinky go after that. Literally. He held it tightly with his all the way back to your classroom.

Even now, well into adulthood, he was finding excuses to keep your pinky linked with his. Maybe it was a little silly and slightly juvenile all these years later but that didn’t seem to matter. The two of you were drawn together like magnets, your pinkies acting as the north and south ends.

As you grew up, it only seemed to become slightly more intimate. A gentle reassurance. A simple grounding chain of comfort. And as your feelings grew, blossoming like peonies in spring, you often wondered what it’d be like to link all your fingers together.

You wondered how he’d react to you hooking your ring finger through his, followed by your middle and so on until your fingers were a tangled knot between your bodies. It always made a nervous tick jolt your stomach, a lurch like you get at the drop on a rollercoaster.

You arrive late to the Hard Deck, the celebratory party for the completed mission in full swing when you get there. There’s no need to search for Jake because you hear the shouting before you see him.

“No way you can hit it three in a row,” the sound of Rooster’s voice gets louder the closer you get to the dart board.

“With my eyes closed, Bradshaw,” you can hear the stupid smirk in Jake’s voice.

“Prove it.”

You tsk to yourself, rounding the corner and pushing yourself into the small crowd formed around the game of darts that’s really just your best friend showing off. Sure enough, there’s that signature smirk on his face as he tilts his head and shrugs. Coyote stands next to him and puts his hand over Jake’s eyes as he sets up to throw.

Each dart hits the bullseye, three quick thumps into the board. Coyote moves his hand and Jake grins, turning to Rooster with a look reminiscent of “I told you so.” You shake your head with a smile, still impressed all these years later.

“You’ll catch flies if you stay like that, Rooster,” Jake teases, moving to walk past him and back towards the bar. He spots you before he gets very far, his face visibly softening and glowing like the sun. He calls your name and when you’re in close enough range, he hooks his pinky with yours to pull you the rest of the way to him.

There’s a quick press of his lips to your temple that has you wanting to melt down into a puddle on the sticky bar floor. You’re not sure Penny would appreciate another mess to clean though.

“Was wondering when you’d get here,” he says, starting to walk in the direction of the bar, pulling you along with him. “Let’s get you a drink.”

You don’t argue, content with letting him lead you around by your conjoined pinkies. The two of you end up settled at a table with most of the squadron, your pinkies still interlocked and hidden from prying eyes beneath the table. You’re listening to Payback recount a story from the carrier ship that has most of the guys laughing.

As you smile along, the nagging thought of interlocking the rest of your fingers until your hands are palm to palm returns. Nearly all of your focus is directed towards pushing the thought away, so much so that you hardly register Jake’s pinky shifting against yours.

Slowly but surely, he’s begun to maneuver each of his fingers through yours. There’s a scrape of a callus against your hand that makes you blink out of your stupor. You glance down beneath the table, as subtle as you can, to see your hands completely tangled together and sitting on his thigh.

Something warm and almost unfamiliar bubbles up in your stomach and to your chest. You have to bite your lip to hold back a grin because he’s holding your hand and it feels different, special..right. He squeezes your hands once, quick and fleeting and you look up at him.

There’s a sparkle in your eyes and he leans his head towards yours. You can feel his breath against your ear, his lips brushing against the shell of it when he speaks.

“This okay?” he whispers and you wonder if he’s aware that his thumb has started to stroke against your skin. You choke on a hum, nodding once.

“More than okay,” you whisper back. You’re nearly nose to nose, so close you can count the amount of divots that form from the crinkles by his eyes when he smiles. After a beat you blink and lean back, trying to ignore the glaringly obvious looks you’re getting from a few of his new friends around the table.

#gotta be honest i am not too sure abt this one #jake seresin #jake hangman seresin #hangman #jake seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin x reader #hangman x reader #jake seresin fluff #jake hangman seresin fluff #hangman fluff #jake seresin imagine #hangman imagine #jake seresin blurb #hangman blurb #📝: a writes!

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desswright29 · 9 months

Text

You’re an Angel

A/n: Short story inspired by Halle’s new song

“Y/n.” Tish says softly across the room. Turning from your spot on the bed, you see your beautiful friend staring daggers at herself in the mirror. She wore black joggers that fit her nicely, a plain white t-shirt and hoodie with a ball cap. “What’s up Tish?” You sit up on the bed eyes furrowed, noticing something was bothering her. “You’re my best friend right?” Wondering where this was going you answer “Obviously”. She sighed chewing on her bottom lip. “Well I need you to be brutally honest with me right now.”

“Always.”

“Do” She lets out a strained chuckle, shaking her head. “Do you think I’m beautiful.” She whispers it but you hear her loud and clear. “What?” Your entire face contorts in confusion. She looks back into the mirror. “I can’t see it. Is it the celebrity? Is it the money they see. I look and look and it just isn’t there for me. I just see a lanky awkward girl. I can’t see what my fans see. I saw a video of me the other day, they were discussing whether I was a trans-“ You stand immediately making your way over to her. “You can stop that shit right now”.

“Are you serious Tish?” Your eyes welled as you got closer to her seeing tears drop from her eyes. “It’s not just physical, I feel like nothing I do is good enough. I pour my all into projects with little to no recognition. I don’t do it for that but sometimes it all takes its toll. Is it because I don’t have curves and I don’t act like all the other women? Idk what I’m doing wrong”. Slowly you approach her placing your hands on her shoulders turning her around to face you. Taking off her hat you place a hand on her cheek, wiping a tear away with your thumb.

“I wish you could see yourself through my eyes. Tish you’re indescribably beautiful. The structure of your face, those cheek bones, the way your lips sit perfectly on your face. That cute little nose, gawd that jawline! And those intensely beautiful eyes. Cutting your hair was perfect for you, because hair only hides away your type of beauty. The most beautiful brown sun-kissed skin wraps around your perfect body. Thin and muscular. Legs for days. And it’s not just the way you look, Tish. I wish you could see how easy it is to get lost in your expressions as you speak about things you’re passionate about. You have the sexiest laugh known to man. The way you walk makes my knees buckle. You’re full of life, so intelligent, determined, and thorough. Even though I believe what’s in that mirror is perfect, you’re so much more than that. You’re an Angel here on Earth. And anyone that’s graced with your presence should consider themselves blessed.”

You reach up to rub the top of her head with both hands, aware that you had let a little more slip than intended. Both of you stated into eachothers eyes. Tish was speechless, and suddenly, her lips were crashing into yours. You were shocked but quickly returned the kiss, cupping the back of her perfect head. She pulled away quicker than you would’ve liked. “I’m sorry” She said. You shake your head and once again close the distance; kissing her with all you have as her arms snaked around your waist holding you firmly against her. When you pulled back, you placed your forehead against hers.

“I’ve wanted to do that forever.”

#letitia wright #letitiawright #shuri udaku #spotify #shuri x reader #shuri fanfiction #shuri x you #shuri fic #Spotify

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seungminsbaldspot · 5 months

Text

Fake it Till you make it

Pairing: Jisung x Reader

Prompt 10: Opposites attract when two characters pretend to be dating and fall in love

Word Count: 4153 WORDS OH MY GAWD?

Genre: well its fake dating so angst/comfort maybe???

Spoiler: “Annddd that’s how your father faked his way into my life.”

Warnings: She/her pronouns, cursing, cheating Minho, toxic Minho, minho is just a bad guy, Jisung is just a loud but lovable college guy trying to make the most of life, mentions of sex (minho is cheating ofc), jisung loves the f word, small mention of a cut/blood, fighting, lowkey a slow burn but also not really but also sort of a slow burn; also i would like to say it’s sort of proofread but also not really so

Notes: every now and then i remember that jisung has me in a chokehold

Han Jisung was certainly a character. He was loud and reckless, many would call him the “class clown.” But to you, he was just your crush’s best friend. Yes, unfortunately, you had fallen for the one and only, Lee Minho.

You had one Chem Lab with Minho, and decided that he was the perfect man for you. He was handsome, witty, and smart. Plus he seemed to be kind to everyone, so that was just the icing on the cake for you.

Luckily for you, your professor assigned the lab partners, and you were partnered up with Minho. Unbeknownst to you, this simple arrangement of partnership will change your life.

Having Minho as your lab partner meant that You two would be spending loads of time together. And unfortunately for you, Minho loved being inside his apartment near campus. Every time you two would need to do some extra work, Minho would suggest going over to his apartment. His apartment was only a ten-minute walk from campus, but you knew who also resided there, Han Jisung.

Jisung and Minho are the best of friends, they know each other like the back of their own hand, but they are truly opposites. Minho was more collected and Jisung was, well, everywhere. Jisung was the wilder of the two, he went to tons of parties back then, and he was always at a party.

But he was also always there at the apartment when you were there. It’s not like you hated Jiisung per se, but his energy and your energy never matched. When you and Minho would be in the living room, finishing up a post-lab assignment, you could hear Jisung in his own room, playing the drums or sometimes belting out random song lyrics. Minho would only shake his head and apologize for his roommate’s behavior, but he always smirked when he apologized. It really gave you mixed signals back then, But you would soon find out what kind of man Minho actually was.

During the time of the chemistry class, Minho gave you his phone number, so you and him could properly communicate about chemistry projects, but after the class was over, and you two both passed, Minho would still message you. Back then, you could only think about how lucky you were to have THE Lee Minho texting you in HIS free time. Minho would invite you out to lunch, to study sessions, or just to hang out. But as usual, you would somehow end up at Minho and Jisung’s shared apartment. Every time he would invite you out to his apartment, he would smirk, knowing that Jisung’s loud nature made you uncomfortable.

Even though you never liked spending time at their shared apartment, you still fell harder for Minho, and he knew it. He knew that you liked him, and every time he would invite you out to his apartment, he knew you wouldn’t say no, even though being around Jisung’s loud nature made you uncomfortable.

Minho would continue to take you on dates, but never asking you to be his girlfriend. On one occasion, he accidentally spilled a drink on you, and on another, he seemed more interested in his phone than in the conversation. But, at the time, you didn’t mind it, you were still spending time with Minho. Minho would often make dates with you, and you would meet up at his shared apartment, so going to the apartment for a date was not out of character.

Minho texted you to meet at his apartment at 3:15, so you arrived at his door at 3 on the dot. Minho always liked to be on time, so when he said 3:15, he meant that he wanted to leave at 3:15, therefore you needed to be there at 3. It’s just the way Minho was, well still is.

When you arrived at the door, you knocked twice. You always knocked twice. However, there was no answer. You put your hand on the door handle, just to check if it was locked, as sometimes Minho would leave the door unlocked if he knew you were coming over. And the door was unlocked, so you walked inside, everything was normal until you heard them.

You heard Minho’s moans, the skin-to-skin smacking that resonated throughout the apartment. You felt your heart drop to your stomach. It’s not that Minho and you were dating, but you thought he liked you. And you thought you liked him.

Interrupting your thoughts, you heard a few final, louder, moans. You went into autopilot and went into the first room that you could quickly hide in. Once inside the room, you shut the door, as silently as you could. You move out of the way from the door, covering your mouth, trying to hold the sobs in. You slide down the wall, trying to even your breath. He wasn’t even your boyfriend, so why are you upset?

You could hear their hushed voices as they exited the apartment. Still, you didn’t dare to move. You could hear the front door open again and fast-paced footsteps came closer and closer to you. The door to the room you were hiding in swings open and enters a happily humming Han Jisung. When his eyes met your teary ones, he almost dropped his bags. He quickly set down his bags and rushed over to you, crouching down to you.

“What happened?” He asked, looking you over for any immediate signs of harm. You shook your head. “Uhhh Okay well Um.. Why are you crying?” He asked meekly, almost unsure to ask any questions. You let out a pitiful sob, “Minho.” With that one word, it was like he understood everything.

Well, Jisung was Minho’s best friend and his roommate. And if you could hear the two of them in Minho’s room, you couldn’t even imagine what Jisung had to go through.

“He’s an asshole. Really. I mean He gets into all these girls’s pants all the time..” He trailed off, looking up at you, he stopped talking when he saw the tears flow down your face. “Ah, Shit. Okay, How about this? Me and you,” He gestured to himself and then you, “Fake Date!” He clapped, his smile almost lighting up the whole room. You jumped a little when he clapped, not expecting him to be this loud. His eyes widened, “Oh shit! I’m sorry! I’m just used to being loud.” He said, looking away. You shook your head, “No, you’re fine.” You said.

Jisung's proposition hung in the air, his eyes still reflecting genuine concern for your well-being. The unexpected nature of his suggestion caught you off guard, and you couldn’t help but crack a small smile at his enthusiasm, despite the circumstances.

"Fake dating, huh?" you said, wiping away a few tears. "That's a pretty unconventional solution, Jisung."

He grinned, looking somewhat proud of his idea. "Well, unconventional times call for unconventional measures. Plus, it's the perfect way to show Minho he can’t go around manipulating every girl he comes across into fucking them."

As you considered the proposal, you couldn’t deny the appeal of the idea. It could perhaps send a message to Minho. However, the intricacies of faking a relationship, even temporarily, are not lost on you.

"How would that even work?" you asked, genuinely curious about the details of Jisung's plan.

Jisung leaned back, scratching his head. "Well, we just act like a couple—hold hands, share a few laughs, maybe even a fake kiss here and there. Make it convincing enough, and hopefully, Minho gets the message that he can't fuck around with every girl he comes in contact with."

You sighed, “Alright.”

Jisung's eyes lit up, and he clapped his hands together. "Great! We'll make this so convincing that Minho won’t know what the hell is happening!"

The two of you begin to brainstorm ways to make the fake relationship appear authentic. Jisung suggests casual touches, sweet gestures, and spending more time together in public. The plan took shape, and you found yourself surprisingly committed to the act if only to put an end to Minho's fuck-boy behavior.

After a few hours of brainstorming, you both decided that you would spend the night, starting the fake relationship as soon as possible. Jisung lent you his baggy night shirt and some shorts, as you were dressed for a date night when you arrived at the apartment.

That morning, when Jisung had woken you up, “I hear Minho in the kitchen.”He had said. His expression was a mix of determination and readiness for the charade you're about to embark on. The plan was in motion, and you couldn’t help but feel a mix of nervousness and anticipation.

You nodded, “Starting already?” You asked, causing Jisung to giggle, “Of course we are! He’s most sensitive in the mornings!” He said, rushing you out of bed.

As you followed Jisung out of the room, you couldnt help but wonder how convincing this act would be and what kind of reaction you’d elicit from Minho.

In the kitchen, Minho glanced up from his breakfast preparation, a curious look in his eyes as he noticed your presence. Jisung put on a charming smile and gestures between the two of you."Morning, Minho! Guess what? Y/N stayed over last night," Jisung announced with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Minho's eyebrows shot up in surprise, and he looked between you and Jisung. "Oh, really? That’s Unexpected. What's the occasion?"

You exchanged a glance with Jisung, both of you ready to play your parts in this charade. “Well since you didn’t answer my text last night for our hang out, Jisung and I decided to have a ‘stay at home’ date night!” You met Minho's gaze with a practiced smile, feigning nonchalance. , "We figured why waste a perfectly good night, right?" You let out a soft laugh, hoping it sounds convincing. Jisung chimed in, "Exactly! We watched movies, ordered some food, you know, the usual cozy night in."

Minho's expression shifted, a mix of surprise and curiosity still lingering. "Huh, I didn't know you two were that close." You nod, subtly intertwining your fingers with Jisung's, a move you'd agreed upon earlier. "Well, sometimes unexpected things happen, and you just go with the flow, right?"

Jisung gave Minho a playful nudge. "Come on, Minho, you should've joined us. It was a blast!" Minho chuckles nervously, his eyes darting between the two of you. "Yeah, maybe next time." Jisung laughs, “Oh Come On! You’re always with one of your weekly girls. It wouldn’t hurt to be with your friend and his girlfriend for a while!” Minho shook his head, “Yeah, I’m just a little busy currently.” He brushed off Jisung’s offer. Jisung shrugged, “Whatever man.”

As the breakfast preparations continued, you and Jisung maintained the act, exchanging glances and subtle touches. It's a delicate dance, and the success of this ruse depends on how well you can convince Minho that there's more to your relationship than meets the eye.

The weeks pass, and the facade of your fake relationship with Jisung continues. The charade becomes more convincing with each passing day, and you find yourself caught in the whirlwind of emotions that accompany the act. Jisung's thoughtful gestures and genuine kindness start to blur the lines between reality and fiction.

As you would go on these "fake" dates, you couldnt help but compare Jisung's behavior to Minho's. The difference between the two was like fire and ice. Jisung's consideration and warmth stand in stark contrast to Minho's self-centered actions. Jisung would hold the door open for you, whereas Minho would let you walk straight into the door and then slyly apologize. Jisung would buy you flowers and cute good-morning text messages. But then the realization dawns on you that maybe there's more to Jisung's plan than just fuck with Minho's advances.

You noticed the weariness in Jisung's eyes, the exhaustion that comes from living with someone whose lifestyle clashes so significantly with his own. His attempt to create a buffer, a shield from Minho's late-night fucks, becomes more apparent.

One evening, after returning from a l "date," Jisung breaks starts a conversation that would change your view on some things.

"I hope you know this isn't just about Minho," he says, his eyes focused on the road ahead. "I mean, it is, but it's also about finding some peace in my own home. I can't keep living like this."

You knew that you both were earning something from this fake dating, but you never thought that you would see Jisung so emotional about Minho.

“He’s my best friend you know? And I know that he has been doing this for months now, and It’s tearing me apart that he is going around fucking up girls and manipulating them. It makes me so pissed that he’s done this to a multitude of girls and that he’s done this to you.”

You didn’t know what to tell him at the time, I mean Minho was using Jisung by living in his house, and you were using him to get back at Minho. You could only stay silent.

A few days after that date, it was Minho’s birthday. Minho and Jisung were having a get-together with their friends at their apartment, little did you know at that time, this small gathering was going to change your life.

As the roommate’s friends arrived, the apartment was filled with excitement, laughter, and the sound of glasses clinking. A sense of both celebration and anticipation permeated the air.

You keep up the illusion of your fake relationship with Jisung during the little get-together for Minho's birthday, acting as the supportive girlfriend. The party progresses, and the revelry heightens, but beneath the surface, an undercurrent of tension simmers.

As the night unfolded, you noticed Minho's attention lingering on you and Jisung. His eyes showed a hint of interest, perhaps even jealousy. ?

Sometime during that night, you decided to step outside of the apartment, to have some alone time. Being around Jisung and Minho’s shared friends, really drained your social battery. You were out of the apartment no longer than five minutes, and you heard the sound of the door being opened and closed. Thinking it was one of Minho’s or Jisung’s friends leaving the party, you continued to mind your own business.

That was until a hand grabbed your shoulder, turning you around, and then pushing you up against the wall. You winced at the impact of you being shoved against the wall, and when you opened your eyes, you were met went MInho’s dark and cold eyes. “What the hell has been going on between you and Han?” He seethed out. You rolled your eyes, “What does it matter to you Minho? We weren’t together Minho.” He scoffed, slapping his hand on the wall beside you, “Like Hell, we weren’t. But you didn’t even like him! You couldnt stand him when we were fucking around! How can you just turn up one day and say you’re fucking with Han?”

You sneered, “Minho if you don’t leave me the fuck alone, I swear to God that I will make SURE you will never be able to have sex again.” You uttered. “You-” Before he could continue, the front door swung open, Jisung rushing out of the door, barrelling towards You and Minho.

Jisung pushes his whole body into Minho, taking the both of them to the floor. The two roommates struggled on the ground for a good minute, you could only stand there. You knew that getting in between the two would be a stupid decision, so you just stood there in shock.

After what seemed to be hours (but were only seconds, your conception of time was severely warped back then), One of their friends, Chan, came running out the door, followed closely by Changbin, Chan hurrying to grab Minho, and Changbin struggling to catch Jisung. Jisung and Minho struggle against the bigger, buffer men, still trying to get a hold of each other. Felix, another shared friend of theirs, comes towards, “What on earth happened out here?” He asked, worryingly. He kept glancing over at Chan and Changbin, who were still struggling to keep the two. You only shook your head.

“He was going to fucking hit her! I saw it! I was watching out the window! I knew you didn’t like her! You just wanted to fuck with me- with her! You knew how I felt Minho! I can’t fucking believe you!” Jisung was yelling, that if they kept this up, the cops were going to be called. “Guys calm the fuck down. The cops are gonna get called. Now everyone shut the fuck up and go back inside.” Chan sternly gave out instructions, and somehow with his hushed voice, he got everyone to go inside.

The group disperses to various corners of the living room. The atmosphere was strained by the events outside having left an uncomfortable vibe around all nine people inside the apartment.

Felix, still visibly concerned, glances around the room. "Someone better start explaining what the hell just happened," Chan said.

Jisung, clearly still seething with anger, takes a moment before speaking. "I saw Minho, he was going to hit her. I couldn't let that happen."

Minho, on the other hand, shot a glare at Jisung, his face contorted with frustration. “Why the hell were you watching us? Minho clashed back, becoming visibly angry again. “Guys. Adults.” Chan reminded, Minho sighed, “I was only trying to talk to her.” Chan, and pretty much everyone in the room looked over to you, expecting you to explain.

“I wouldn’t call pinning me on the wall against my will as ‘talking’ but okay.” You shrugged, maybe that was a little too rude at the time, but who could blame you? You were still trying to process everything.

“You knew how I felt Minho. You’re my fucking best friend. I fucking let you live in my house for fucks sake. Every time you would bring another girl home to fuck I tried my fucking best to leave the apartment, I fucking tried so fucking hard. Then you bring her around? KNOWING how I felt? Then you fucking hurt her? I didn’t know what to fucking do when I found her fucking sobbing her eyes out. My dumbass could only think of fucking fake ass dating. That shitty ass shit.” Jisung ranted, almost fully out of breath.

Your eyes widen. You glanced around the room. Chan sighed. “Alright, Minho why don’t you crash at my place tonight? We all need some space.” Chan announced, Minho only nodded, leaving to his room for a minute, and leaving with a bag along with Chan. Chan only waved everyone out, but when you tried to leave, Chan pulled you to the side. “You should probably stay. I think you and him need to talk.” Chan smiled at you, You only nodded. Talking felt too much like a chore.

You sat back down beside Jisung, throughout that whole ordeal of everyone gathering their belongings and leaving, Jisung never moved. In fact, he still had some blood on his face, a small cut he got from the scuffle with Minho nearly thirty minutes earlier.

You two sat in complete silence for a moment. You sighed, “Your cheek is cut.” He hummed. “Want me to clean it?” He sighed but nodded. You knew that he kept a first-aid kit in the bathroom, because on one of your ‘dates’, the two of you attempted to make dinner, but ended up with you cutting your finger and Jisung burning the food.

You grabbed the kit, and then made your way back into the living room. Jisung was still slumped on the couch, his usual vibrant and full of energy far gone now. His eyes met yours as you cleaned the small cut on his cheek, he quickly looked away, his cheeks turning pink. As he’s looking away, you took the chance to really look at him. He was really handsome. The curve of his jaw, the lines of his face, the way his eyelashes flutter every time he blinks - just everything about him, was pretty.

“I’m sorry for making things awkward.” He said, breaking the silence. Your eyebrows scrunched. “What are you talking about?” You put the little alcohol wipe on the first-aid kit and grab a band-aid, opening it and placing it on the small cut. He watched you as you placed the band-aid on, following your every move.

“God it’s so embarrassing.” He said, reaching up to gently grab your wrists, keeping them in front of his face, he looked down, almost ashamed. “I gave you the idea of fake dating for my own selfish desires. I literally tackled my best friend because I thought he was hurting you.” He sighed, and then looked up at you, tears brimming his eyes, “I’m so fucking sorry.” Your heart squeezed in a way that it had never squeezed before. He squeezed your wrists, not in a painful way, but in a pleading way. He was pleading with you for your forgiveness.

“Ji… Although what you did, was not the smartest-” You sort of laughed, “I know you were trying to help me. And yeah Minho was being a dick. I really don’t know what his deal is. Me and him never dated. I don’t know why he had his panties in a twist about us.” He looked up at you, You had messed up. You had said that like you were in a real relationship with Jisung.

He smiled, “Us?” You blushed and looked at the floor, embarrassed beyond belief. “You know, I was so pissed when he brought you around. And when he was fu-” He trailed off, sucking in a breath, “When he brought that girl home on that day he was supposed to go with you on that date. And I found you… sobbing. I… I was so fucking pissed at him. You were crying so much, I just tried to make you feel better. I didn’t like to see you upset then and there’s no way in hell I will let you cry like that over a man ever again.” He finally stood up, standing as close to you as he possibly could, but not touching, not yet.

“Could I hug you?” The tears that were pooling in your tear ducts, finally let out, You nodded. He lightly laughed, he wrapped his arms around you, “Why are you crying?” He looks over you, bringing a hand up, wiping your tears. You shake your head, wrapping your arms around him. The two of you hold each other for a few moments.

He pulls away, looking at your face, “We’ve been fake dating for the past two and a half months, but I think I’ve loved you way before that.” You blushed, “Y/n will you be my for real girlfriend now?” You laughed, “Of course, I will be your real girlfriend now.” He smiles, “Would there be any way that I could get our first real hug and real kiss in one night?” You playfully slapped his arm, “I supposed so…” You joke, He grins, “Hell Yeah!”

He pulled you closer to him by your hips, almost shoving his face onto yours, gently taking your lips into his. Kissing you playfully yet gently, like you were going to disappear if he were to open his eyes.

“Annddd that’s how your father faked his way into my life.” You say to your daughter. It was her wedding day, She’s in her beautiful wedding dress. She truly makes a wonderful bride. “Oh Mama… Your guy’s love story was so inappropriate!” She laughs, making you smile, “Well Honey you didn’t get here on your own” You smile, laughing at the dirtiness of your story, of course you spared a few details, but only a few…

Jisung bursts into the bride’s room, “AWH MY DAUGHTER! ALL GROWN UP! GIVING HER AWAY?? WAHHHH!! HOW WILL I HANDLE THIS?? MY LOVE? WHAT ARE WE TO DO? OUR DAUGHTER!!” Jisung whines, shaking you by your shoulders and causing your daughter to laugh. “Dad! Come On!” He stops shaking you, softly looking at you, and then looking at his daughter. “My girls are so beautiful. I’m so glad I faked it till I made it.”

Just to explain some things, Yes the whole story was past tense, and yes jisung liked you before the whole fake dating thing happened. ok goodbye, I love you thank you for reading

also notes, reblogs and feedback are always appreciated!

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nishik1 · 8 months

Text

you jealous, nishimura? — i missed you smau + written

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warnings: cursing, FLUFF!!, mentions of throwing something, mentions of killing someone, also ignore the time stamps these were made weeks apart I am not joking.

wc: estimated 500 !!NOT PROOFREAD!!

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you nearly scoff at Hanni’s text, there’s no way he could be awake. he’s clearly sleeping, right?

you look down to the seemingly sleeping Riki whose head is resting in your lap, his hair messily spread out across your lap and his face. with a soft smile on your face, you gently brush his hair out of his eyes.

“what the fuck!” you hand jolted back when his eyes suddenly shot open.

“why are you yelling?” he said slightly laughing at your reaction

“I thought you were sleeping, clearly I was wrong” you let out a chuckle as you flick his forehead.

“so did you really just come over here to sleep?” you said as you watched him close his eyes again.

“of course not!” he scoffed, shooting you a dirty look. did you really think he’d come to your house just to sleep? if he wanted to sleep he would’ve just stayed home!

“I missed you” he said, opening his eyes again. you could feel the heat in your cheeks rise up again.

“we hung out a week ago though” you laughed and he rolled his eyes, waving his hand in your face.

“I meant just the two of us, we haven’t gotten much alone time lately…” he mumbled and your heart started racing.

“I—“ you tried to speak but he cut you off

“don’t say anything. I just want you to know I missed you…” your eyes went wide and you were at a loss for words, your hand trembling a bit from nervousness.

“I missed you too, Riki” you smiled, gently taking his hand in yours. if you were being honest,, it felt like your was going to explode in your chest. it was a lot to process, I mean you’re literally sitting on your bed with your best friend— no, your crush, and he’s telling you that he showed up to your house late at night just because he missed you.

you swore your face was redder than a tomato when he turned to you, his tired eyes sparkling. how could you not see it before? it’s so clear now, the way he looks at you, talks to you, its so obvious that he likes you!

“stop looking at me like that…” you mumble, flicking his forehead once again which causes him to groan.

“go to sleep” you say as you get up and put on your slippers, not so gently pushing his head off your lap and onto the mattress.

“I didn’t just come here to sleep—“

“I said go to sleep!” you turn to him taking off your slipper and raising it in the air in a threatening manner, in response to this he immediately put his hands up to surrender.

“fine…” he grumbled slowly laying back down as he watched you exit the room. once you were out of sight, he took out his phone and began to type away on twitter.

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NOTES: I apologize this chapter is actually ass and you waited over a month for it 😭 LIKE I AM SO SORRY FOR DISAPPEARING FOR OVER A MONTH 😭 school has been killing my motivation lately and I’ve been so behind on all of my work🫠 there’ll be another update out very soon! I just need to finish my homework first, which is 5 chapters of a book 😃 this is why you shouldn’t procrastinate guys,, it’ll only kick you in the butt later on 🥲 and gawd dayum does this taglist take long😭 THERES ONLY ONE SPOT LEFT THOUGH SO IF YOU WANT IT CLAIM IT NOW‼️

taglist: (49/50) @en-chantedtomeetyou @yunicide @txtbrainrot @liliyaaaaas-library @j-wyoung @beomgyusonlywife @spilled-coffee-cup @sungookie @telengraph @yajw @arizejkt19 @iea-tsand @k1ttylvr @solstramaii @soo0mi @jhopesucker @teddywonss @sumarchived @ramenoil @darwics @luvmura @beoms-sugar @haechansbbg @yumilovesloona @s00buwu @r1kitti @veryjeongintxtkid @rikitachquita @m111nho @enhaz1 @jerrykarrot @alwayswook @kpopstanmeg @eloelooo @lunavixia @gyuudai @luvkpopp @yunjinlvrr @gweoriz @mochamvgz @nikikids @meiiiwa @jiaant11 @rikizm @enhamysunshines @polarisjisung @cha3w0n-hearts @nhularin @soobs-things (bolded cannot be tagged)

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loving-n0t-heyting · 1 month

Note

In a recent post complaining about a certain type of person doing a certain type of take, you listed 'there is literally nothing to be said about housing than "build moar and abolish zoning"' as one such take, alongside other more disagreeable ones, etc.

Could you expand upon your disagreements with this? Is it that you think "homelessness will require active spending to fix", "Housing policy should include improved legal protections for renters(and just building more housing to provide alternatives isn't enough)", or something more fundamental in opposition?

I will say that housing is an area where a lot of my concrete stances are unsettled, i used to more or less imbibe standard yimby views from my social sphere and have grown more agnostic over time. But milquetoast fence sitting aside i will say this:

Building lots of high end housing can, in fact, cause problems for existing local residents that need to be considered when implementing construction. Short term rising rents and displacement, primarily

Idt any amount of market rate housing will fully solve the problem of housing affordability for poorer tenants. Some amount of govt intervention—best of all in the shape of vienna-style public housing projects, plus rent control and other forms of decommodification—is necessary to properly relieve the burden of housing costs for all sections of society. For at the very least the obvious reason that low income housing is just not that profitable

I am any amount sympathetic to preserving and fostering local urban community and culture. This talk gets abused but i think i take it more seriously than most "just build!!!" yimbies. Jane jacobs type stuff

Its petty but gawd the new luxury construction that i see built around here is so ugly. Theres no fucking law saying a high rise isnt allowed ornamentation or colour or anything besides the aesthetic of babbys first minecraft architecture. And the brutalism and hideous masses of steel and glass fandom has gotta stop whining about how persecuted they are. You guys have a monopoly on new devt and yr design preferences are massively unpopular, they should be represented in architecture in proportion to their meagre popularity among the public that has to live around it. Theres a reason the far right loves "retvrn to buildings that look nice" as a foot in the door for radicalisation, its bc most ppl are agreed the buildings yimbies drool over look like shit. Architects are an oppressor class

I am probably a "left yimby" with caveats when all is said/done. More housing and denser housing seem like urgent needs but these are not problems you can fully offload to the market without unfairly screwing a lot of ppl over

#phaeton flier #ask

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misseviehyde · 1 year

Text

PLAYING "CLIQUES"

Alison and her friends weren’t exactly popular at school, but that really didn’t matter because they had each other. Every weekend the nerdy girls would meet up at Alison’s house to play role-playing games where they could escape from their average lives for a few hours and enjoy pretending to be someone else.

Recently they’d been experimenting with some different games and Alison had found a weird one in a charity shop called ‘Clique’. It was a game all about role-playing as hot, popular girls and the winner was the character that managed to become head cheerleader and draw all the others into her clique. Alison thought it would be ironically fun to play.

She’d followed the instructions and customised the game to fully reflect their own school. The other girls laughed delightedly as she showed them the board with its accurate reflection of their schools room plan and they settled down to play.

As the Games-master, Alison wouldn’t be role-playing herself, but she would be supervising everything else. She shuffled the deck of character cards, fully based on real girls from their school. She had picked the girls she hated the most - the ones that were her bullies and universally popular. They were all total spoiled bitches, vain, beautiful and rich. They were certainly perfect characters for this game. Turning to her best-friend Lauren she offered the cards and Lauren hesitantly picked one.

“Oh no, I got Ashley,” laughed Lauren as she examined the card, “she’s such a nasty bitch, I’m not sure I can play her. She’s always picking on me because of my weight.”

Ashley was the nastiest of all the popular girls and their defacto leader - pretending to be her was going to be weird. Lauren tried to adopt an exaggeration of Ashley's resting bitch face and the others all laughed.

“Then again... it would feel good to lose some weight and stop being a fat loser," she sneered.

Lauren gasped and clamped her hand over her mouth. "OMG - why did I say that?"

"Wow you sure got into character fast,” laughed Alison.

"Guys ahhhhhhh something is wrong," groaned Lauren, the smile dropping from Alison's face as her friend backed away from the table.

Lauren was tugging at her clothing and she seemed to be fighting with herself. Her face was twitching and her eyes rolling up in a mixture of pleasure and pain.

"Ohhhhh fuck, I can hear her voice in my head, her memories in my mind. What is this game? What is it doing to me?"

Lauren stretched and the others watched in horror as her skin began to ripple and move. Bones cracked as fat shifted and she moaned helplessly.

All the fat on Lauren's body began to move to her tits and her ass. Her small breasts began to swell up as her face became prettier and her hair whipped back in a tight bitchy pony-tail.

Ashley's familiar features replaced Lauren's as expensive makeup shimmered over her features and expensive manicured nails pushed out of her fingers.

Her loose fitting clothing tightened, a tight green halter neck wrap-top snapping tight around her massive new tits. They jiggled enticingly in their new slutty hammock.

Somewhere in town, the real Ashley was fading from existence as the games magic removed her from reality.

Meanwhile Lauren looked down at herself in shock as the changes slowed. She was now gorgeous and physically every inch the spoiled mean bitch that Ashley was.

"Oh my Gawd," she gasped in Ashley's insulting and superior voice. "I totally turned into that bitch."

Alison looked down at the game in shock. It was magic. It had actually turned Lauren into Ashley.

Lauren was touching herself with a mixture of fascination - but also desire. She clearly liked how her new body felt and she grinned as she checked out her reflection in a mirror. She pulled out a mobile phone - Ashley's device - and using her fingerprint to unlock it grinned as she saw she now had access to all of her former bullies accounts.

Sitting calmly at the table - Lauren grinned at her friends.

"This isn't so bad. I could get used to this," she chuckled. "In fact I think you should start calling me Ashley. I never liked that dorky name Lauren anyway."

"Lauren, we have to find a way to turn you back to normal," gasped Alison.

"Fuck that," grinned Lauren-Ashley nastily, "Look at me... I'm stacked and I'm beautiful. Oh and rich too. Why would I want to go back even if I could. This game is awesome."

Lauren could feel the words coming out of her mouth but it was like someone else was speaking them. Her massive new tits were hard and a deluge of wicked memories and knowledge was flowing through her mind like an expanding oil slick.

Ashley's memories were like a film, covering up her own and sinking deeper and deeper into her soul.

Why fight this? It feels so good. This loser Alison can't be allowed to stop me.

Grabbing the Clique board, Lauren-Ashley pulled it towards her and laughed. "I'm taking over as Games Mistress bitch."

Pulling the deck of cards out of Alison's hands she began to search through. "You know why they call this game Clique? Because you win once you convert the other players into your followers OR eliminate them from the game, you win and this becomes permanent."

Laughing she dealt three cards out in quick succession to the other girls.

She turned them over one at a time. "Sarah, you get to become my best-friend Chloe. Hannah it's your turn to be a bitch too, you're going to become Chelsea. You're going to enjoy being my spoiled rich wing-girls."

Alison watched in horror as her friends began to groan and transform. Bitchy brunette hair lengthened as the former nerds morphed into skinny, mean Alpha girls. Neither was as busty and dominant as Ashley - but they were just as evil. Dressed in matching black crop tops and blue jeans they groaned and giggled as they delightedly touched their new bodies and fell into flank their new Alpha.

"Lauren... no... what have you done?" whimpered Alison as her new bully laughed and reached out to flip over the card she'd chosen.

"I told you nerd, I'm Ashley now. Lauren is gone and I LOVE being a big titted bitch. Now let's see if you enjoy the card I picked for you?"

Alison's eyes widened as she saw that Lauren had picked Ashley's pathetic step-brother Dawson. He was a total loser and madly in love with Ashley. He followed her and her girl gang around and did whatever they told him. Rumour had it that Ashley even made him wear a chasitity cage.

As she felt her body begin to transform and a tiny cock push out from between her legs, Alison wept as the other girls laughed at her.

"Ohhh yes, that's soooo hawt," giggled the new Chlesea as she touched up her mascara. "Turn that loser into an even bigger loser and win the game."

The new Ashley grinned as the last of her old personality was erased and she accepted her new role as Alpha bully. "Looks like I win," she smiled delightedly.

"You always win babe," smiled Chloe. "That's why we're in your clique."

Looking down at his pitiful caged cock, Dawson felt his memories of being Alison fade away and watched as Ashley tossed the game into the trash and clicked her fingers.

"Come on then bitches. We have a school to run."

Like a whipped dog he followed his hot popular step-sister and felt his devotion swell.

He loved serving such a Goddess.

The new bullies would never tell anyone about the game. They didn't care that they had stolen these lives or erased their old ones.

All that mattered was being part of the Clique.

THE END

#evie hyde #bitchification #f2f transformation #corruption #cliques #identity replaced

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