#i’ve never really been so social on the internet

[southislandwren]

I touched grass all summer and now my family seem terminally online to me. Why don’t you guys get off twitter and stack some hay bales and maybe you’ll calm down

#I can’t stand being on social media other than tumblr now like everything else is just so. loud #tumblr is my house though I’ve been here since 2014 I’m not leaving lmao #I want to farm full time I don’t want school for two more years :( #diary post #oh also what the fuck tfc died. I’m so sad he was awesome and I loved his stuff and he was such an inspiration #and now he’s gone. I keep thinking about his YouTube channel and how he’ll never really be gone. just inactive #the beauty of the internet is that any time I need some tfc I can watch some old vids and remember him #(same with my grandma. her Facebook is still there I can still read her comments. she’s not really gone) #being online has its benefits and downsides. too complicated for my sleepy brain right now though #anyway goodnight. less than a week and I move to school permanently for the semester (yikes)

[valeriehalla]

I don’t know what to do about the internet. It’s getting worse, and getting worse faster than I think any of us ever could have imagined even just six years ago. Tumblr shot itself in the heart at the behest of Apple, at the behest of whichever nameless evangelical finance perverts are in charge of credit card policy, whereupon people like me (artists and people who like art) fled in droves to Twitter, the present state of which I don’t have it in me to be funny about.

Even after that one-two punch, Twitter and Tumblr are still the only (major) social media platforms I can stand to use. I mean, they’re the last ones left where you can, for example, see posts that your friends have made. I might have said that that seemed like the whole point of social media; every digital elsewhere has now collectively agreed that it is, in fact, social media’s greatest flaw. Your friends like to hang out and post weird jokes and titty drawings — they don’t know the first thing about your favorite marketing trends, let alone your unslakable thirst for 30-second phone videos. We have to move on: I’ll die if I think about it.

Uh — I wanna let you in a little. Here’s where I’m at, okay? I’m working on this project. I like it a lot: it’s a writing thing and an art thing and a music thing all at the same time. I’m still struggling with art burnout, but every day I get to sit down and write or compose for this thing is an unending delight, so on the balance it’s been great to work on. It’s taken me a while to get here, though — I’ve blown past all my estimates about when it’d be done. Still, it won’t be much longer.

In the mean time, I keep having these compulsive worries. I feel that I should be posting, but the nature of a long-form project like this is that I don’t have anything to post. I tweet complete nothings now and then, as if to announce my presence, like a lighthouse pulsing in the distance. And every week the websites get worse. They’re bleeding out, and it feels like some of my blood’s in there, maybe. Like, maybe you’d call me naïve, but it wasn’t that long ago that I really, really liked all this online stuff. I never had the hustle culture mindset about it: by good luck alone I managed to make a living posting the stuff I wanted to post on the places I wanted to post it.

The places I liked to post don’t exist anymore. My experience of using the internet feels hostile, alien. The ground beneath all our feet feels eggshell-thin.

But I have to use the internet: it’s where my stuff goes. It’s where all of you are. Here is where art and artists and art-likers live.

The things I love live here, in precarity, as the saw blades and lava traps of our digital dungeon grow every day more numerous.

Anyway, what I’m saying is that the web sucks now, but as long as we’re here — and we will be here — I want to try loving it again anyway. I want to untangle myself from all this disappointment and expectation and try simply “vibing” again. I wanna use cohost more: I’ll even crosspost stuff to Tumblr like I keep saying I should. I’m making a cool thing and I should show it off! I should relearn how to draw a little doodle and post it without feeling like it’s a suboptimal use of my time or whatever!! I want to believe in what joy may find us, though our world be a dumpster.

#text

[joannechocolat]

On Power, and on Powering Through, and Why They’re Really Not the Same

I don’t pay much attention to personal attacks in reviews. It comes as the flipside of success; an attempt by the critic to puncture what they see as too much success. But I still remember one review, just after the film of Chocolat, when two of my novels happened to be in the Top 5 at the same time, in which a (male) newspaper critic referred to me dismissively as a premenopausal woman writer. I was a little taken aback. Clearly, it was meant to disparage, but I was only 35, ten years away from the perimenopause. What exactly did he mean? It wasn’t a comment about the book (which I doubt he had even read). The obvious misogyny aside, it seemed to express resentment, not of my books, but of me, myself, my right to take up space in his world. That word – premenopausal – was at the same time a comment on my age, my looks, my value, and a strong suggestion that someone like me shouldn’t be this successful, shouldn’t be writing bestsellers, shouldn’t be so – visible.

I don’t recall the name of the man, or the paper for which he was writing. He was far from being the only journalist who felt I didn’t deserve success. I shrugged off the unpleasant comment, but he’d meant it to hurt, and it did. I still wonder why he – and his editor - thought that was appropriate. I also wonder why, 20 years on, women are still dealing with this kind of thing. It’s still not enough for a woman to be successful in her chosen field. Whatever her achievements, you can be pretty sure that at some point, some man in his 50s or 60s – maybe an Oxbridge graduate, author of an unpublished novel or two - will offer his opinion on her desirability, either in the national Press, or most likely nowadays, by means of social media. The subtext is clear: women who don’t conform to societal values of what a woman should be are asking for this kind of treatment; especially those who dare to achieve more than their detractors.

10 years after that nasty review, I finally began the journey into perimenopause. No-one told me it was happening. No-one in the media was talking about it at the time. Even my doctor never thought to mention that my symptoms – the insomnia, headaches, mood swings, anxiety, depression, sleep paralysis, hair loss, brown patches on my skin – might have a single origin. I began to feel I was losing my mind: as if I were starting to disappear. I started to doubt my own senses. I blamed it all on the stress from my job. My mother had powered through menopause – or so she led me to believe – and made no secret of her contempt for modern women who complained, or treated the symptoms as anything more than a minor inconvenience.

And so I did the same. I powered through; and when at last I began to experience the classic symptoms of menopause - irregular bleeding, hot flushes, exhaustion, night sweats so bad that I would awake in sheets that were wringing wet – it did not occur to me to seek help. After over a year of this, I finally went to my doctor, who took a few tests, cheerfully announced I was menopausal, and when I inquired after HRT, advised me to power through – that phrase again - and let Mother Nature take her course. The internet was slightly more helpful. I took up running, lost weight, cut down on alcohol, downed supplements and sleeping pills and vitamin D, and felt a little better. Then, breast cancer came to call, and by the time my treatment was done, the symptoms had more or less disappeared, or at least had been superseded by the symptoms of chemo. I congratulated myself at having powered through cancer as well as surviving menopause.

But two years later, I feel old. I look that way, too. I’ve aged ten years. Some of that’s the cancer, of course. I was quite open about my treatment when I was powering through it – partly in order to pre-empt any questions about my hair loss or any of the all-too visible effects of three courses of chemo. Not that it stopped the comments, though. Even at my lowest ebb, a sector of social media made it clear that my only concern should be to look young and feminine to anonymous men on Twitter.

Right now, I don’t feel either. My hair has gone grey and very thin. My skin, too, seems thinner; both physically and mentally. At a recent publishing event, several acquaintances failed to recognize me; others just looked through me as if I had become invisible. Invisibility would be a relief; I find myself dressing for camouflage. I tend to wear baggy black outfits. I got my OBE last week. Photographs in the Press show me talking to Prince William. I’m wearing a boxy black trouser suit, flat shoes and a red fedora. I think I look nice. Not glamorous, but comfortable; quirky; unpretentious.

On a thread of largely supportive messages, one Twitter user pops up to say: Jesus, who’d accept an honour looking like that middle-aged disaster? @Joannechocolat thought she’d make an impact? She needs a stylist. If you look in the dictionary for the definition of “dowdy”, it features this photo.

It’s not the same man who belittled me over 20 years ago. But the sentiment hasn’t changed. Regardless of your achievements, as a woman, you’ll always be judged on your age and fuckability. I ought to be used to this by now. But somehow, that comment got to me. Going through menopause isn’t just a series of physical symptoms. It’s how other people make you feel; old, unattractive, and strangely ashamed.

I think of the Glass Delusion, a mental disorder common between the 14th and 17th centuries, characterized by the belief that the sufferer was made of glass. King Charles VI of France famously suffered from this delusion, and so did Princess Alexandra Amélie, daughter of Ludwig 1st of Bavaria. The condition affected mostly high-profile individuals; writers, royals, intellectuals. The physician to Philip II of Spain writes of an unnamed royal who believed he was a glass vase, which made him terribly fragile, and able to disappear at will. It seems to have been a reaction to feelings of social anxiety, fear of change and the unknown, a feeling both of vulnerability and invisibility.

I can relate. Since the menopause, I’ve felt increasingly broken. I don’t believe I’m a glass vase, and yet I know what it feels like to want to be wrapped in a protective duvet all day. I’ve started buying cushions. I feel both transparent, and under the lens, as if the light might consume me. On social media, I’ve learnt to block the people who make mean comments. To make myself invisible. To hide myself in plain sight. I power through, but sometimes I think: why do women power through? And who told them that powering through meant suffering in silence?

Fortunately, some things have changed since I went through the menopause. Over the past few years, we’ve seen more people talking about their experiences. Menopause is likely to affect half the population. We should be talking about it. If men experienced half these symptoms, you bet they’d be discussing it. Because power isn’t silence. You’d think that, as writer, I would have worked that out sooner. Words are power. Sharing is strength. Communication breaks down barriers. And sometimes, power means speaking up for those less able to speak for themselves.

I look at myself in the mirror. I see my mother’s mouth; my father’s eyes. I see the woman I used to be; the woman I will one day become. I see the woman my husband loves, a woman he still finds attractive. A woman with a grown-up child who makes her proud every single day. A menopausal woman. A cancer survivor. A woman who writes books that make other people sit up and think. A woman who doesn’t need the approval of some man she’s never met to be happy. She can be happy now. I can. And finally, I understand.  Powering through isn’t about learning to be invisible. It isn’t about acceptance, or shame, or letting Nature take its course, or lying about feeling broken. It’s looking beyond your reflection. It’s seeing yourself, not through the lens of other people’s expectations, but as yourself. The sum of everything you’ve been; of everyone who loves you. Of claiming your right to be more than glass, or your reflection in it. The right to be valued. The right to shine, regardless of age or reproductive status. Men seldom question their own right to these things. But women have to fight for them. That’s why it’s so exhausting.

This morning, instead of putting on my usual baggy black sweatshirt, I chose a bright yellow pullover. I looked at myself in the mirror. It’s not a great colour on me now, but it feels like dressing in sunshine. My husband came into the bathroom. You look –

My husband rarely gives compliments. I can’t remember the last time he commented on how I was dressed. I wondered what he was going to say. Dowdy, perhaps? Inappropriate? Like a menopausal woman in dire need of a stylist?

At last, he said: When you smile like that, you look like a friendly assassin.

A friendly assassin. I’ll take that.  

Shining like the sun. That’s me.

#menopause #cancer

[leclsrc]

see it through ✴︎ cl16

genre: friends to lovers, fake dating au, fluff!, humor, slight angst, slow burn-ish, yearning

word count: 9k

“It’s a proposition for the fans.” She smiles. “It’s a fake relationship.” Or: you go from social media manager to girlfriend in under a day. Keeping up appearances for Charles’ family isn’t easy, until it is – and until they’re not really appearances anymore.

notes... internet translated italian ahaha

auds here... this fic is quite long! i hope you all like it. title from this bee gees song which reappears in the fic later. few music references here so if you like to listen to music, just look for the titles, they’re famous!

You’d gotten the phone call on a Saturday morning.

Barely morning, you realized when you were digging for your phone in the sheets, half-asleep—it’d been five minutes past noon. You’d swiped, pressed the phone to your ear, and waited for the other end to speak, eyes shut.

“Good morning,” a vague voice had said on the other said, distinctly American. “This is Jenna Griffin, newly appointed PR specialist for Ferrari. Your boss told me you were free for lunch on Monday, so can I pencil you in for a one-thirty meeting?”

You click your tongue. “Um, yeah.”

“Wonderful. Monday, one-thirty. Apologies for the weekend call, it’s for Mr. Leclerc.” The line buzzes dead after, and you flop backwards onto your bed, confused out of your mind.

Your job for Ferrari was simple—create social media content, do the occasional damage control, have a pre-interview discussion with journalists, and generally stay out of everyone’s hair. It’s not a high-maintenance job, but it pays well, and you get to travel; plus, you’re young, and you figure this is just a stepping stone for a more legitimate post. Your point is, you’ve never gotten into trouble before, and are only at meetings to take minutes or get assignments.

Which is why a Monday lunch meeting—on your vacation, nonetheless—seems so out of the ordinary. And arranged by a PR agent from Ferrari? Last you’d heard, cars were objects and didn’t need publicity. The whole affair gives off a vibe of semi-mystery, almost, like you’re in the MI6 and taking lucrative calls in alleyways. 

You feel through your bag for your hotel key card, wallet, and phone, and finding them all there, you leave and make your way to the restaurant. You’re not too nervous; you’ve had to have your own sit-down talks with higher-ups and even Charles or Carlos before, but none of the “you’re fired” variety. 

The restaurant isn’t far from where you’re staying, so you shove sunnies on and trek there, managing to make it inside unscathed.

Table 17, the text reads, and you’re quickly ushered into a private section of the place. It’s empty, save for a couple and a far-off table seating one guy, whose back is to you. You realize it’s Charles when you squint your eyes harder. The waitress doesn’t give you much of a choice and seats you across him, promising to return with noontime champagne.

You slide your sunglasses onto your hair and look up. “Hi,” you say politely.

“Hey,” Charles says back casually. He wears a Richard Mille and a few other bracelets, a linen blue polo, and jeans.

“New PR thing?”

Charles smiles, shrugging. “Man, I’ve no idea. Wake up on Saturday and I’m due for a meeting. Is this for social media?”

Huh, so he doesn’t know either. “I don’t know. It was a super random call for me, too.”

He shrugs. “Both clueless.”

“Right. So, to be clear, we’re waiting for—”

“I am so sorry I’m late,” a woman says sheepishly, her heels clicking along the tiled floor. She definitely looks the part for a PR officer: pantsuit, heels, a blond bob, ridiculously expensive handbag, eccentric sunglasses. “Scusami, really.” Her Italian apology has an American twang.

“All okay,” says Charles with a small smile. “We were barely waiting, no?”

You nod, offering a tight-lipped smile of your own. “Yeah, don’t worry about it.”

She slides into the seat beside him and waves a waiter over, ordering in quickfire English; clearly, she’s been here before. Absently, you wonder if her previous affairs in this restaurant were also to have clandestine meetings. Your reverie doesn’t last long, though, because immediately Jenna’s starting her agenda. “So, are introductions in order?”

“I, um,” you say, “I’d say so, yes.”

“Alright, spectacular. I’m Jenna Griffin, just moved to Monte Carlo after living and working in SoCal. I’ve been appointed as a PR manager for Charles here, but don’t worry. You’re in good hands. I’ve handled three Kardashians, two NBA players, two One Direction members, and a lot of nepo babies.” 

“Wow,” you say, nodding.

“Cool.” Charles says, clearly impressed.

Jenna’s gaze flits between the two of you, both smiling at each other. “Right,” she says. “Let’s get down to business.” She clears her throat and pulls out her phone from her handbag, scrolling for a few moments. While the silence settles, you steal another glance at Charles, and hide a chuckle when you find his eyes already glancing back at you.

“Aren’t we waiting for Carlos?” He asks, taking a sip of water. 

His PR agent looks up briefly, then answers. “Actually, it’s just you two today.”

You nod slowly, burrowing even further into the confusion you’d been feeling since Saturday. It wasn’t like you were expecting Carlos, per se, but a meeting with just you and him—now, that’s a bit strange.

“So, I know this is all very confusing. But it’s happening for a reason,” says Jenna. “Charles—and I really only feel qualified to say this because I’ve done my research—has been on a streak of…erm, well, lady-related scandals lately.”

“Oh, God,” Charles groans across you, and you chew your lip. You’ve seen the headlines, but you’re still clueless as to how this concerns you. 

“As a PR agent, I think it won’t do good for his public image to be seen as somebody who sleeps around.”

“It was two headlines,” Charles cuts in with a laugh. “And they were both fake. Please don’t misunderstand.”

Jenna clicks her tongue. “Yeah, the public definitely has some thoughts.” She turns to her phone and reads off of it. “‘Charles is a playboy and not a driver’, ‘Leclerc is too busy pulling girls’… times ten thousand. So, yeah, it’s a bit of a smear.”

“Right, okay. Listen, I’m not sure I understand,” you say with a stuffy laugh. “What has all this got to do with me?”

“Everything,” she answers with a smile. You raise a brow. “Well, you see, we PR managers always have a network. We keep tabs on who’s who, and who needs what. As a new manager, I need to implement some of my strategies around here. Go digging, you know? Find something good. And when I found your pretty little face in the background of many of Charles’ paddock photos, I realized you could help create something newsworthy.”

“Are you talking about a PR stunt?” You ask, your frown deepening. 

“Well—virtually, essentially, yes.” She opens her mouth to explain but is interrupted by the serving of champagne and appetizers. “Okay. Don’t think this is a haphazard decision. Naturally, we had to find out if this would even be a good idea…”

“Which it’s not,” you say, taking a swig of champagne.

She nods. “The thing is, your bosses and I really did go over several scenarios, and this one seems the most likely to keep your fans engaged. This way, the appearances won’t look so staged.”

“—Jenna,” Charles says, clearly having detected your hesitance, “I don’t think she’s interested.” 

“It’s fine,” you say, but you still sound off-put. It’s not fine, not really. “I don’t see how this is going to help Charles, though. I’d think the idea of him being committed to somebody would just further alienate his fangirls.”

Jenna chuckles. “While that is, to some extent, true, the number of fans who would go gaga over the two of you far, far outweighs the opposing population. This is a special case. A girl next door social media manager with a social media presence—and a wildly popular, totally charming Formula One driver? I mean, talk about Harry and Meghan! Everybody loves love. And, might I add, Charles’ male fans might actually like seeing you two together.”

You sigh, a quick huff of frustrated air. “So, what is this then?”

“It’s a proposition for the fans.” She smiles. “It’s a fake relationship.”

You reach for champagne, but find you’ve totally drained your glass. The room falls into muted silence, and you can’t bring yourself to look at Charles. You didn’t expect this on a Monday afternoon. You thought maybe it was a job termination. Or a leaked text message. Somehow, this is the strangest of all possibilities.

“So, good?” She chirps. “I’ll send you the primer.”

You both stare at each other. “We’re not actually going to. Right?”

“Right. We are not dating.”

—

“We’re dating!” You chirp, practicing your appearances in front of Carlos and Lando, who had visited the former.

“You two look like two people dating pretending to be friends,” Lando observes.

You grumble. Many of your shots had been staged pap photos outside his apartment, or fans happening to catch you two together; no official statement had been released, according to Jenna’s “masterplan.” For the most part, it was a good dynamic of putting up a façade for the public and settling back into a platonic relationship within minutes.

Nothing really goes wrong at first—and then Charles ruins it.

It happens after a Ferrari event in spring. You’re in Monza again, weather humid when you re-shoot the fifth TikTok for the day with Carlos. There are celebrities to and fro, even more journalists and a shitload of fans crowding the perimeter of the area. You’ve successfully pulled off the fake dating stunt, keeping a lowkey profile and doing your job.

There’s a green room for the drivers and close managers to wait and rest, where you stow yourself away to avoid the crowds. You review the reels and stories for the day, and cap it off with a “goodbye, Tifosi!” post with Carlos that’s enough to quell the many notifications.

Granted, many of the said notifications are of the speculative nature. Some are wondering if it’s you posting or if a new hire was underway to make room for the new couple. You ignore them anyway and take a seat on the couch across Carlos, sighing with exhaustion.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” He teases.

“Ha-ha,” you say, unimpressed. You gesture to the TV behind him, showing a live feed of Charles’ last interview of the day with Natalie Pinkham. Once this is over, you’re free for the week: free of social media manager and fake girlfriend responsibilities. The thought alone makes you well up with relief.

You and Carlos both watch intently as Charles answers several event-related questions that, to your horror, simmer into personal ones. Natalie sounds excited when she goes, “Any plans for the week with a special someone?”

Charles has no thought behind his eyes, a muted wave of panic coming over him as he fumbles for a response. “My family’s staying up in Tuscany, in a farmhouse we own, stay in for spring and summer. We are actually visiting them for the week.”

We are actually visiting them for the week. Your look of pure, unadulterated shock doesn’t go unnoticed by Carlos, who’s quick to snap pictures of you on his phone. What the hell is Charles talking about? Tuscany? No, family? 

“I take it you didn’t know about this,” Carlos says with a laugh. 

“You think?!” You holler, still appalled. Charles has a lot of gall to spin this without your permission, or Jenna’s for that matter. You know she’ll love it, though; it’s really, mainly, you who has a problem with it. Anxious, you get up and watch the broadcast end; not a minute later, Charles enters and offers a can of sparkling water to you.

“Thirsty?” He asks casually.

“Very,” you pipe, taking a gulp.

“You’re welcome,” he says teasingly.

“Oh, thanks! I think I’ve been busy thinking about the fact that I’m meeting your family!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” He yells, trying to match your agitated volume. “I didn’t know you were watchi—I was nervous! I didn’t know what to say anymore! And—you kno—well—and Natalie kept asking a ton of questions!”

Your face of disbelief matches his of sheepish apology, facing each other frozen. Across you, Carlos lets out an incredulous laugh, mumbles something about wanting popcorn. You honestly can’t blame him. Had you been an outsider, you would’ve relished in Charles’ slip-up, too. Instead, you’re the one who’s apparently going to Tuscany on Friday to meet the extended Leclerc clan.

“It’s fine. It’s gonna be”—you attempt to find an appropriate adjective—“bearable. At least we don’t need to keep up appearances there.”

You’re met with disagreeable silence. When Charles doesn’t chime in with an agreement, you turn slowly back to him. “No.”

“It’s only for a week—”

“No!”

“A week!” 

You’re both standing up, pacing around the other frantically. Pretending to suddenly be bumped up from social media manager to Charles’ girlfriend was a daunting enough proposition. Getting hate mail and death threats was enough incentive to let you want to leave. Timing exits and entrances was difficult. And now, pretending to be together in front of his family? His family. 

“Why can’t you just tell them we’re not actually dating?!”

“It’s just—it’s complicated having to explain why.” You remember his assortment of man-whore scandals and realization sinks into you. You sit on the arm of the couch, deflated and contemplative. Despite your own knowledge of the scandals being totally baseless and false, you understand it’s difficult to explain the lengths of tabloids and online rumors to older family members.

You might have to grin and bear it.

“Fine.” You digress. He cheers silently. “One week. Once our quickie breakup is finalized, you’re telling them it ended well. I don’t want to be in anybody’s bad graces.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.”

Tuscany won’t be so bad, you think. What’s the worst that could happen?

—

Charles’ extended family greets you at their farmhouse when you arrive heaving two pieces of luggage. It’s populated by two aunts, three uncles, and two younger cousins, and their hospitality is contagious. They all somehow remind you of Charles, their faces, their laughs, their easy attitudes.

His aunts, Mia and Giulia, are the first to pull you in for a hug and inspect your face. Good eyebrows! Good lips! Healthy attractive child for you both!

You have to pry yourself off of them with giggles and smiles and pretend the kid comment was never uttered for your own sake. They’re kind, ushering you inside and serving dinner immediately, inquiring about the drive and if it was bad, if Charles had spotted any dead sheep or cattle on the way (none.)

His cousins are both little boys, eleven and six, shy and with thick accents. Charles’ smile is huge when he speaks to them in Italian, eyes comical and animated. His three uncles all eat fairly quietly, talking about politics, or racing, only when they feel like it. 

They ask many questions, and tell so many stories, over limoncello and rigatoni that leave you stuffed after two platefuls. You didn’t think you’d be satisfied so soon after the drive, but you’re grateful for it. His uncle Giorgio leads the tour of the house, his voice slow and constantly sliding into Italian, but Charles is quick to supply a translation into your ear. Lit by terrace lights, you get a night view of the house, surrounded by the hills, the lemon trees, and a swimming pool in the back. Further back, there are two horses for riding, and bicycles for easier transportation.

A vineyard borders the other side of the hill, owned by a different family. You can’t digest the beauty of this place, even without the sun to provide a better view. You’re back inside, being shown the rest of the wide dining room and kitchen that lead out onto a balcony-terrace area, and then clambering the stairs to be shown your room—a beautiful one on the second floor that overlooks the hills. 

“This is so beautiful,” you say honestly. “Thank you so much. And Charles will be staying…?”

“In my childhood bedroom!” He quips excitedly, already halfway out the door to review his living situation.

Giulia and Mia share a look and then the former goes, “Wait, Charles!”

He slows to a halt and turns, awaiting their words. “Ay. Bambino, because you have been in Monaco so long these days, and we have gotten a lot of stuff, your childhood bedroom is now more of a… storage room.”

“A storage room?!” He sounds scandalized.

“Bambino, mi dispiace,” she continues. “But—let’s not be conservative! You two have been dating now for a year, correct? Surely, you’ve slept in one bed.”

Your face grows warm. “Um, actu—”

“Shh,” Mia says kindly. “No need to make excuses. Charles, stay with your girlfriend. And we will wake you both for breakfast. Ciao!”

You barely voice your assent, managing to wedge in a thank you! before the door closes and leaves you and Charles alone. 

In a room without a single couch. The only non-bed “resting” space is a single chair, and as much as you want to, you don’t want Charles to break his spine trying to sleep on it. The situation is clear. You need to configure the bed.

“We cannot sleep on the same bed.”

“I’ll take the floor.”

“No! I mean—ugh. I don’t want to risk you pulling a muscle. Also, more importantly, if any of your family walks in and sees you sleeping on the floor, they’re going to think we’re freaks.”

“The bed is big enough for us both,” he says, gesticulating. You narrow your eyes. If you’re going to be avoiding physical contact, it definitely isn’t. It’s like the gods had decided to bless the room with a bed perfect for two people snuggling.

You place your hands on your hips, analyzing the best way to tackle the situation. You won’t lie, you’d thought about the possibility of sharing a room—but a bed was completely different. You’d expected a couch, a loveseat of some kind, both of which are woefully missing. Thinking fast, you take the three decorative, cylindrical pillows and place them vertically on the centre of the bed.

You step back. “Okay. That’s our boundary.”

Each side is a bit small, but it’s the price to pay, you think, taking a long look at your handiwork. Beside you, Charles snorts. “That is not going to work.”

“I’ll bet you it will,” you say matter-of-factly, retreating to the bathroom to get ready for bed. When you emerge, Charles is fast asleep, half his body on your side of the boundary. You have to pour water on his face to shoo him away, and that’s when you’re positive your creation will work.

You place yourself gingerly on your side of the border, remaining perfectly still as you drift off to sleep. You wake up the next day on Charles’ chest, pushing him away before admitting you’d been in that position in the first place. 

You slide him five euros over breakfast. 

—

Charles is a good driver, skier, and biker—you can attest to this from being by his side, reviewing pictures and videos of him for a living.

But there’s one thing he absolutely sucks at, and it’s teaching. You thought you’d never have to attest to this, but here you are, with scraped knees and a smudge of soil on the hem of your shorts, on your sixth attempt to learn how to ride a bike.

It’d been his idea, like many of the odd things you’d gotten yourself into. “Let me make up for dragging you along,” he’d said, and then proceeded to commit attempted murder every time he sent you away on the bicycle. Five tries did you no good; Charles’ directions contradicted each other and came much too fast, causing you to crash into the grass or skid yourself to a halt, your sneakers coated in a light layer of dust.

“Why are we still trying?” You ask woefully, examining the scratches on your calf. And to think you would’ve gotten to go truffle hunting with his uncle had Charles not swept you away to bike.

“It is an important life skill. Just—don’t look at the ground. Okay. Andiamo!” He sends you off again, watches as you twist and careen into a bush. Again. Your groan of pain matches the ooof he lets out, jogging to help you up. You turn away from the ground and toward his face. His laughing face.

“Ow. What?” You ask, raising a brow. You flex your fingers, waiting for him to pull you upwards. 

“You smashed into a bush and a berry’s all over your cheek.” He says, still laughing when he helps you up. You hold the tip of your pinky to your face, press down, and sure enough, when you inspect it again, it’s stained a dark berry color.

“Is this toxic?!” You ask, agitated.

“Che? Toxic? No, no. It’s a juniper berry.” He reaches over and swipes his thumb across your face, sending you into a frozen state. Your hands remain at your sides while he focuses on wiping the rest of the fruit off of your cheek, showing you his stained finger afterwards with a proud smile. “All gone.”

You turn and pick up the bicycle. “One more for good luck,” you say, shaking off the nerves and gut churning feeling deep in your stomach. You situate yourself atop the bike, trying to remember and re-remember all the tips Charles had given you. 

“Don’t look down, just breathe, keep your eyes trained straight. If you crash, on the grass always. Better than this path.”

“Got it,” you say breathlessly, determined. You take off, eyes trained on the landscape in front of you, leaving the house behind and gliding quickly downhill. It takes you a beat to realize, however, that you’re not falling. You’re doing it—properly. You turn to voice your pride, but that’s what gets you caught in your thoughts.

Charles is cheering behind you, but once he detects you’re stumbling, he runs the few metres over. Still, he can’t catch you fast enough; you do manage to turn right and land on the grass. In his own rush, Charles trips on the horizontal bike, and lands right beside you, atop your arm.

Eventually you’re both doubled over laughing, your fingers finding purchase on the blunt grass. You both only quiet down when you hear his aunt’s car, old and rickety, grow louder. You look up to find Giulia peeking out of the driver’s window, her face as amused as it is confused.

Beside her, Mia yells. “Buon lavoro, Charles!”

“What’d she say?” You ask, still half-laughing.

“Good job,” he replies, entertained. “She said good job.”

—

Charles takes Giorgio’s Vespa and rides you both to town two days later, even with the offer of a car. He claims the motor ride is the best way to experience Tuscany at its finest. Nothing about the two-seater bike on the pebbly road feels fine, though, and you’re seriously contemplating broken ribs when he makes a sharp turn. It’s only a ten, fifteen-minute ride, but the downhill slope makes it seem faster—and more dangerous.

Your grip on his waist had gone from loose and hesitant to tight and anxious, your voice a mantra of possible death in his ear. He can’t help but laugh, revving harder and chiming in with a biting remark of his own.

“You know who this is named after?” He shouts over the wind whipping both of you.

“Mmm?” You ask.

“Apollonia, from the Godfather.”

“Oh, Christ. The girl who died?”

“Hey, she was beautiful! My uncle loved the movies so much, his Vespa had to be named after her.” You lean onto his back for purchase, still unused to the speed at which he zips through the countryside. Eventually, after a few turns, the terrain turns from rough to smoother, and he parks at the busy-looking town square, populated by locals and tourists alike, but not with the traffic of more popular cities. Alleyways lead to smaller corner stores and cafés; a chapel overlooks the area, and a market populates the centre.

“What would you name your bike, if you had to?” You ask as a follow-up, removing your helmet and shaking your hair out. You pull at your dress to straighten it out.

“Well…” He takes both your helmets and stores them in the bike, leading the way toward the bustle. “My uncles, and my father—they always say we name our most precious things after beautiful women. Apollonia. My other uncle, Leo, he named his sailboat after his mother, Bianca. Even my dad would name few objects after my mother. It’s a way of honoring them, you know?”

You nod, stopping at a produce stall and examining a bunch of tomatoes. “I think that’s sweet.”

“Yes, so I guess… well, I don’t know, really. My mother’s name, maybe?”

“She’s got a beautiful one,” you comment offhandedly.

“Yeah. Or, if we go by appearances, I suppose your name.”

You ignore the flush of nerves that well up in you and turn back to face him, confused and amused. “My name? Why’s that?”

“I mean,” he coughs, crossing his arms and smiling, “people think we are together, so if I get a bike, and they ask for her name, I must say yours, no?”

“Only if you want to,” you chirp back, amused. What had possessed him to suddenly bring you into the discussion? Neither of you are pretending for all these strangers. Here in town, you’re friends again, browsing the market, walking around stalls, eating free samples of pesto and cheese.

“I do want to,” he says. It’s a joke, you’re sure. Half-sure. It’s a joke.

The town square’s noise begins to die when the sun sets. City-dwellers leave to take trips back to main hubs of Italy, and with no nightlife in the area, many in the square are families or couples sitting down for dinner. The ride back, while short, might be dangerous in the dark; you tug on Charles’ sleeve to relay your thoughts.

“Don’t worry,” he says dismissively. “I’ve biked here past midnight.”

“What were you even doing in town at midnight, hmm?” You tease lightly, following him around. There’s not much to do except eat at this point, judging by the way you’d both exhausted the stalls in the afternoon. He rolls his eyes, mumbling excuses. 

“You womanizer,” you whisper in an exaggerated scandalous tone. You poke his bicep. “Bedding the locals.”

“I was not, ay!” He defends. You’ve noticed his accent is so much thicker here, where he has to speak Italian all the time, except with you. It sounds nice. “I would come to smoke weed.”

That’s even funnier, you think, throwing your head back to laugh. Thoughts of teenaged Charles, tinged pink and tan from summer, on a momentary break from a junior racing career, biking fast back and forth—for a joint no less—are both funny and endearing. “That is so cute, Charles. Drug virgin.”

“Don’t speak of those when we’re in front of the house of the Lord,” he says sarcastically, gesturing to where your cyclical walking had landed you: back in front of the town’s chapel. There’s a pot of holy water by the front doors and a rack of candles for lighting and offering. Besides that, there’s a coin drop box being manned by a priest.

In silent agreement, you walk in sync to the candles, lighting one each and whispering brief intentions. You’re not religious, you’ve never been; a church seemed foreign to you, always. But you figure there’s no harm in a candle and an offer to the big guy, if he’s there.

There’s a mural painted by the doors, which you observe silently while Charles goes to drop donations into the box. You catch bits of their conversation. Good evening. Are you a tourist. No, we live up the hill, visiting for spring, yes. 

The rest you don’t catch, turning to Charles and watching him talk, animated as he is solemn. The priest smiles at you politely, turns to Charles, goes, “Siete qui insieme?” You rack your brain for the Italian you’d picked up recently but can’t match it to anything.

Charles nods. “Qui per cenare, ed esplorare.” Esplorare, explore? You fail again, but continue listening anyway, occupying your eyes with the mural.

“È la tua ragazza?” The priest asks with a soft chuckle.

“Oh, sì, sì.” Charles looks very sure of himself when he says so.

The priest nods once. “Se ti sposi, allora dovrebbe essere qui, no?”

Charles turns slowly, looks at you, then smiles. “Okay,” he says, still looking at you. “Farò in modo che accada.” Then they’re exchanging quick Italian goodbyes and he’s walking back to you, guiding you to a nearby restaurant for dinner.

“What was that about?” You ask, the curiosity getting the best of you. You don’t remember what they said, so you can’t plug it into Google Translate; your last hope is getting Charles to translate it for you. You figure it’s no problem. He’s always translated for you during your stay here so far, word-for-word recounts that have you feeling fluent in the language after decoding them. Whether it be a family anecdote or a market transaction, the language has never become an issue for you.

You walk beside him, awaiting the translation that never comes. Instead, he smiles, shakes his head, and says, “That was nothing.”

—

Your first, last, and only close call happens during a wine and poker night with Charles’ uncles and aunts. You’d spent the morning semi-cuddling (to beat the early a.m. cold, you both insisted), and then a majority of the afternoon in the nearby vineyard volunteering to help pick grapes, and they’d offered to let you wind down for the night inside.

It starts off well enough—you and Giorgio best the first two rounds, much to everyone else’s chagrin, and you rest on the sofa, reading Giulia’s cookbook with a glass of wine. At quarter to midnight, Charles’ six-year-old cousin, Marco, comes inside and slots himself beside Charles, eyes sleepy.

“Cugino,” he says. Cousin. His voice is squeaky and childish.

“Yes, Marco?” Charles asks, preoccupied with his cards.

“Put me to sleep,” he says in accented English.

“Later. You should wait.”

“Can she do it?” A chubby hand rises and points toward you. You offer a small wink, sipping wine.

“Only if she wants to,” Charles says, turning to face you. You chuckle.

“I’d be happy to, Marco.” You smile.

“Cugino.” Marco tugs on Charles’ sleeve to regain his attention. “What’s her favorite color?”

Oh, shit. Neither of you had really thought this would come up, so you hope Charles can fake it well. While you know everything about him, he knows not much about you, especially little niche facts like this one. Charles clears his throat and goes, “Blue.”

“Favorite song?”

“Uh. Marco, aspettare. OK?”

“Why should he wait?” Giorgio asks, gruff. “Your aunts and I are curious, too.”

Charles meets your eyes, and you try to signal for him to lie, which he ends up doing. “It’s Take a Chance on Me. ABBA, zio.”

You do know that song, but it’s definitely not your favorite. You close the cookbook and get up, pacing onto the seat beside Marco and leaning against it, smiling and nodding. Beside Giorgio, Mia asks sweetly, “Do you have any tattoos, dear?”

Just you, or are Italian aunts ridiculously straightforward? You open your mouth at the same time Charles does, and that’s what leads to your downfall. Yes, one, you say. No, none, Charles says at the same time. You both look at each other, eyes wide.

His uncle grunts. “Bambino, do you know nothing of this lovely girl?”

“You misunderstand,” Charles says. “I thought she wouldn’t want to share that yet, zio. I tried to cover for her, but, er—she seems okay with sharing it.”

It’s a flimsy excuse but it seems to work, and the poker game resumes without any more questions about you.

Still, you grow nervous, frustrated a bit, and, once you spot Marco asleep, you take him into your arms and mumble a polite goodnight, carrying him upstairs. The call was just too close. Why did Charles feel the need to interject like that? Had you been caught in such a lie, you’d need to reveal everything.

Something else tugs at your chest, but you refuse to admit it incites an unhappy feeling out of you. Charles’ lack of knowledge about you did nothing but remind you that in the end, he did know nothing about you, and this was just contractual and obligatory and for the press-turned-for the family. You pat Marco’s forehead, sighing. You shouldn’t be so upset, but you are.

You know a lot about Charles, but it’s a cold fact that he can’t say the same about you; at least, not to the extent that you know him. The doors and staircase creak, signifying the game’s end and everyone’s retreat to bed; you await Charles’ entrance, which comes after you hear him opening your room, finding it empty, and then—

“Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say, hushed. You get up and walk past him, crossing the corridor and opening the door halfway into your room. 

He says, then: “You really never tell me anything about yourself.” 

You freeze, turn, suddenly frustrated all over again. Suddenly sad. “Yeah. You really know nothing about me.” It’s exaggerated, so it cuts deeper.

He’s upset, you realize. “Do I have to beg for these sorts of basic facts? I wa—I…” He pauses. “I want to know you more. I’ve always wanted to.”

“You didn’t even think to—to ask me the most basic questions before we got here.” You’re aware he didn’t owe you this, but your irritance doesn’t quell. “My favorite song, my favorite movie, color, anything. I could name all that on your behalf.”

“Every time I ask, you deflect. You never told me, either,” he says defiantly.

You scoff and ponder for a minute before shaking your head and clambering down the steps. You need some fresh air, having gotten mad so quickly. You know it makes no sense—he never needed to ask about you. Prior to last week, you worked with him. Still, everything’s changed now, and it feels hurtful knowing he can’t name these things about you.

You take a seat on the terrace chair, pretend not to notice when he sits beside you, separated by a table.

You hug your arms closer to yourself, sigh. “It’s, a koi fish on my hipbone. Hurt like a bitch.”

He looks at you, curious. You continue.

“My high school superlative was ‘most likely to be elected president’—embarrassing, I know. I won the local spelling bee. Thrice in a row. I love the color green, and the movie Fantastic Mr. Fox.”

You pretend you’re not feeling anxious from the sudden sharing, clearing your throat and keeping your gaze trained on the landscape of houses and hills around you.

“I love crosswords to a worrying degree, I’m a dog person but have never owned one, and my favorite song is Don’t Go Breaking My Heart. I kill it on karaoke.” Finally, your eyes slide slowly over to look at Charles. He’s already looking at you, smile soft on his flushed, pink face.

“I didn’t think of you as much of a singer,” he says, eyes crinkling from the size of his smile.

Huffing and stifling a laugh, you cross your arms defiantly over your torso. Your lips melt into a pout, and you flip him off in an attempt to stave him off. He just laughs harder, gulping the rest of his wine with ease.

“To be fair, I think I dance better,” you respond proudly. “It’s still bad, but it’s better. Better than you, anyway.”

“Is that a challenge?” He asks, mouth half-open, still caught in a laugh. “Wow. Okay, d’accord. It’s on.”

“It is most certainly not a challenge, Charles!” You object frustratedly.

“Challenge accepted!”

Against your vocal protests, he gets up from his chair and reenters the house, exiting with his phone in one hand and the rest of the wine in the other. He browses his selection of songs, humming until he seems satisfied with one of them. He pours you both a glass of preparatory red, a grin lighting up his face. 

You burrow into the chair, unrelenting when he stretches out a hand to invite you to dance. You only end up giving in when you’ve successfully finished your wine, getting up and straightening out the wrinkles in your dress.

Your hand is still loosely clutched around his when he plays the Bee Gees song he’d queued up, and then both of you start dancing.

It’s a bit fast-paced, but you catch up well, letting yourself move fluidly to the song. All the while, your hand remains looped around his, like an anchor, a saving point. You shut your eyes to immerse yourself in the song, a smile on your face. When you crack them open, you watch Charles dance goofily, with moves you’d be totally embarrassed by otherwise. This time, you’re strangely endeared.

Where you expected yourself—the both of you, really—to be stiff and awkward, you’re both loose and easygoing, chuckling and laughing as the song progresses. Your dress swishes by your knees softly when you move, letting go of his hand momentarily. It flexes with the feeling of his absence. Charles dances like he has no care in the world, with movements that would rival a fifty-year-old’s. You find that you don’t have a care in the world either, watching him with a stupid grin on your features.

Your heart swells and seizes, and you swallow, not wanting to realize why yet. He reaches for your hand again, seeks it in the evening light. You give it to him easily, cut his search short. You’re what he looks for.

He lifts your linked hands right as the song starts its ending, and you realize you’re supposed to twirl around them. With a laugh, you follow, letting your arms stretch out when you’re done. He pulls you back, with strength that sends you barreling into his chest. “Dude,” you mumble, giggling. “Charles, you ruined my flow.”

You both part, but barely; your hands are still clasped, your distance barely increased. You stare up at him when the next song clicks on.

It’s slower this time, a song you recognize from films and novels. You remember this specific rendition from two years ago in Silverstone, when Charles had shared over a meeting that he’d been busy teaching himself the piano—specifically, The Way You Look Tonight.

The song continues, your hands still together, your eyes boring into his. The moon makes his light eyes a different shade, all green and soft edges rivaling the intensity of his stare. “Come on,” he says. “Why stop, no?”

He raises your hands, guides his vacant one to wrap around your waist. It’s warm there, secure, belonging. With all the hesitance in the world, you wrap a hand around his upper arm. Your gaze is unbreaking.

“Thank you,” he says, steering you both into a slow, easy rhythm. The nerves melt away slowly when you continue to sway. You cock a head to the side in a silent request for elaboration.

“For sharing.”

“Oh. It was only right,” you reply. “Considering you know nothing niche about me.”

“Tell me…” He starts, but the words tangle in his throat, lodge themselves there in a fit of nerves. He breathes, breaks the gaze. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind… if you told me more.”

A brief shine of surprise passes through your eyes, and you nod. “Alright.”

“Alright.” He smiles. 

“Do you think, ” you say, swallowing the sorrow, “we’ll need to keep doing this when the week is ov—?”

“Let’s not dwell on that,” he says quickly. He sounds—sad, almost, at the thought of this being fake. In the days spent here, picking grapes, drinking wine, going on bike rides and practicing Italian, it was easy to let the lines blur. Perhaps he’d forgotten.

You realize, when he leans forward and slots his chin atop your head: you’d forgotten, too.

—

Despite the tension, the next day goes fairly normal, and Charles takes you to town on Apollonia late at night. The Tuscan air is crisp and clean when he parks by a pub, loud not with techno music or hip-hop, but Italians singing. Inside, it’s not so crowded, populated by regulars, few tourists, and several older people.

Charles orders himself a beer, and a cocktail for you after you request something sweet. The bartender gives you an extra one on the house, and you and Charles seat yourself in front, watching people sing on the stage.

“Vi piace cantare?” Someone asks, and Charles quickly supplies: he’s asking if we like to sing.

You wave your palm back and forth. So-so, you signal. Charles, of course, ever the social butterfly, slides into a natural conversation with him, about Italy, pubs, beer, and singing. The guy introduces himself as Antonio, owner of said pub and a man who is apparently more than happy to clear the queue of singers for you two.

“Wait, seriously?” You ask. Antonio nods, clapping Charles on the back. You’d have thought they’d been friends for years or something.

You immediately turn down the request, but Charles scrambles onstage, having downed two bottles of beer. You’re overcome with horror as you watch him walk across the small stage to the side of it to request a song, encouraging whoops from the crowd.

“Ohhhhh. Oh, no. This is not a good idea,” you say, gulping. “Plus, I’ve had a lot to drink. Your aperol spritzes have so much alcohol in them.”

Beside you, Antonio laughs. “Non si preoccupi—do not worry. He seems to be a confident guy. You’re in good hands.”

“Am I? He didn’t even ask if I wanted to sing. I don’t even know what to sing.” You watch him whisper a song to the guy in charge of the pub’s ancient karaoke system, half-sure that the song archive stops after 1990. The stage creaks when Charles reaches for another mic and then stretches his arm out to offer it to you.

You muster your best angry face, but he just laughs. “Come on. You will like it.”

Gulping the rest of your cocktail, you accept the mic, and then his hand, strong in yours as he helps you climb onstage. The crowd of locals and few tourists cheer for the both of you, and you don’t do much to hide your stage fright; even the buzz of alcohol can’t help you. You hope (and know, deep down) that Charles will.

“Buona sera a tutti,” Charles says, met with more raucous cheering. “Io e il mio amico cateremo per te stasera.” He bows, and you follow a bit stiffly, not knowing what he’s saying.

“Amico?” Someone jeers from the audience. “O fidanzata?!”

Charles laughs, and you know he’s truly entertained because his eyes crinkle the way they do. You fiddle with your dress, your hair, anything to channel the nerves. He waves the crowd off with a shush motion and then turns, gestures for the song to start. He catches your eye, anxious, quells your nerves by taking your hand and squeezing it. Don’t worry, he mouths. I’m here.

You identify the song before two seconds of it even play, and the realization is breathtaking: your favorite. You shut your eyes and let a huge smile come onto your face, laughing. You almost can’t believe him for this.

He starts off the song, taking your hand and leading you into a dance. Don’t go breaking my heart.

You twirl around him, exaggerating your movements and smiling. I couldn’t if I tried.

Somehow, you find dexterity, flow in the movements, the words. Maybe because you love the song so much. Charles matches your enthusiasm, singing loudly and exaggerating his accent to incite laughs from the onlookers. When he speeds up, so do you, allowing both of you to join in an upbeat rhythm that leaves you panting.

Ooh-hoo, nobody knows it, you both sing, laughing and shimmying toward each other. You both point and laugh, joining hands again when the chorus ends to sing your lines all over again. Charles always leads you well, alert as he is excited, letting you melt into him, adapt to the dance. You feel like you’re floating. 

Don’t go breaking my heart, he sings. 

I won’t go breaking your heart, you sing back, ducking underneath your hands, laughing.

The tension, warmth, spark between you grow as the song begins to close, your words breathless, faces flushed with alcohol and semi-exhaustion. Even if your face seems to show it, though, you find you’re not tired at all, smiling as your heart beats faster. You pull away, dancing to the last bits of the song, having let go of all your worries, nerves. Why were you ever nervous? You always trusted him.

The song fades to an end when you pull together, faces as close as they’d ever been. You’re both breathing heavy with the intensity of your dance, smiling. You shut your eyes, laugh, with the ecstasy of this moment. From the crowd, the bartender yells: “Ora bacia! Kiss!”

Both you and Charles turn to the crowd, who quickly cheer him on, and laugh. But they’re not kidding, you realize—they’re all yelling kiss in unison, intermittent whoops and cheers joining the chant. It’s like a rural Italian version of an MLB kiss cam.

You turn back to Charles, who’s looking at you already. His eyes dart to your lips. You’d never done it before—appearances never went that far—but the crowd is unrelenting, and you nod back when he cocks his head to the side in silent question. Like always, you’re nervous. And again, like always, he helps you through it.

Warmth blossoms through your chest when he leans in and presses your lips together.

That would’ve been enough to satisfy the crowd, you think, but neither of you pull away. Sparks ignite your stomach, your hands looping around his neck, his around your waist. You kiss him back effortlessly, like you’d done this a million times before. You feel him smile against your own smile, laugh when you laugh. 

The kiss is nothing if not dizzying, the perfect kind, the kind of the fairytale variety. His lips are soft, a bit chapped, against yours; when your tongues meet, they taste like aperol spritz and beer. Your hands tighten around his neck, like you need him still against you, when you both pull away for air. The crowd cheers.

You barely even hear them, staring into his eyes. 

—

The night becomes cloudy, raining softly over the hills when everybody’s done singing; Charles boards Apollonia and like always, you wrap your hands around him, leaning against his back. You’re a bit tipsy, but above all, you’re utterly conflicted with how everything’s seemed to turn in on itself within the last few days.

The rain only grows as Charles revs harder, and the Vespa skids to a screeching, horrible stop. Thankfully, you’re not far from the farmhouse, so you don’t walk much; still, both of you are drenched, Charles’ arms stained with motor oil that drips off with the force of the rain. He stows away the bike, turns back to you. You’re looking at him expectantly.

“What is this?” You demand, raising your voice.

“Rain,” he replies blankly.

“This.” You wag a finger in between you both. “We kissed in Antonio’s pub, Charles. And we might—we might tell ourselves it was because of the crowd’s pressure, but we know. We both know that kiss was for nobody but us.”

He wipes a hand over his face. “What do you want it to be?”

“I don’t know,” you say honestly, sighing. Your hair is dripping with rain. “I really don’t.”

“I’ll tell you what I want,” he says. And he pauses, like he always does when he’s unsure, nervous, bumbling, and then blurts it out. “You—I want you. I was a fool to realize it late. But years of being with you, around you… I should’ve known earlier, I—”

“Charles,” you cut in, not expecting the sudden rawness. “No, no.”

“You’ve got to realize,” he says desperately. “I do. I constantly think of you, feel for you, look for you, look at you. I’ve known you for so long, I always end up liking you all over again. Everything comes back to you. Seeing you here, a place I love—seeing you love it here—listening to you sing, dancing with you—don’t you—haven’t you gotten it yet—?”

You stare at him. 

You’re faraway, on the clouds, dry from the rain, when he says it. I love you.

—

The morning after is quiet, muted. You drown in your own overbearing thoughts.

“Got a lot on your mind?” You emerge from them quick, eyes darting over to Charles’ two aunts leaning by the doorframe of the dining room. You offer a polite smile, hoping it hides the conflict in the recesses of your mind.

“A bit,” you reply. 

“Come join us,” Mia offers. “We will pick lemons outside. For lunch.”

You take a basket from the entryway and follow them through the front door and onto the yard, matching their slow pace, relishing in the morning sun that hasn’t yet grown too hot.

Tuscany is beautiful. Despite your best efforts, you’d grown to love it here over the course of the week. The hilly terrain, the fruit, the constant goat sightings, the bike rides to town where you clutch Charles’ shirt out of fear you might fall off. 

They seem to spot good lemons within milliseconds, balding the branches in minutes. Perhaps because of your own cloudy thoughts, or maybe their breakneck speed, you fail to catch up, and they notice.

Mia again brings you out of your thoughts, guiding you three to the next tree. “Are you upset, bambina? Is Charles being a pest?”

“Oh, God, no,” you say with a laugh. “We—he’s a great tour guide. I never explored Italy before, and it’s beautiful here. He bikes me to town, because I can’t, uh, ride, unfortunately. He transacts for me, because my Italian is hopeless. He buys wine and cheese and lets me pet sheep when we bike past them on the hills.”

“Bambini innamorati.” Mia sighs fondly. “What is it you like about Charles?”

You hum, thinking. There are lots of things you like about Charles, but surely his family share the same sentiments. What’s unique? What about him is just yours? “His humor, I suppose,” you say. “He finds the fun in everything, even in competition, in boredom. Everywhere else, his good traits—everyone knows them. A stellar driver, charming, kind. Good-looking. But his humor, I think… I think he reserves his weirdest jokes, his best laughs, for the best people in his life. I’m just glad I’m there.”

Giulia is the next to speak, slow and encouraging, prompting you with a question you’d once dreaded but now feel excitement to hear: “Tell me again, how you and Charles met?”

It’s a rehearsed story, with bits of lies that you and Charles had to insert to make it appear more romantic and less coworker-esque. But you’d only told the short version before. To some journalists, to his cousin. You figure you’ll lie less and tell a more unabridged version. “Oh, okay,” you say, nervous and collecting your thoughts. 

“I work with Charles. I was spending time with him a lot, so naturally, we became somewhat friends. Not very close, but comfortable enough. I had to take pictures and videos for him and his teammate, so we really were together a lot. I suppose that’s how we met. How we became… something more, is a totally different story. I think the best thing about it was that neither of us were looking for it.”

You breathe, pausing. “It simply happened—despite both of us not expecting, not needing a relationship, it happened anyway. Almost funny, how young people like myself look for the moment of love at first sight. The staggering moment of eye contact and realizing you’ve met your soulmate. But—it wasn’t like that for me. It happened slowly, like I had to dissect what I felt. Like my heart had always known, so I had to catch up with myself and realize I…”

You pause. You really aren’t lying. “…I’m in love with him.”

Giulia and Mia exchange a knowing look over the branches.

—

“So, are you dating?” Natalie asks. It’s the first race of the season, and everyone’s excited—but this interview moves slowly, Charles dictating the flow of it himself. He smiles.

“Yes, we are.”

“Well, there’d been rumors a few months ago that this was a PR stunt, calculated by your new officer, Jenna Griffin. So, tell me again, are you dating? For real?”

Charles seeks you in the crowd of the meet-and-greet fans, finds you in the front row. You roll your eyes when he smiles fondly at you. A Tuscany trip and several months later, he thinks, has changed everything.

For the better. “For real.”

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

[norrisreads]

you belong with me #OP81

PLOT : so what happens now, that you've confessed your long term crush towards your very own bestfriend. Will everything turn out great and smooth for you, or will there be someone else to replace that heartache of yours?

PAIRING : oscar piastri x reader! lando norris x reader!

WARNINGS : slight angst, fluff!

a/n : i’ve decided to disregard the inspiration from ag “we can’t be friends” & my english isn’t fluent so pardon the errors 🙏🏻

Was avoiding the oscar piastri, who happened to be your very own bestfriend who you’ve confessed to, possible? The answer to that question is no.

You’ve found yourself gotten closer to lando, with him aiding you and providing you with support you’ve never knew you needed. You currently just landed a job with Mclaren, focusing on social media marketing, which could’ve meant there’s a huge chance of you bumping to Oscar for work purposes.

Things have been so much worse for you eversince the confession, countless rumours were spread wildfire on the internet, comments on your social medias was all related to oscar’s and you friendship, it had gotten out of hand to the point you’ve decided to create a new instagram page and deactivating the previous instagram page.

Currently, you were out with your/bff/name to celebrate lando’s birthday in a big club located in Monaco. You aren’t really a huge club enthusiast but since it’s Lando’s special day, you’ve decided to go ahead with the plan and the future you should’ve stopped you.

Because, here you are currently emptying your guts out while sitting in the freezing tile restroom of the loud club you're now in. Eventhough the purpose of this club outing is celebrating Lando's birthday, but here he is holding your hair and wiping away your smudged liner tears, caressing your back smoothly.

With your best friend, guarding the restroom door while admiring both of you, and then you hear a click sound

"not to ruin the mood, but you guys should totally date" showing lando the photo she’d just took, “send me that”

"really, now? not the time”

Sobbing while still trying to empty more of what you have drank in the last few hours

"i am just saying, look who’s here being lovey dovey taking care of you, eventhough he has to be out there to entertain his own birthday party?”

rolling your eyes, “you shouldn’t have forced me to drink that many cups, lan”

glaring at lando, which he successfully avoid

“did he ever contact you?”

“he, as in oscar piastri” your/bestff/name added on to her previous question

shaking your head letting her know a “no”

“Dickhead” you could hear Lando’s muttered

“hey, don’t let this affect the friendship the both of you had”

lando sighs, “he’s not talking to me, i’m just doing the same”

lafilledhiver just posted a story

seen by oscarpiastri landonorris charles_leclerc

lafilledhiver happiest birthday my london boy landonorris luv you forever (do not take me out for the next 24/36 hours)

It has been a few months since lando’s birthday celebration, both lando and you were currently seated on the second floor of the mclaren’s hospitality.

Lando has successfully convinced you in accompanying him to the current season grand prix, and here you are currently in the suzuka circuit.

Though, following lando for the current season grand prix, has it’s pros and cons. Rumours regarding you started to grow, especially as the wag’s instagram page managed to let your instagram page get known to the whole world, and now your comment section has just been filled with either your situation with both of the McLaren boys.

And, the one rumour that has been rising up for the past few days, was regarding lando’s current relationship with you.

Yes, you are currently dating the mclaren driver, lando norris. Did you ever expected this to have happened? no.

Few months back, just a week after lando’s birthday, he had confessed to you drukenly.

You were taken aback, but you thought back on what your/bestff/name said when it was the night of lando’s birthday party and you agreed, on dating lando norris.

Dating lando norris, healed you. Everything you did with oscar, you’ve done it with lando, except it was 100% better because you finally knew that this is how love feels like.

while you were trying to engulf yourself to your current workload, lando has just been right beside you, going though with his team on strategies for qualifying. You’ve tried giving them the space the team needed, but lando refused to and pushed you back to your sear which was beside him.

Then you felt, a phone sliding between the space of lando’s and your’s computer. There was another article stated, “Mclaren drivers tension explained, and it was all because of y/n”

“explain, now. Both of you” there oscar was, standing there with rage

“there’s no explanation” shrugging your shoulders

then oscar faced lando, “you’re pathetic, going after own my best friend” punching lando to the ground

“what the fuck oscar?” trying your best to seperate the both of them, with max holding on to lando

“what the fuck is wrong with you, y/n. What is wrong with you. Why him? My own teammate?” oscar voice has gotten louder and louder, which you’re so glad that all of you were currently in the staff’s area and thankful that it’s soundproof

ignoring oscar, you told lando that you’ll be back and you just needed a talk with oscar, which Lando agreed on

“let’s go”, grabbing oscar’s hand and pulling him to his driver room, and slamming and locking the door behind you.

“talk” oscar could sense that you were angry with the sudden change of your demeanour , and when you’re angry he knew it’ll be tough for him to explain

“look, i don’t know what has gotten to me alright? Lily showed me that, and i guess anger just took over me?”

you shook your head, “not reasonable for you to punch my boyfriend, explain or i’m never giving you a second chance”

he sighed, “lily broke up with me”

and with that coming out of oscar’s lips, you couldn’t help but to be shocked

“what? how did that happened?”

“this”, oscar pointed to the space between us, “lily thinks i am in love with you”

“well, are you?” you asked him, while raising your brows

he nods, which made u automatically faced him

“oscar, what?” and before you could continue whatever you’ve wanted to say, oscar cut you off

“look, when you left, something in me died, it’s as if i don’t look forward to anything anymore. At first i thought, it’s because you were always right beside me and i had to get used to being alone but it’s not that.

way before i met lily, i really liked you, but i was just scared. Scared that it will ruin whatever friendship we had, and i treasure the friendship more than ever. Then, when you left lily and i had a talk, she’s the one who showed me the article of lando and you”

“keepings tabs on me, i have a fan” you scoffed

“she liked you, she was just jealous over you. She broke up with me, because she wanted our friendship to reconcile, and she pushed me to kinda have a talk with you. y/n, meeting you will always be my favourite memory but you being a memory will always break my heart ” oscar’s palms were now on your shoulders, which meant you were forced to face oscar’s face

“osc, i no longer have feelings for you. It’s true, i am dating lando, and i’m happy. He makes me feel seen. Whenever, i am around him, he makes me feel the happiest person in the whole world. I use to feel that way with you, but now it’s a different person”

you felt oscar’s palm slowly releasing from your shoulders, “i am happy for you y/n and I understand, i guess something just took over me when i realise i’ve lost you to lando. Something that was once could be mine”

“I should go, you should have a talk with lily. Fix the relationship between the both of you, you are each other soulmates”

lafilledhiver_ instagram page

lafilledhiver_ just posted

liked by oscarpiastri landonorris maxfewtrell and others

lafilledhiver_ receiving princess treatment from my very own london boy landonorris

↳ landonorris who is that fine babe??????????

↳ maxfewtrell that fine babe is your girlfriend

↳ oscarpiastri gross, ew

↳ lafilledhiver_ he’s lost plesee pick him up lilyzneimer

↳ lilyzneimer on it 🙏🏻

Eversince oscar and you had the talk, things between the both of you has gone exceptionally well. Oscar relationship with lily is getting better, and there were times that the both of them would join lando’s and you dates.

The four of you were currently on a double date, oscar and lando both at the supermarket getting some groceries while lily and you were both in your shared house with lando

“thanks for hearing out oscar by the way, he loves you alot lily, trust me” smiling towards lily

“i’m sorry about the way i act towards you back then, i was jealous on how kind and soft osc was towards you, and now i finally realise. You’re really too kind for the world, y/n”

And just a few minutes afterwards, you could hear the door lock getting unlocked which signalled that the boys were back.

Both lily and you stood up to help the boys with the groceries, “are you feeding for the whole village?” with the amount of snacks, instant food in at least 2/4 bags

“we got distracted” oscar laughed

“clearlyyyy” lily’s rolling her eyes sarcastically

then u felt lando’s arms around you, “ i got you those puffs that you loved, you are running out of them. Got you those frog chocolates too that you seem to love so much with the amount that i’ve seen you sneaked in my bag. There’s others, it could filled the fridge for at least while i am gone”

Facing towards lando’s face, and giving him a quick kiss on the lips, “you’re the best, this is why you are my boyfriend”

Lando had left you for the Azerbajian grand prix, you decided to take some time off and have time to yourself.

Did you miss Lando? Of course you did, but it helped with lando facetiming you every time he was given a short free period, with him explaining his day, the car, the strategy

You’ve also decided to stop working under Mclaren, and instead found something to do that you’ve always been wanting, opening up your very own small cafe in the neighbourhood that oscar and you grew up in

Lando was iffy about it at the start but slowly supported you, giving you advices on what he had learnt from his current company, going furniture and equipment shopping with you, following you to the store every time the renovation team called for you

You’ve never not once regret getting lando norris as the love of your life, and oscar piastri as your best friend because it is reallt the best of both worlds.

lafilledhiver_ just posted

liked by lewishamilton maxfewtrell lnfour and others

lafilledhiver_ i said yes

↳ y/bff/n i manifested this, congratulations luv!!!!!!

↳ maxfewtrell finally 👋, no refunds y/n

↳ lafilledhiver_ there’s a year warranty

↳ maxfewtrell not applicable for sale items sadly 😔

↳ landonorris guys??? really????????

↳ lilyzneimer i’m so happy for you 🥹

↳ lafilledhiver_ oscarpiastri you’re next

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ author note ˚୨୧⋆｡˚⋆

Thank you so much for waiting, originally there was another plot that i had in mind to publish, but i've realised that tumblr has deleted my newest draft which led to the plot to be changed! Do let me know if you would like an alternate ending, where reader will end up with oscar! Once again thank you so much for the support, i've never knew that people would actually enjoy reading what i've put out so far in my blog!

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ taglist ˚୨୧⋆｡˚⋆

@vicurious28 @epsiespace @hopefulcupcakerebel @randomgirlnumber13 @leclercdream @yourbane @hellof-1 @evie-119 @saachiep81 @invictusrey @cmleitora @icedoutmay @mimosa6 @d3kstar @daemyratwst

#f1 x reader #f1 smau #f1 fics #mclaren #lando norris x y/n #lando norris #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri #oscar piastri smau #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri imagine

[formulafootball66]

delicate -  neymar jr

a/n: oh god, this one contains smut, i’ve never written smut before so, watch out i guess! ps! i snuck in some taylor swift references, from her song delicate pairing: neymar jr x reader warning: language, smut, slight angst (fighting) wordcount: 3000 summary: fake dating with neymar changes into something more

“Come on, we have to be at the event at 8. Are you almost ready, anjo?” Neymar asked, waiting impatiently for you. He stood in the bedroom of the hotel room, which was attached to the bathroom you were in. You two shared a room for once purpose – being seen arriving and leaving together. You were currently getting ready for yet another celebrity party. He was your date, as always, even though you weren’t really dating.

The reason why you were intertwined in this fake relationship, is that you’re just here to make him look good. It was for your own profit too. Over the years, Neymar has built quite the playboy status. This status, the almost slutty one, made brands not wanting deals with him and gave him a bad reputation. You were the internets good girl, the golden girl. The angel. The sweetheart. You never had been caught in any affair, never had an awful break up and had never had a cheating scandal.

Both of your managers got together and decided it would be good for both of you. He would be able to save his reputation, you gained fame. It felt unreal, now thinking about the moment.

It was 8 months ago, you were just got ready to start your day. Today was not going to be a productive day, you were just going out with your friends. Then you got a call from your manager, asking you to come to the office as soon as possible.

You arrived and when you walked in you saw him immediately. The number one heartthrob of the world. The guy who had a new girl every week. Neymar da Silva Santos Júnior. You looked around you confused. What was he doing here?

“What’s going on?” you asked, looking at your manager. Miss Delara has been here for since the take off of your career. From the first movie to the most recent one. She has grown to be your rock.

“Y/N, please sit down.” A guy, probably Neymar’s manager, said. You do what he asked, but shot him an irritated glance. What was going on? You look at Neymar and give him a nod, not really knowing how to greet him. You have only met him twice and both those interaction were short and just polite. He ignores you, that asshole.

“So Y/N, Neymar, you’re probably wondering why you are here.” His manager said. “Well, that’s because of me. I asked Miss Delara for a favor and she thought it was a good idea.”

You felt clueless, how does this explain anything?

“Cause Neymar, you can’t keep acting like this. Adidas is about the stop your contract with them. You have been getting so much hate on social media and parents don’t want you walking with their kids down the field anymore. I never thought you would let it come that far.” He said following up his earlier statement.

“Eu não me importo (I don’t care)! I’m just living my life and why the fuck is she here?” he all of sudden snapped. Jeez. This guy really had some issues.

“No Neymar, you’ve let it come to far like I said. We need to change your media presence. I want a positive, happy and loving Neymar in my twitter feed. I don’t want to see another article about you leaving a club with 5 girls.”

Neymar is clearly upset and about to go of about this shit.

“Uh, I’m sorry, but what am I doing here?” You asked carefully. You just felt like you didn’t belong in this conversation.

“Y/N, you have a perfect reputation, right?” He asked and you nodded not really knowing what to do. “You might be able to save his. Miss Delara and I had this idea, where you just go out for a while, go in public, let the paparazzi take photos of you. Let Neymar build this perfect boyfriend reputation, let you gain fame from all of this-“

“No fucking way,’ Neymar said, cutting his own manager off. “No fucking way,” he said once more.

“Please Neymar, you’ll gain so much from this. You’ll gain the old love and affection back. On the pitch, off the pitch. Just think about those days.”

This clearly made Neymar rethink it, the three of you could clearly see that he relived those glorious memories again. But how did you feel about it? You just felt confused. Sure, gaining more fame from dating him would be nice. But staying around him all the time? You’d rather not.

“Do you both agree?” Miss Delara said, but she was mainly looking at you. She really knew you. She noticed the way you were more quiet than usual.

“I do agree. My reputation never been worse, so.” He said, clearly having his mind made up already.

Now all their eyes were on you. “Well I’d rather not date him, even if it was fake.” You said. Had you really just said that in front of him? But then again, it was kind of his own fault for acting like a douchebag.

“So much for being the sweet golden girl, huh? Is it all an act? You’re not an angel at all, are you?” He said seductively, implying something you don’t want to think about. You felt your cheeks getting hot.

“That’s enough. Y/N, you need this. You’re new movie just came out and extra promotion is always welcome. You have to agree.

So you did.

You finished your makeup, realizing you had been lost in your memories for a minute. You almost couldn’t believe why you almost said no to this deal. He treats you well, is respectful and occasionally buys you gifts. He is good to you, even when you are in private.

“Damn, I’ve never seen that color blue. Looks good on you.” He says in admiration. His eyes scanning over your body, which looks great in the light blue dress. The lower neckline shows your chest off nicely, but was still classy. The slit went all the way up your leg and made your legs look longer then they are. You looked stunning.

He clearly agreed, he thought you look so pure, so perfect and most of all so delicate. It was the perfect way to describe you. Delicate. Like a flower. Just so beautiful and he was afraid to shatter it. He almost zoned out thinking about you, but he made himself snap out if of it.

“We should just stay here, querida, I don’t want to share.” He suggested.

You let out a slight chuckle. “Let’s keep it professional, shall we?”

“Well, we should.”

You look at him confused. What does he mean with ‘should’? You decided to ignore him and grab his hand. “Let’s just go to the party,” you tell him.

“No staying here then?”

You gave him a knowing look and shot you a defeated one back. “Fine, we’ll go.”

At the party, the both of you just fell into your usual routine. When you arrived you posed, when you stepped in the club you hold each other close, and a while later you do you your own thing. Then you reunite and dance with each other. While dancing, he whispered his usual sweet talk in your ear and due to the drinks you had you gave in. The look on his face was priceless when you said something not even remotely similar back.

The rest of the evening you hung out with your friends and soon the party came to an end. You got invited to the after party. You told your girlfriends you would let Neymar know you were going to the party and they were excited. You usually went straight home after the real party.

“Hey,” you said, pressing a kiss on his cheek.

“Ei bêbe, ready to go home?” he asked you. He put his glass back on the bar and already signed to the barman that he wanted to pay. He then pointed at you, signaling he was paying for you too.

“Actually, I’ve got invited to some kind of rooftop after party, the girls and I were planning on going. Are you okay with that? Or do you want to join?”

“Oh. You really want to go?” He said, his voice sounded mildly disappointed.

“Yeah, it’s been a while since I have been out on a girls night.”

He tried to fake a smile, but failed miserably. “No, it’s okay! I just don’t feel like another party, so I’ll go home, alright? You stay safe, meu vida.”

“I’ll see you at our room again. Drive save!” You walked of happily, pleased with knowing he was okay with it. You were happy that you finally went out with your girls.

What you didn’t notice was Neymar’s sadden stare following you all the way out of the door.

~

It was about three in the morning, you were exhausted, but happy to be back in your room. It was a good party. Good people, good music and overall good vibes. You had a great night.

“Ney, I’m back!” you yelled, not caring that there are probably people sleeping in this building. When you didn’t get a response, you were confused. “Ney?” you tried again, no response. Shit, he was probably asleep. You walked over to bedroom hoping you’d find him there. You did.

He was laying on the bed, with his headphones on. Even though his eyes were closed, the expression his face portrayed looked almost angry, but you thought he maybe was deeply focused on his music. You went to sit on the end on the bed. You tap twice on his leg and he removes his headphones.

“You should turn down your volume, dumbass! I was yelling the other second and I got no response!” you fake scolded him.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, not really making eye contact with you. You ignored him, you figured he was just mad about you ruining his song.

“You really missed out on this party, Ney! At some point, Riley got so drunk she was jumping from float to float in the pool! Then Ariel was flirting with the bartender and got us all free drinks-“

“Am I a fucking joke to you?” he interrupted, tone much harsher than usual.

You looked at him confused. “What the hell are you saying?” You felt yourself getting mad at him, how dare he raise his voice to you like that? Where was his respect?

“I asked, do you think it’s fucking funny to tell me you’re going out with your friends?” He asked again, clearly angrier too.

“I was out with my friends? What are you on about?”

“Stop acting dumb. We both know that was just an excuse of yours to grind down on this assholes dick!” He yelled, almost scaring you. You weren’t scared though, because you knew you were in the right. You’d never do anything like that, even in this fake relation. You knew how important it was to make this relation seem perfect, 24/7.

“What are you talking about?” You yelled back at him. He threw to you his phone and you saw Twitter opened. You clicked on the video and your friends. You also saw the guy dancing with your best friend, who you were according to Neymar grinding on, being a respectful distance away from you.

“Is this what you’re dramatic about?” You asked and raised an eyebrow. He looks at you like your some kind of ghost. “He’s touching you!”

“It was merely a touch Neymar! Our shoulders brushed once!”

“Yeah, and then he looked at you!” Now he was really pushing it. He was making such drama over a guy looking at you! What had gotten into him?

“If you make this big of a drama about some guy looking at me, you have a lot of issues, Ney. And if I did dance with somebody, why would you care? We’re only dating for our business life, for fucks sake!” There, you finally said it. Why was it bothering him so much?

Living in an illusion was fun, until you couldn’t see the difference between reality and fantasy anymore.

That’s how you felt right now.

“Because Y/N! Because it drives insane knowing other men look at you, because the idea of any other person touching you makes me crazy. I get so jealous. I don’t want to imagine someone else with what is mine. I am sick of only pretending your mine all the damn time. Acting like I don’t want that to be the truth. But what drives me the most mad of all of these things? That you still haven’t realized that I’m madly in love with you,” he let out, finally spoken his truth. The words that he had been holding back for months now.

“You love me?” was the only thing you were able to say, not knowing how to react. But you already knew what you wanted to say. When he said how he felt about you, all the puzzle pieces fell into place. So did the feeling you have been keeping to yourself for months now. The warm, homey feeling he bought you. The ultimate comfort you found in him, the way your heart fluttered when he smiled and the way he could give you everything by just being there for you.

“I do, Y/N. I’m sorry it took me a douchebag to realize that.” He said, finally looking in your eyes. You saw a glint of hope, but a lot of fear in his hazel eyes.

“Kiss me, please,” you simply said. You weren’t able to express any of your feelings right now. You felt overwhelmed by everything happening. He didn’t take long to realize what you said an scooted closer to you.

He cupped your jaw softly, looked at you with adoration and passion. His other hand in your hair, which was already messed up by a long night of going out. He pulls you closer and your you can feel his breath. He finally kisses you, but this time it was not one of your quick kisses, just for the photos. No, this time, he wanted to feel every part of you. He took his time, slowly pulling you on his lap.

You felt the kiss grow more heated as his tongue slid in your mouth. Your tongues found their own rhythms. His hand that was holding your jaw gently, moved to your ass and gave it a squeeze. Not expecting this actions, you let out a slight moan and accidentally grinded your hips on him. Earning a groan from him, you felt his dick under you grow harder.

He broke the kiss and let his forehead rest against your head. “Fuck baby, look what you’ve done.”

You looked down a saw a slight wet spot on his pants. “You want to fix that for me, anjo?”

You nodded and got off of his lap, getting on your knees in front of the bed. He kicked out his sweatpants and got rid of his boxers. You looked a little too long at his cock in full glory, it standing up proud and in full glory.

“Fuck, you look so pretty on your knees,” he managed to bring out. You couldn’t respond. “Aw, has my little innocent girl gone a little dumb?”

You nodded again, but now finally taking actions. You hands ran up and down his base and after a few strokes, you began giving him kitty licks all over. Giving more attention to his sensitive red tip, he was a groaning mess for you.

“Stop teasing. I want you. Take it like the good girl I know you are.” He grunted -  wanting more from you then you were currently giving. Those words got him what he wanted; him calling you a good girl clearly affecting you. You did what he requested, you took him in your mouth. Not having that much experience, you couldn’t fit everything you wanted. So, you pumped what you couldn’t fit.

You’re still moving slow, holding that teasing pace. But after a bit of that he grew impatient. He needs to feel you, deeper and harder. Not only sucking him off for the sake of teasing him. He wanted you to make him cum, not make him wait. His hands gripped your hair harshly and he starts fucking your face. While he was doing this, he constantly told you how good you were doing.

This sudden movement from him, caused you to tear up. Gagging on his cock, which was deeper than ever before, you couldn’t the few tears rolling down your face. He kept his fast pace and after a minute or two he starts groaning loudly. This was the signal for you that he was almost coming undone. You put in a bit more effort and tried to suck him harder. You felt his cock twitch inside your mouth.

“Shit, anjo. Is it okay if I come in your mouth?” he asked for permission. You let out an agreeing mumble and nodded. A few seconds later he came with groans you’d swear the whole hotel had heard.

He drops himself on the bed. “You did so good for me.” He praised, making you blush. “Give me a minute and I’ll return the favor, alright?”

You laughed and knew it was going to be a long night.

~

In the morning you were exhausted, not getting a lot of sleep tonight. But you definitely didn’t regret anything. No, yesterday was a night you’ll never forget. The way he made scream, the way you get slightly wet thinking about it again. And now you were here, held closely by the chest of your boyfriend.

“Hey anjo. Good morning,” his groggy morning voice said. You smiled and said your good mornings back. When you saw him fading to sleep again, you nudged him. “Ney!”

“Hmm?”

“I love you,” you said softly.

“I know you told me a thousand time while you were having orgasm. During all three of them even.” He said, his subtilty clearly still asleep.

“Way to ruin the moment!”

“You still love me though, that’s all that matters.”

#neymar #neymar jr #neymar fanfic #neymar smut #neymar jr smut #neymar jr one shot #neymar x reader #neymar jr fluff #neymar jr angst #football fanfic #football imagine

[tkwrites]

Messages - Quinn Hughes x ofc

Photo from Pinterest

Title: Messages 

Author: Tory / @tkwrites 

Relationship: Pre-established: Quinn x Sarah

Warnings: smut (18+ only), mutual masturbation, phone sex (sort of) 

Summary: Missing him something fierce, Sarah sends Quinn a video of herself in his bed. 

Word count: 1,600

Comments: 2 stories in 2 days? Who am I? In all seriousness, this has been sitting in my drafts for a while, and tonight felt like a good night for it to go into the world. 

This snapshot is way out of the beginning-ish timeline I’ve been sticking to for a while. Hope you enjoy! 

Messages

A Quinn & Sarah Snapshot

Don’t listen until you’re alone. 

Quinn was always interested when Sarah messaged him in the middle of the day. She was usually in school, so if she had something to say it was important. 

This cryptic message, though, really piqued his interest. 

A few seconds later, a video came through. The preview was black. He glanced around at the guys on the bus. No one seemed to be paying him any attention, and his airpods were in, so no one would overhear. 

It was likely just her telling him a story with a lot of foul language. She always prefaced those this same way, not wanting anyone else to overhear despite his insistence that anyone he hung around with wouldn't be bothered. 

So, he took the chance and pressed play. 

Nothing changed. The screen stayed black, and it was quiet for a long while. He clicked to make sure it was playing. The progress bar at the bottom informed him there were two minutes left. The lighting was so dim, he wasn’t sure if he could see something in the top corner of the screen or not. 

Then came the sound of her breathing - hitched, quick breaths that reminded him distinctly of being in bed with her. Tiny little moans followed. The kind that always made him want to make her really moan. 

He gulped. 

Eyes glued to the screen, Quinn listened as her breathy moans got louder. 

Suddenly, it clicked. The video was of the ceiling. Of his ceiling. He could just make out the outline of the light fixture over his bed. The idea of her touching herself in his bed almost made him moan out loud. 

His thoughts raced along with his heart. 

He'd given her a key a few weeks before after she told him she liked to study there - it was so beautiful and so much quieter than her place or anywhere on campus. There was no point in it sitting empty while he was on the road, especially when she studied there when he was home, anyway. 

Never in a million years had he thought she would be masturbating in his bed. 

“Quinn,” her voice swam through his veins. His tongue felt heavy with the longing to kiss her and his suit pants grew uncomfortably tight. 

Holy shit. 

Holy shit. 

HOLY SHIT.

He clicked out of the video, cutting off her next words that sounded like they might be, "I wish-"

He couldn't listen to this here. They were just about to get to PNC. He would have to walk into the arena in less than 10 minutes with photographers and social media teams taking pictures and videos. He couldn’t walk off the bus with his lower half standing at attention like this. He’d be all over the internet in no time. Chirped by the team and his friends for the rest of his life. 

Closing his eyes, he thought about swimming in the lake, taking a cold shower and his high school math teacher. 

His body finally relaxed. 

What the hell, Sarah? He messaged her then, ignoring the pull in his stomach to click on the video again. He could do it later, after a win over the Hurricanes. I’m on the bus.

I TOLD YOU TO LISTEN ALONE!

No one else heard. WHY would you send this in the middle of the day? And tell me not to watch it! Of course I’m watching it with that warning. 

Deciding she ought to just be honest, Sarah chewed her lip as she typed, I didn’t want to lose the nerve. I felt like if I waited until tonight, I might chicken out. I thought you were in the arena already. 

Quinn almost asked her why she was sending it in the first place. They’d had phone sex only once, and that was just two nights ago, when he had an evening off with no roommate and could catch her before bed with the time change. It had been exciting and awkward, but ultimately fulfilling for both of them. Even still, he didn't really expect it to happen again until his next road trip.

I’m sorry if I messed up your pre-game.

A smile melted onto his face. You didn't. Caught me off guard is all.

I did warn you. 

“What’s got you blushing, Huggy?” Connor asked, leaning over to look at the phone screen.

At least 10 heads swiveled to look at him, and despite his attempts to remain cool, Quinn felt his face get warmer. 

“Nothing,” he said, slipping his phone into his pocket. 

Connor arched an eyebrow, but didn't press. 

In the locker room, before putting his phone away, he sent her one last message before the game. 

Miss you. Call you after. 

Finally, alone in his hotel room after a hard fought win over the Hurricanes, Quinn called Sarah. It was nearly midnight in Vancouver. She might be sleeping, but he always called, even if just to leave a message. 

“Hey,” she answered, voice husky and groggy. 

“Hi.”

“How do you feel?”

“Better now,” he said sitting on the end of the bed, glad to be out of his suit and in his basketball shorts.

“You played so good tonight, Q.”

“Thanks,” he said. “How was your day?” 

He knew he should let her go back to sleep, but he wanted to keep talking a little longer. Missing her was a physical thing to him now. An elephant in every hotel room.

“Fine,” she said before yawning loudly. “Nothing major to report.”

“Other than you sent me a video so I could hear you getting yourself off in my bed.” He tried to say it nonchalantly, but it still came out a little desperate. 

She laughed. “True. That was a pretty big thing.”

“Why did you do it?” he asked. “Not that I'm complaining, but you've never done anything like this before."

Sarah rolled over, switching the phone to her other ear. 

“Honestly? I'm ovulating and this morning I was so horny I couldn't concentrate on anything else. I missed you so much and your bed smells so much like you and I kept thinking, wouldn't it be hot if Quinn could hear me right now?”

He hummed. 

“And then I thought, he could, technology is a thing. So I started recording and just kept thinking about you in your hotel room, getting off to the sound of me and my vibrator. And God, it was so hot. I mean, you know.”

“I don't,” he said, his voice pitched higher. He didn't even need her video. He was getting worked up right now. 

“You haven't listened yet?”

“I haven't been alone.” It was the worst part of playing a team sport. He had so little time to himself.  

She giggled, but it was interrupted by another yawn. 

“Go back to sleep,” he said. “I'll call you tomorrow. Just wanted to say goodnight.”

“Night Quinn. I miss you.”

“I miss you too, Sarah. Four more days.”

“Four more days,” she repeated. “I can't wait to see you.”

“Me either. Get some sleep now.”

“Okay,” she murmured.

Hitting the end button, he flopped back on the bed and sighed. Before Sarah had come into his life, he would have been out partying, taking in the nightlife with the prospect of a late afternoon practice the next day, and nothing to worry about in the morning. Now, it felt pointless. He wanted Sarah. He didn’t want anyone else. He never really liked hookups, even when he was younger and single - it took him too long to open up to people - but traveling away from her was harder than he had expected. 

He lay there for a minute thinking of her before his curiosity and excitement got the best of him and he played the video. Setting the phone next to him, he closed his eyes. It was easy to imagine her in his bed that morning, wanting him. 

“Quinn,” she moaned, “I wish you were here.” 

“I wish I was too,” he groaned, running his hand up and down his length that he’d pulled out of his shorts.

She began to grunt softly. It was something she always did when she was trying to get to the right spot or angle. 

His breathing began to huff. 

“Do you like it, Q?” 

“Yes,” he all but moaned. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was glad he’d clicked off the video earlier that day. If he’d gotten this far into it, he wasn't sure he could have stayed quiet. 

Here, in the dim light of a nice hotel he didn’t remember the name of, the sound of the city all around him, Quinn let his mind focus on Sarah, imagining it was her hand on his hard cock rather than his own. 

“I can’t wait to have you home, and have you inside me.” 

His mind flew into a frenzy. He was never deleting this video.

She made a louder noise then, and whined, “Quinn, I’m so close.” 

God, he was too. 

The tell-tale sound of her coming orgasm spilled out of his phone - sheets rustling, panted breaths, little moans and mewls. 

Her voice tipped high, and he knew she was riding a wave of pleasure. 

He squeezed his hand, trying to get a more realistic feeling. Grunting, gutterally and deep, he spilled onto his own chest. 

His breathing slowed down as he lay there, feeling his heart pound in his chest. 

“I miss you, Quinn," she said before the phone went silent. 

Want more Quinn & Sarah? Check out the Snapshots Masterlist

To read all my fics, check out the Fanfiction Masterlist

#quinn hughes #quinn hughes fic #quinn hughes imagine #quinn hughes x oc #quinn hughes fan fic #quinn hughes smut #nhl imagine #nhl fanfiction #quinn & sarah snapshots #quinn hughes fanfiction #hockey fic #hockey romance

[summerchris]

— missed you (c.s) ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚

(this was extremely rushed sorry!)

summary: you and Chris were friends with benefits but stopped talking after rumors were spread around the internet of him dating someone. You were both invited to Tara Yummy’s 1 mil party and end up seeing each other.

the room is filled with loud music and flashing lights. Tara Yummy stickers are seen everywhere and the smell of liquor filled the place. my head was throbbing from the amount of drinks i chugged after playing a fun game of beer pong with influencers i’ve never met before. everyone was sweating from the massive heat filling the room. i sat on the couch talking to Larray as he was fanning me. “Chris keeps staring at you.” Larray blurts out. “Is he actually?” I question. I turn my head after a couple seconds to not make anything obvious and meet eyes with him.

Me and Chris met through mutual friends about 3 years ago and things started to escalate. We became friends with benefits but we kept it private. No one knew about us except for people we were close with. But one day, photos were spreading around the internet of him with another girl at a party. We both decided it was best to stop what we had going on before one of us got hurt. We stayed following each other on social’s so no one suspected anything and occasionally talked, but deep down it did hurt. I turn back around still feeling his eyes on me. “I’m not surprised, he’s been liking my posts non stop recently.” It was true, you’ve caught Chris stalking your socials ever since what had happened and favoriting some of your TikToks. “I think you should talk to him.” Larray suggests. I think about it for a moment and make my way over.

“I didn’t know you’d be here.” He jokes knowing me and Tara are best friends. “I can say the same about you.” I smile. “Just supporting a friend.” I nod. The music grew louder and it became harder to hear each other. He gently grabbed my hand and led me to a hallway that was more quiet. We definitely got in the background of some photos which is terrifying to think about. We didn’t say anything for a hot minute until he spoke up.

“You look really good.” He says while continuing to stare at me like he was star struck. “Thank you.” I smile. If I had to be honest, I was going insane inside but I was trying my best to act mysterious and calm. “Hey guys come get in the photo!” A voice behind us yelled. We turned in sync and saw Nick desperately waving at us. We head over and get in the photo with Jake beside us. “People are gonna think we replaced Matt.” Nick laughed. “Where even is Matt?” I question not seeing the guy anywhere. “He supposedly had better plans.” Chris responded. Nick and Jake walked away after the photos developed leaving me and Chris alone once again.

I couldn’t help but notice how good he looked. He was in a all black fit which was driving me insane and his hair was a bit messy but it still somehow looked good. He looked down at me and smirked. I’m guessing he caught me staring. I can feel the tension between us getting more intense. No one else was in the photo booth and the music was echoing behind us. I suddenly felt a pair of hands go around my waist. “Is this okay?” He politely asked and I nod. I look up meeting his eyes and he slowly leaned in not wanting to rush anything. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot recently.” He got closer. “I’ve been thinking about you too.” I whisper. Our lips meet and his hand travels down to my ass giving it a squeeze. I gasp and he took the opportunity to take control. The kiss became more heated until we both couldn’t handle it. After pulling apart, we were both out of breath and messy. He gently pulled away after catching his breath. “I’ve missed you, so so much.” Our bodies were still touching. “I’ve missed you too Chris.” I smile. “You’re the one I want to be seeing, not anyone else.” I couldn’t help but smile more.

#chris sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo x reader #christopher sturniolo #Spotify

[zeta-in-de-walls]

TommyInnit Times article

Hey, so Tommy apparently did an Interview for the Times. I’m copy and pasting the whole Times article for those who can’t access it. It’s a nice read. Enjoy!

If you’ve never heard of Tom Simons — aka TommyInnit — your children most definitely have. The 18-year-old gamer from Nottingham is one of the world’s most successful online streamers, with 40 million followers across all social platforms hanging on his every (loud) word and anarchic in-joke. You know, the kind of shouty Minecraft-related banter that tweens and teens find hilarious but leaves their parents baffled.

There’s no doubt he’s a master of his craft, with Guinness world records for most viewers of a Minecraft livestream on Twitch, the gamers’ platform, and most followed Minecraft channel. His net worth is estimated to be $10 million. His live show in July at the Brighton Dome sold out within 24 hours and he had a book published this week. Not many gamers make that crossover, or have their first interview in The Times come to that.

Simons must be one of the richest self-made 18-year-olds in the country and has a running joke with his subscribers that he’s a billionaire. (It’s presumably a joke, but he won’t be drawn.) “It’s cool I’m set up for life, but it doesn’t feel relevant to who I am. I don’t spend very much,” he says. “It hasn’t changed how pissed off I was when they upped the cost of the bus fare by 10p to £1.30.” He seems to mean it. This summer he visited fellow YouTube millionaires in their mansions and on private jets in LA, but he’s content living in the two-bedroom flat in Brighton he bought from his landlord, and his mum still orders him a Tesco shop occasionally.

He’s definitely got one over on the kids at his secondary school in Nottingham who made fun of him after they discovered Channelnutpig, the first gaming channel he set up on YouTube aged 11. He was mortified and took it down immediately. “You want to fit in and make friends, and in year 7 you’re beginning to understand that girls exist,” he says. “So it wasn’t that cool shouting, ‘Hello everyone, it’s me, Tom!’ on my channel every week and have people play that back in front of you.”

Two years later he migrated to Twitch, again streaming Minecraft videos and filming banter with his online friends, and at 14 began the TommyInnit YouTube channel that now has 11.8 million subscribers. This time he kept it secret. “Every time we’d be in a science lesson and they’d show an educational video my eyes would be glued to the ‘recommended’ on YouTube in case I popped up and people found out. I kept that secret for so long. I had 100,000 subscribers when people started finding out. “When I got to 100,000 there was this weird new respect everyone had for me. I’d walk through the hallway and they would still glare at me, but no one would shove me. It was like I had a force field around me. It was so strange. I remember a week before someone getting me in a headlock and shoving me around. I thought, ‘Wow, I’ve levelled up!’ ”

Was he bullied at school? He pauses. “Just normal arseholes, not anything more than anyone else. I was quite quiet. I just teetered on the edge of being funny enough that people wouldn’t beat me up. If someone was shoving me around I’d just make jokes and they’d leave me alone. But also funny enough that no one thought I was cool. At all. Which is the exact place I’m in now really.”

Simons is more quiet, thoughtful and endearing in person than he is on his channels or in the book, a collection of silly quotes and zany ramblings. He’s a self-confessed nerd (“My dad and I are massive nerds”) and says that his audience are mostly “the people I would hang out with at school, who were awkward like me”. He adds, “I’m quite anxious in real life, but I’ve always been very social on the internet. If you message someone and they ignore you, who cares? It’s not real life.”

He believes that most of his fans are aged between 14 and 20, but he knows that a lot of younger kids tune in for the Minecraft banter (or possibly the swearing). A year ago he started a YouTube channel under his own name to make real-life videos that now has 5.6 million followers. It’s free to subscribe — his earnings come from the advertising. He recently spent a month in New York vlogging his daily antics, such as I’m literally Spider-Man, in which he dressed up as the superhero, and Making 100 Friends in 1 Day.

Why does he think he’s so successful when there are others creating content along the same lines? He’s perceptive in his answer. “I think it’s the loud funniness — me having fun with my friends. But there’s also this element of warmness. It’s welcoming and safe,” he says. “It’s never toxic or preying on other people. Nothing is at the expense of anyone else. It’s better for the world not to say the easy, rude joke or the put-downs. There’s so much of that on YouTube.”

He says that his parents have always been supportive. His dad, Iain, was in the gaming industry, owning an arcade in Nottingham before setting up the GameCity festival. He now works with his son.

Simons’s mum, Sarah, is an actor-turned-English teacher for adults with disabilities who set up the further education group, UKFEchat on Twitter. “She was on Twitter long before I was,” he says. “Now she has a cool internet personality advising people how to keep safe online.”

She was less cool, he admits, when his GCSEs were approaching in 2020. “She sat me down and said, ‘Right, you have 100,000 subscribers and that’s really good, but you need to take school seriously. I know you’re not revising and your grades are dropping.’ She was right — I was getting grade 3s in science. Then that week we went into a global pandemic and I didn’t do a minute of revision as the exams were cancelled.” He ended up with a very respectable collection of GCSEs, including a 9 (the top grade) in English language. “It was the perfect amount of ‘mum points’ I needed to spend the [lockdowns] in my bedroom making videos.”

He then went to college to study for a BTEC in film and TV. By now he was vlogging and would spend time out filming. “Near the start of the second year I remember saying to my tutor, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t make it in very much.’ He said, ‘Listen, I shouldn’t say this, but we’re teaching you the thing you’re already doing so if I were you I would drop out.’ So I did. I started college with a million [subscribers] and ended it with ten million.”

When his schoolfriends were studying for their A-levels this summer, Simons already had his own flat in Brighton, renting then buying it. However, he says: “A lot of people want to live a lavish life and I just don’t. Mum still orders me a Tesco shop occasionally and will say, ‘I knew you needed groceries.’ I’ll say, ‘How on earth did you know that from Nottingham?’ ”

He says that his parents were no pushovers when he was younger and his dad refused to let him play Grand Theft Auto 5, even though his friends were allowed. “He said: ‘It’s got strippers in; you murder in that game. You’re 12, you can’t look at that, I’m sorry.’ They were really on top of it because they understood [gaming] and they communicated with me about it. When it turned into a career, they said, ‘OK, it’s important. We get it.’ But they’d still make sure I didn’t stay in my room all day. I’d still have to walk the dogs and [we’d] have dinner as a family.”

Simons doesn’t know how his career will unfold. He’s also getting used to being recognised. “Walking through Brighton I can hear my name being whispered all around me. It was a big adjustment. I became a bit scared of people after being inside for a year [during the pandemic]. I forgot how big the world was beyond my screen, but I’m loving it now.”

TommyInnit Says . . . The Quote Book by Tom Simons, curated and edited by Wilbur Soot, is published by Quercus, £14.99

#tommyinnit #it wants you to subscribe to see it online so here:

[catboymoments]

hey gamers so uhh when it comes to being online and how my mental health is doing I’m really struggling with a handful of things and I’m gonna put them below the cut because I need to put it somewhere and it’s a goddamn ramble

the other day I had a paranoia episode because I was convinced that I was being watched on Twitter and everyone secretly hates me in some way or another for reasons I can’t explain. It was scary because I’ve never experienced it before. With every person who I see has me blocked whether or not I was close with them at one point, I can’t just let it roll off of me.

In November I lost a lot of mutuals and followers over me mistakenly thinking someone was fine and wrongly assuming the best in people, which after I realized I was wrong I deleted and apologized and everything but. because of that someone used it as an excuse to comb through my curiouscat on my nsfw twitter and take ooc anonymous ask as “proof” that I was secretly a proshipper and spread rumors about me being a freak. So. This caused both a lot of stress because hey what the fuck. and just the dissonance with losing so many interactions and consistent communication all at once with people I considered friends and not knowing wether or not they want me around has slowly been driving me crazy I think. In my brain I know that I need to respect boundaries and leave them alone and I shouldn’t even care because they weren’t really my friends in the first place, right?. But I hate hate hate this feeling of. Rejection? Loneliness. I hate that I’ve had to deal with being in the public eye all the time being a “popular” artist. Because while I am human and I can know that I’ve done wrong in the past and fix my behavior and I have done so with every mistake I’ve made and reflected on, the internet doesn’t forget it. I’m not allowed to forget it. If I screw up in any way, it’s broadcasted. I’m just a faceless creator that “they always knew was bad.” I really hate that this sounds like I’m throwing a fit over it because I’m not. I’m grown and I’m mature. I want to do good by others. I will always apologize when I realize I’ve hurt someone, because it hurts so so much when I do. I know this is dramatic and I play things off like a cool guy most of the time but I’m so hyper empathetic and my emotions are so much. It’s getting hard to be calm when my stomach hurts and my chest is on fire all the time. I feel as if every day I’m waiting for the callout post to drop, I feel like people are talking about me behind my back all the time. I know it’s delusional. I don’t know what the depths of this are with how I’ve grown and how my social skills are stunted due to neurodivergency. I want to be mature and level headed, but when I’m as naive and sensitive as I was when I was a ten year old girl, it feels like I’ve never grown. I want to grow up. I’m tired of feeling like everyone is moving on and I’m still a child. I need a blunt.

[copperbadge]

Well, Still Salty.

I was cranky yesterday and I thought a good night's sleep would provide some adjustment in perspective, but unfortunately "spending yesterday not on tumblr" also offered perspective and got there first.

Up front: feel free to comment or reblog on this post (replies may be heavily delayed) but if you feel the urge to Like, I'm going to ask you to take one more step and go to https://www.tumblr.com/support, select "feedback" as the category, and enter a line or two about the new dash. It can be as simple as "Your new dash design is difficult to use and is driving people off the site". I'm not asking everyone to do it, but if you're going to Like this post, that would be a helpful action in addition. You can delete any response they send; no reason to expose yourself to the unique combination of incompetence and condescension with which they handle feedback generally.

Also up front: yeah, if I find somewhere else to go and go there, I will certainly let you guys know beforehand, I'm not going to just evaporate. I'll be broadcasting about Tumblr's replacement on Tumblr very heavily. But I can't deny that it is now an active goal of mine to find a viable replacement for this site. (More on this in a moment.) You will always be able to find me on AO3 as copperbadge, or via [email protected]. (More on this in a moment also.)

This kind of thing is why I refuse to fuck with staff now or ever; I don't trust them and I never will. Watching @wip respond to almost every complaint or suggestion with "but that would be really hard" is telling. Whoever is pushing blocks around at Tumblr wants a lucrative site that's easy to code, but lucrative is hostile to community and code is difficult by nature, and when the architecture of the meeting hall is hostile and cheap, people don't stick around.

I've been watching the site as every change made it incrementally worse, from a buggy post window that doesn't allow ease of editing to the new dash (which is the reason I'm writing this in a text window off Tumblr). I genuinely do not think I can use desktop Tumblr like this unless I can install something that will put it back the way it was, and roughly 40% of the content you guys get HAS to come through desktop. It's impossible to do on a phone or so time-consuming it's not worth it. I cannot code Radio Free Monday on a phone; it's a struggle to code it on a single-monitor laptop (I usually write it on my work computer, where I have two monitors). Even writing image IDs on the phone is difficult and something I rarely do. Tumblr is becoming an actively difficult place for me to make content, introducing friction left and right.

But where does one go? I've tried other platforms and they're either worse to use or they don't have the constituency. The problem with a lot of discourse around internet addiction is that it often points out how glued people are to their phones without asking what it is they're doing on those phones. I'm not addicted to social media; I don't doomscroll, I don't care what celebrities have to say, I don't find 140 characters useful or interesting, I don’t find most “funny” videos very interesting. I create a lot of original content for public consumption, significantly more than many social media users, and if that becomes difficult, then the site suffers more than I do. But it's undeniable that social media, and this social media in specific, is where my people are, and yeah, I like seeing you all every day. It makes it difficult to leave even when Tumblr is the best of a bad set of options.

It seems like a lot of the internet, lately, is the best of a bad set of options.

All that said, Tumblr forced a sudden, unwanted, and unchangeable reskin on me a day after I listened to a two-hour podcast about addiction while working on building a newsletter system for my author site. I spent the evening before this happened in contemplation of my relationship to social media and to my readership and how I might alter it to my benefit regardless of whether that's also to Tumblr's detriment. Their poor timing, I suppose. A lot of the theories advanced on the podcast were, to put it kindly, bunk, but one of the suggestions for people questioning their relationship to an activity was a dopamine fast -- removing something in your life that gives you quick but unsustained dopamine hits, so that you can take some time to level out and examine your behaviors. On the one hand, that's not at all how dopamine works; from the jump it's a bad theory. But on the other, pulling back from something you think may be causing you difficulty is generally speaking a good tactic.

Removing myself from Tumblr yesterday was an active process: because I have ADHD and often will forget something exists if I don't systematize my engagement with it, Tumblr is normally pinned to my browser, with the app on my phone's top screen. Removing the app and closing the window meant that while I occasionally reached for Tumblr, it was less frequently than I expected, and the lack of access reminded me why I wasn't there. I missed you guys, but I didn't miss getting distracted from work by my dash, or the pressure to respond to the volume of communication I receive through the site daily. I don't think my use of tumblr as my sole social media has been unhealthy, per se, but certainly yesterday felt both quieter and calmer after I walked away.

But that's a temporary relief, because you are my community, and not only do I not want to leave my community, it's a resource for me. One of the reasons I do things like Radio Free Monday and the weekly Hug on Saturdays is that I try to make sure that resource is reciprocal. Leadership involves service. Leaving would be easy in the short term, but in the long term, leaving my community without having another place to meet it, or another community to go to, would be harmful to both of us. I'm already someone who isolates, and while I have a strong brickspace circle of friends, they fulfill sometimes different needs.

Though I do appreciate the wild vote of confidence from the comments to my last post telling me people would come with me where I went. That means a lot to me. I will attempt to make it either unnecessary or as painless as possible. Just know, I see your faith and friendship and I appreciate it.

Sometimes at my old job I'd be in very tumultuous meetings where a lot was discussed and not much agreed on, and the most useful thing to me was always to say, "What are our next steps? What would you like me to do because of this meeting?" So what are next steps, all this being the case?

First, I'm going to be off Tumblr, mostly, for another couple of days, because clearly I need the break and a few days won't matter too much. Again, I will be back either to continue on the site or to let you guys know, at length and volume, where I'm headed. The former is much more likely.

Second, I'm going to be actively looking for both a widget I can install to reset the dash (recommendations welcome, I currently don't even use xkit) and a wholly new platform that's a realistically viable alternative. Even if the dash gets reset, the shitty post editor is here for good. Attempts to source alternative platforms in the past have taught me that it needs to have a mobile-friendly site or an app, a similar structure to tumblr, and a reasonable chance of actually attracting users. That's a heavy venn diagram unlikely to be fulfilled anytime soon, but I'm now invested in finding it, instead of just passively waiting for it to happen to me (as Tumblr did when it pulled me off LJ).

Third, I do have an email newsletter in the works! I'm just wrestling currently with setting up how people sign up for it. This wasn't meant to be "my main broadcast platform"; it's meant to be a once-monthly email to share book news, targeted at people who aren't on socials or who just really love content from me, I guess. :D The plan was for me to assure Tumblr users that it was not extra content, just select content repackaged into a digest. But it will be one way to ensure that if I'm moving around outside of Tumblr, you'll know about it. I hope to have a link to a signup page soon. (I'm....dealing with some code issues.)

Fourth, I'm going to be combing through the last ten years I've spent here and pulling anything I think is of value into an archive. For now everything will remain here as well, and I'll let you guys know if I think that's going to change, but it's clear that this space is moving only one direction, towards a place I can't exist, and when/if it crumbles I want to have already evacuated what's important.

So there you go. I'll possibly be posting sporadically (the Saturday Hugs are queued six months in advance so that'll happen) but if nothing else and if not sooner, I'll be back full-time next week starting with Radio Free Monday. I appreciate your patience and your kindness in the meantime!

#tumblr #social media

[pensat-i-fet]

Not a crush (Pedri x Reader)

**I got this request and thought it could be cute and fun. It’s true that the Spanish press has been talking about this arms situation a lot, so it’s a good blend of fiction and reality. But then it turned into one of those writing projects that changed 7 times before its final form. For a second I even thought about turning this into a series. My brain! Anyways, enjoy reading! ❤️**

ETA: I ended up writing a series based on this imagine that you can read here!

Word count: 2685

Masterlist

Wattpad

“All those years in uni to end up doing this”, you muttered. “I’m never going to be taken seriously”.

“What are you talking about?”

“This article I have to do”.

Your colleague Jordi moved his chair closer to yours to peek at your computer screen.

“You know that we can’t use the computers for personal stuff, right?”

You put your head on the table. Really, no one was going to take you seriously.

“Huh?”

“Why are you looking at photos of shirtless Pedri? Got a crush?”

“Shut up! I have to do an article about the evolution of his body in the last couple of years”.

“That’s cool”.

“It’s stupid!”

“I’ve done worse when I was an intern. Don’t be so negative”.

You guessed he was right. It could be a lot worse. And you didn’t have a crush but…there were worse ways to spend a Tuesday afternoon than looking at photos of a cute player. And being given an excuse to stare at his body, which had definitely changed in the last couple of years. You didn’t visit the gym much but liked it when others did. Especially if that was the result of their gym sessions.

Writing the article actually took a good chunk of your day. Between getting the right photos and videos for it and asking for permission to use them, the actual writing and your colleagues' stupid comments about it, it wasn't as easy as you thought it would be at first. But it was a good article. And once the editor saw it and was happy with it, it was posted on the newspaper's website.

The following day you posted a link to it on your social media accounts and a little later you started to go through the comments. So many of them talked about how you were only picked to do that article because it was about a man's body and you were a woman. Right…nothing new on Twitter.

“Stop replying to hate comments”.

“It’s therapeutical”.

"It's pointless".

Just one more…

                                      **

It wasn't just the press or people on social media talking about Pedri's muscles. His teammates loved to tease him joking about that too.

"Here comes the Spanish Lewandowski", laughed Eric.

"So funny".

"Please don't be mad at me. I'm afraid you'll use those big strong muscles to punish me".

Pedri did use his muscles to push his friend and get him out of the way. He knew it was just banter but it all got boring after a few days.

"There needs to be a big signing or something so your arms stop being the topic of the week", told him Ferrán, who was looking at his phone.

“Yeah, I saw Barça posting about it on social media too. People are so overdramatic”.

“Totally, but I didn't mean that. I meant the new article”.

"What new article?"

Ferrán showed him your article and Pedri sat down to read it properly. It was a great article. You took the time to analyze the way his game could be influenced by this body change and picked different photos than the ones used by everyone else. He guessed there were still proper journalists out there. What a plot twist.

"It's a good article", he said, giving the phone back to his friend.

"The internet seems to disagree".

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I don't know if they disagree but the girl who wrote it was getting a lot of shit on social media".

"Why?", Pedri couldn't hide his frown.

"I didn't look much into it but I saw people saying nasty things to her and then they found some old tweets and …seems like she used to have a crush on you and now she writes about your muscles or whatever and people on Twitter are the way they always are".

"Right", he murmured. He had listened to everything his friend said but also got stuck on how you used to have a crush on him. And he didn't even know who you were but footballers…they just loved being loved.

                                     **

"No point in deleting them now", said Jordi.

"I wasn't going to…".

People had too much time on their hands. That was the conclusion of the day. Somehow, just because of your article, someone decided to check your entire Twitter history to see if there was anything they could accuse you of. They probably were mad to find no offensive tweets but they found two where you retweeted a Barça fan page and wrote about liking Pedri.

The funniest thing was you barely remembered those tweets. You saw him, thought he was cute and posted that. Then you moved on. There were many players you found cute but had no time for crushes. Pedri got a mention purely for the fact that he signed for your team.

But now this was being used against you. So childish.

"Are you busy next week?"

You looked up to see your boss talking to you. He never talked to you.

"I guess. I mean, I'll be here working. So…".

"Do you have a passport?"

"Yes".

"Your English was good, right?"

"Pretty good, yeah".

He only had to look at your CV to see all the qualifications you had, including all the diplomas that proved your English was more than good but…no one cared that much about an intern.

"You're going on the US tour", he said and left. How could he drop that bomb and leave?

Your jaw was on the floor and Jordi was staring at you with a similar expression.

"Wait!", you said, finally able to get up and follow your boss. "What do you mean I'm going on the US tour? There is a group of people chosen for that already. It was decided months ago".

"I know", he said casually. "But one of them can't go and you'll take his spot".

"But I'm just an intern".

"Do you not want to go?"

"I do! Of course I do!", you said quickly. "But it doesn't make sense".

"Look. You're doing really well here. And you've gotten people to visit our website more than ever with just one article so…you earned it".

You had heard about all the visits to the website after the Pedri article was posted. But the way your boss was avoiding holding eye contact told you everything you needed to know.

"Am I just going because people think I have a crush on one of the players that'll be there?"

"If you weren't a good journalist, that wouldn't be enough for me to send you with that team. But it doesn't hurt".

"Ok, I'll start packing".

This was a great opportunity and you weren't going to reject it just because of some of the reasons surrounding it. But the excitement you felt when you first heard about the trip completely vanished.

And when you checked your Instagram and saw a certain player was looking at your stories…it was even worse.

No one took you seriously but you'd prove them wrong.

                                     **

The pre-season was both loved and hated by players. Pedri didn't really have strong feelings about it. It was just part of the job and they got to visit some different places so there were positives to take from these couple of weeks.

Another positive was having you around. After finding out about your article and your past crush on him, he checked your social media accounts. There wasn't much on any of them, since they were professional accounts. But there were a couple of photos of you and your dog.

Stories were something you also used to mostly promote your work and it was while checking those he found out you were going to the US too. He was hoping you'd meet at some point but didn't expect you'd be the one to interview him.

"Hi, nice to meet you", you said, extending your hand for him to shake. So professional.

"Nice meeting you too. I really liked your article about me".

Something changed in your expression and he couldn't understand what it was but you quickly got back to professional mode.

"Thank you. Let's get this done quickly. I was told we only have 15 minutes".

The interview was pretty uneventful. You asked good questions and Pedri gave you good answers in return. But you were so serious. He didn't know you personally, so maybe that was how you always were. But Pedri had a feeling there was more to it.

"Was that good?"

"The interview? Yes, thank you for your answers. They were really good".

"Easy when the questions are good too".

You nodded, quickly looking away.

"Are you ok?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because it seems like you would want to be anywhere but here".

You closed your eyes and sighed.

"Is it because of what people said about you?"

His words made you open your eyes and you finally looked at him. Instead of answering, you simply nodded.

"Don't pay attention to them".

"Easier said than done. Especially when they are the reason I'm here".

"The reason…".

"I'm not here because I'm good at my job. But because people thinking I have a crush on you got us a lot of attention. And now this interview will get more attention. So I'm basically just a pawn and I guess so are you".

"I'm sorry".

"It's not your fault".

Picking up your things, you got ready to leave but Pedri stopped you.

"I don't read what people write about me but my parents do. They like to keep the articles and print the photos and all that. Things parents do, I guess", he shrugged. "I read your article because Ferrán showed it to me and thought it was great. And then my parents told me about it, praising your writing multiple times. Your newspaper might be using you but you're good. You showed it to me in this interview too so don't feel sad".

"I don't have a crush on you".

"What?", but then he realised what you meant. "I didn't praise you because of that. God, you really need to get out of that mindset".

When Pedri started to laugh, you were more confused than ever.

"It's not you against the world. And people will praise you just because they genuinely want to…but now I'll be the one who's sad".

"Why?"

"I liked thinking you had a crush on me".

Now you were laughing too. Finally, he got to see the smile he had seen in those photos.

"Thank you for your words. I needed them. And you must go to train. I'll see you around".

"Yes".

The interview was posted just a couple of hours later. And even if Pedri's words helped, the comments you got still hurt.

Got what she wanted. To meet him.

"Yes, that's all I wanted in life. I can retire now".

"Why are you looking at your phone like it offended you?", asked one of your colleagues.

"It's the people inside it that offend me".

"Are there people living inside your phone?"

You half laughed at his bad joke.

"I know what you need to cheer up".

"Really?"

"Yes. Thoughts on karaoke?"

That made you laugh. You were such a terrible singer. "I like it. People don't like hearing me sing, though".

"I want to hear you sing so you're coming with us tonight".

                                   **

One of the easiest ways to get in trouble during pre-season was to go out and wake up to paparazzi photos of the party. But when it was the coach that took you out…then it was fine?

Pedri wasn't really into parties anyways but he thought karaoke night could be fun. He wasn't planning on signing but knew which teammates would. His phone was going to record all of it to tease them in the future.

"It started already", said Xavi, who was the first one to get inside the bar.

And he was right. There was someone leaving the stage while they found their tables. And someone else took the previous person's place immediately. Pedri wasn't interested in the random people who were going to sign but still looked up to see who was talking to the guy that controlled the machine.

And it was you who was on the stage.

"Well, that's a surprise", he said, almost to himself.

"What is?", Ferrán was now looking at the stage too. "Who is she? She's hot".

"The journalist who wrote about my muscles".

"The one that doesn't have a crush on you?", he laughed. "That's funnier now that I know she's pretty".

Pedri rolled his eyes and continued staring at you. He could see you were giggling and it was such a change from the super serious woman he met for the interview.

You picked a Franz Ferdinand song. They were one of your favourite bands when you were a teen and after seeing them live at the FIB, you were back to listening to all their songs on repeat.

Oh, when I woke up tonight, I said I’m

Going to make somebody love me

I’m going to make somebody love me

And now I know, now I know, now I know

I know that it’s you

You’re lucky, lucky, you’re so lucky

Your voice wasn’t great but who cared about that on karaoke night? Pedri didn’t. He just stared at you. You looked so relaxed. Just having fun instead of the worried version of you he got for his interview.

“Whoever she chooses would be lucky. She isn’t lying”.

Ferrán’s words took Pedri out of his daydreams. “What do you mean?”

“The song”.

“I’m not really paying attention to the lyrics. What do they mean?”

His teammate explained the meaning of the lyrics quickly and Pedri had to agree. Whoever you chose would be very lucky.

“I wouldn’t mind being the chosen one but you saw her first. Shame she doesn’t have a crush on you anymore, Pedrito”.

Yeah, it was a shame.

When you finished your song, you felt so much better. This had been the right plan to improve your mood. None of your colleagues wanted a drink, so you went to the bar to get one. It was needed after all that singing.

“I didn’t know you were a singer too?”

You turned to face Pedri and snorted. “Yes, it was my plan b if journalism didn’t work out”.

“There is always autotune to help”.

Pedri was pleased to see you laughing at his words. It was the second time in just one day he had achieved that.

“Do you want a drink too?”, you asked him when the bartender was taking your order.

“Just water, please”.

Once you got your drinks, none of you moved from the bar to go back to your friends. You just kept chatting.

“I mean, who knew writing about someone’s arms could lead to so much drama”.

Pedri followed your eyes which were now staring at his biceps. “Want to touch them?”

Yes. “No”.

“After reading the article I wondered if you knew more about my body than I do, you know? So it’s ok, you can touch”.

You bit your lip, trying not to blush. "I know you hear every day about how good you are at everything and that makes you overly confident but you aren’t as great at flirting as you might think".

"I heard about how great I am from you too. So you're at fault".

"I've barely written about you apart from that article".

"Yeah, but the old tweets…".

"I told you I don’t have a crush on you”.

“And the way you’re blushing says something different”.

When he leaned closer, you noticed how your knees were touching beneath the bar. They had been touching for a couple of minutes and you hadn’t even noticed. Nor did you feel the need to move.

“Not here”, you said.

“What?”

“Not where people can see us”.

“I thought you didn’t…”.

“I just want to test a theory”.

“What theory?”, he asked, smirking at you.

“If the crush I had on you two years ago is still there”.

#pedri #pedri gonzalez #pedri imagine #pedri one shot #pedri x y/n #pedri x reader #pedri fluff #fotballer imagine #footballer one shot #footballer x y/n #footballer fluff

[tanadrin]

Then you have those who legitimately had no idea what gender was even because we grew up in a tiny Irish village in the early 2000s, and because the one book they had was ‘Noughts & Crosses’, and the one film they had was ‘Men In Black II’, they didn’t know what racism was either, thinking America was ruled by black people. Like I was a pasty 9 year old with three sisters. When I was 7 one of my sisters decided to become my brother, then went back to being my sister a few years later, and I didn’t think anything of it, I thought that was accepted, that you could be whatever whenever you wanted. I got another brother the same year (this one born); to date my sister is still my sister, although she occasionally goes back to being my second brother when he feels like it. I thought my aunts in London were married for years, and my uncle got divorced when I was twelve, but no one explicitly told me so I didn’t find out for another twelve years. I have a cousin who became mute after brain damage and claims benefits but I know he can still talk because he swore me out when I was teaching him how to swim, he just doesn’t like his mothers. Now my other cousin also has stage four cancer but has never mentioned it any time we have hung out, I had to find out from my mother, and another cousin of mine died of a brain aneurysm but no one told me until a month later. I am agender, asexual, and aromantic, but don’t often tell anybody because it doesn’t come up. Which has led to me accidentally having to go on dates a lot: my sister who went to Australia to be an architect for a year but never got to be says I have ‘unbelievable rizz’, like I’m so oblivious to romantic tension that I seem interested when I’m just trying to be a person. Like I told someone she had a ‘perfect sneeze’ once and she tried to bring me into a throuple. And I had to stay a while since I was too socially awkward to say I didn’t want to be there. Same thing happened when a friend was moving to Poland and I made my way across the country to see her off. Then when I was going to the cinema last year someone lit a tram on fire in front of it so they gave me three months worth of free cinema, and pretty much anyone I asked to go with me thought it was a date, and I had to say yes because like you can’t turn someone down if you accidentally ask them out. Then afterward I went to the bank and accidentally found a secret door to a speakeasy next door with a password and 70% absinthe drunk out of lemons. And the guy from ‘Django Unchained’ was there, he’d been shooting a game show with his daughter (who was also there) in the country (this was not America), so we drank for a bit until he was done. He was a little annoyed that I didn’t seem drunk before seeming impressed when I mentioned I can’t really get drunk due to some weird genetic thing, the most I get being that I feel like if someone asked me for the truth about anything I would tell them, so basically truth serum, although I don’t really have secrets, so there’s nothing to tell. The most I’ve done is leak television pilots or films I’ve found access to on the internet, that people didn’t know had been leaked. Or spot plagiarism. Like I have the script for the new ‘Nosferstu’, I put it in my bag I carry around all the time, then like the next day my lecturer was talking about the original ‘Nosferstu’ and I said “Oh I have the script for that would you like it?” and he said “Yes.” so I pulled it out and he had expected me to be taking out my computer or something to share a PDF of the old film’s script, not for me to just hand him the new film’s script, and the look on his face had me go “wait.” I have surprised you? And anyway that same day someone tried to pass off a short story of mine I’d shared anonymously in Cork two years prior as their own, and this was Dublin, I didn’t know them, so I was more amazed at the circumstances of my merely being there than annoyed by the plagiarism (like if he’d asked I’d have let him, but he didn’t even know I was the writer, so he was just a massive coincidence). I am 23.

thumbs up emoji

[gatheringbones]

[“I want to spend a moment reflecting on exploitation: I’ve been eyed for social work since I was in my mid-teens. A racialized, mentally ill, gender queer youth, I was also remarkably articulate, psychologically precocious, eager to help and to please. The adult service providers whose orbit I floated in were quick to notice and take a shine to me—I was one of those once-in-a-blue-moon clients, the kind it feels both easy and rewarding to work with because I was so traumatized yet seemed to “improve” so quickly. The adults I trusted always seemed to want me in their empowerment initiatives, they were eager to put me on youth councils and committees, they gave me leadership roles despite the fact that I was in way over my head. I was brilliant and gifted, they said. I had so much to offer, they said. Helping was what I was made for.

I came to identify my worth with helping, my lovableness with how much I was able to give and please. It didn’t matter that most of my early jobs and roles involved some significant risks—for example, facilitating antihomophobia workshops in high schools as a high school student myself might have required a rather enormous amount of self-disclosure and vulnerability to strangers, but it was all for the cause, wasn’t it? And how proud my youth workers were whenever I came back from another successful outing. And if the honorariums they paid me were less than minimum wage, well, it was more money than I’d ever made before, wasn’t it? And how lucky was I to get paid to do something that did so much good for other people?

When I got to college age, I knew it was my purpose in life to help and heal other people. In my darker moments, it sort of seemed like that was all I was good for—and all the trusted adults, the wise youth workers and therapists and psychiatrists who mentored me, said I was gifted. They said I was special. My diversity made me fashionable. So “interesting” and “textured,” one psychotherapy supervisor called me. A wealthy white psychologist said I was an “ambassador for my people.” (She didn’t specify which people.) This was how, at twenty-two years old, I began an internship that involved doing therapy with adults who had survived childhood sexual trauma. Although I had no real clinical training, I held sessions for them at night in the windowless basement of a hospital in Montreal. I learned therapy techniques quickly, from videos on the internet and by practising on the job. People were counting me. I had to help.

Some quick number-crunching tells me that I gave over 4,000 hours of unpaid therapy in order to get to paid work as a clinician. By contrast, the very first sex work gig I got paid me $100 for some nude cuddling and a sloppy hand job that I completed in twenty minutes. I almost never think about that first gig now. I still dream about the stories my clients told me in that first unpaid therapy internship I took at twenty-two. Occasionally, I still cry, wondering how they are now, if I’d done enough to help them.

My social work experience isn’t every social worker’s experience, so I can’t claim to speak for the whole social work community. What I can say is that the people around me saw something useful and beautiful that they liked in me, so they took it and used it and I allowed it to happen because I wanted to feel loved and I didn’t think I really had choices. What I can say is that my sex work practice started out rough and frightening, but it blossomed into a decent learning experience and a business that paid me lots of cash up front, usually with no strings attached.”]

kai cheng thom, do you feel empowered in your job? and other questions therapists ask sex workers, from The Care We Dream Of: Liberatory & Transformative Justice Approaches to LGBTQ+ Health, edited by Zena Sharman, 2021

#kai cheng thom #zena sharman #trans literature #currently reading

[kitten4sannie]

𝔏𝔞𝔱𝔢 𝔑𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔄𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔳𝔦𝔱𝔦𝔢𝔰

Seonghwa x Fem! Reader 

Genre: literally just pure smut ✨

Summary: It's not your fault you're so horny. It's the wine clearly, but stupidly handsome Park Seonghwa just sitting there eye-fucking you from across the dinner table is definitely NOT helping. You might just have to take matters into your own hands.

W.C: 1.6k

Warnings: mention of alcohol, fwb, lowkey mean dom! Seonghwa, sub! reader, reader’s a good girl and she knows it (i am so sorry), teasing, possessiveness, Seonghwa has a filthy mouth, shower sex, oral (giving), brief throatfucking, degradation, unprotected sex (wrap it up, people), rough sex, name calling, pet names

Author’s note: This is actually the first fic I’ve ever posted on the internet! Please keep that in mind. I’m very open to feedback, tho pls keep it positive as i am very fragile whwhrhw. I am incredibly whipped for Seonghwa so I hope you enjoy this filth as much as I enjoyed writing it 🖤

Song Rec: i listened to Howlin' by I.M on repeat while writing this loll as well as Desire by Ateez so just sayinggg it might heighten the experience hehe ;)

➽───────────────❥

You stared across the dining room table, watching your drunk friends laughing and periodically trying to talk over each other. You suddenly became too aware of your tight clothes, shifting uncomfortably in your seat. It was definitely time to dress more comfortably; the night was coming to a close anyways and your social battery was draining dangerously fast. You stood up, wobbling slightly. 

“You okay, Y/N?” Seonghwa’s concerned eyes were suddenly focused solely on yours. Somehow he was more worried about you, despite being just as intoxicated as you.

You blushed instantly from simply hearing the man say your name. The mental hold he had on you was almost too much to bear, especially being in your inebriated state. Your hazy eyes flicked from his eyes to his plush lips, noticing the slight pink tint they had. You remembered the way it felt to have his lips against your neck and him whispering dirty things into your ear, his slender fingers drifting down your hips and…

“Y/N?” he spoke up again, eyebrow raised slightly. He analyzed your face, easily noticing the way you were looking at him. He always knew when you were horny. Seonghwa's tongue poked out of his mouth in order to drag it across his bottom lip, his eyes never leaving yours.

“I-I’m good. I just really want to take a shower, to be honest,” you tried to reply as smoothly as possible, as if you weren't already feeling a low burning sensation between your legs. Seonghwa nodded, before clearing his throat to grab the attention of the others.

“Well, I guess I better escort these fine folks out. The princess wants to take a shower,” he stated in a teasing manner, his intense gaze finding its way back to your own, before escorting your drunk friends to the door and making sure they were able to order their Ubers without passing out beforehand. 

You slowly made your way up the staircase and walked into the bathroom, only noticing how buzzed you were when you stumbled in front of the mirror. Not to mention, how incredibly horny you were. It wasn’t unlike you to be so horny after drinking a fair amount, but this time was different. A flame had been lit deep within yourself — and getting stuffed with cock was the only thing that could snuff it out. Specifically, Seonghwa’s cock. The two of you had hooked up in the past, but it had been quite a while since the last time, and luckily for the both of you, you were feeling particularly bold.

You fixed your hair in the mirror and checked to see how your makeup looked. Still presentable. You looked at your slightly hazy reflection, almost surprised by how well your strapless black top and matching black leather skirt looked hugging your body.

Hearing Seonghwa coming up the stairs, you prepared a surprise for him. Pulling off your bra from underneath your top without a second thought, you opened the bathroom door and walked over to the top of the stairs. You stood above him, catching his attention instantaneously.

His lips twisted into a pleased smirk, as he stopped in his tracks. “I thought you were getting in the shower.” 

You slowly pulled your top off and over your head, dropping it onto the floor. “I was, but I didn’t want to take one by myself,” you pouted, gently running one of your hands down the middle of your chest and in between your breasts.

Seonghwa nearly fell down the stairs trying to piece together what was occurring in front of him. You had never been the one to make a move on him; it was always him being the aggressor, not that either one of you were complaining. “Y-Y/N…you…” he stuttered, his dark eyes solely focused on her exposed upper half.

You giggled in response and casually walked away into the bathroom, knowing he was eagerly following after you.

-

Seonghwa’s warm breath tickled your neck, his hands groping your body lazily. “You’re so hot, baby…” he mumbled against the shell of your ear, squeezing your soft globes in his cold hands. His fingers tweaked your nipples gently at first, but then pulled at them roughly, earning a moan from your parted lips. "You wanted me so badly that you resorted to being a little whore on the stairs like that? You want my cock that badly?"

"S-so bad, Hwa...Please give it to me..."

"Mm, I love it when you behave like the dumb little cumslut you really are. Not pretending to be the innocent girl you want everyone to see you as."

You moaned softly at his mean words, incredibly desperate for his touch. Seonghwa stripped himself, as you took care of your lower half, before he somewhat roughly pulled you into the shower with him.

"Are you gonna be a good girl for me, princess?"

"Of course, Hwa...M' always a good girl for you..."

He caged you against the wall with his toned arms, watching the water drip down along your curves. His usual friendly eyes were replaced by incredibly dilated ones, full of intense lust. "Then show me."

You noticed Seonghwa’s dick becoming quite obviously hard, the tip already pink and swollen. Satisfied with your actions up until this moment, you took it upon yourself to get down on your knees.

He groaned in response. "Good girl..."

You held Seonghwa’s dick in your small hands, appreciating how long and girthy it was. The fact that Seonghwa was such a caring and wholesome man and was still always hiding such a big cock in his sweatpants made your pussy throb.

Taking the tip into your mouth, you swirled your tongue around it and down the side, earning another groan from Seonghwa. After teasing him until the point of pre-cum dripping out of the tip, you took him fully into your mouth. 

"You love this cock. I bet you'd worship it, wouldn't you, princess?"

“Mmmhmm…”

You sucked his cock diligently like the good girl you were, gazing up at him with a loving expression, as if sucking him off gave you immense joy. (Spoiler alert: it did.) However, this kind of attention proved to be too much for Seonghwa to handle.

“F-fuck…I’m cumming…” he suddenly whined, gritting his teeth and gripping the sides of your head with his slender fingers.

"Mmm...!"

"A-ah...that's right...take it, baby..." He throat-fucked you out of desperation, panting harder and harder until hot ropes of cum shot out into your open mouth and onto your face. You choked a bit from the sudden intrusion of his dick in your throat, but you swallowed his cum obediently afterward.

“You taste so good, Hwa…” you purred, gazing lovingly up at him, eyes half-lidded. Seonghwa helped you up from the shower floor and immediately pushed you up against the tile wall, his toned body flush against yours. 

“I bet, baby. Maybe I should only let you drink my cum from now on. Nothing else, not even water," he exhaled into your ear, his lust for you taking over him completely.

He wanted nothing more than to fucking ruin you at this point, desperate to hear the way you sounded and looked like when you were being pounded to hell and back. All fucked out and full of cum for him. Only for him.

-

Panting and moaning, Seonghwa held you up against the shower wall, thrusting wildly into your already cum-soaked pussy. He growled into your ear, his fingers tightly gripping your thighs to the point that you knew he would leave bruises.

“S-Seonghwa…! Fuck!” you cried out, on the verge of losing your mind to ecstasy. “Don’t stop! Don’t fucking stop!”

It was too much for you. All of this pleasure at your disposal. Seonghwa was experiencing something similar, but that didn’t keep him from fucking you like if he had no time left to live. Desperate. Animalistic. His duality was always so intensely hot to you. Seonghwa was usually so calm and sweet; to see him in such an aggressive state and hearing all of the filth spouting from his mouth always turned you into a slutty moaning mess.

"Oh, god...I'm gonna fill your pussy up with so much cum, it'll still be dripping out of your slutty little hole by next week..."

That was it. You couldn't take it anymore. You were about to cum for the third time. Seonghwa was in the same predicament, seemingly turned on by his own words. His grunts slowly turned into almost whiny sounding moans as soon as he felt your walls tighten around his throbbing cock. 

“O-oh, fuck! Y/N, I’m gonna cum!” he exclaimed, squeezing your upper thighs firmly in his strong hands.

“Hurry up and cum inside me, Hwa!” you begged, your nails digging into his back.

You were euphoric, feeling waves of immense pleasure ripping through your body. It was too much; a few tears escaped your eyes and slid down your flushed cheeks. Seonghwa slowly pulled out, watching his cum drip out of your swollen pussy.

“Holy fuck…” he exhaled, trying to catch his breath. Beads of sweat dripped down the sides of his temple; his previously slicked back hair now glued to the front of his forehead. Now that he wasn't blinded by unadulterated lust, his attention turned back to your face, wanting to make sure you were alright. "You did so good for me, baby. I hope I didn't go too far..."

You leaned forward against his chest, resting your head in the crook of his neck. You were spent. Like, you weren't even sure if you could walk tomorrow spent. “I loved every second of it, Hwa...Like always..." you whispered, barely conscious at this point. "Can we go to sleep now?"

Seonghwa nuzzled you in response and kissed the top of your head. He couldn't help but smile. You were so adorable. So perfect for him. 

“Of course, princess.”

➽───────────────❥

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© toxicccred, 2022.

#ateez #ateez smut #ateez seonghwa #kpop #kpop smut #ateez imagines #ateez scenarios #ateez x you #ateez x reader #ateez x female reader #park seonghwa #seonghwa x reader #seonghwa x y/n #seonghwa smut #ateez drabbles #ateez oneshot #seonghwa oneshot #seonghwa #smut

[smellss]

Prodded - Sam kerr x singer!reader social media au!

summary: things are about to get a little messy sadly it happens on social media…

sorry this is a bit of a filler chapter i really don’t know where i’m taking this story or whether i should leave it… (any ideas pls appriciates)

liked by emmawatson, tylerblackburn and 560,789

florencepugh: seeing you tonight is a bad idea right

emmawatson: gorgeous

floscrockpot: lol is this about y/n? @baby/n

baby/n: this is a big fat mess

user678: wtf this is so gay coded drama

livsguts: the olivia lyrics as well omg

tylerblackburn: omg can we be friends

liked by samanthakerr20, masiepeters, zendaya and 660,744

y/noffical: my new single feather comes out on friday 💌💌💌

zendaya: girl it’s absolutely incredible congrats bby ❤️

y/noffical: thank you my love

baby/n: omg the lyrics “i feel so much lighter like a feather with you out my life” FLO IS SOBBING RN

floscrockpot: wtf is y/n playing at! messing with flo not okay

baby/n: how is she messing her up she’s moving on

likedbyy/noffical

masiepeters: MY BABY GIRL

samanthakerr20: yours?

kerrleftboot: samantha samantha

y/nbaby: what the fuck

mummy/n: they aren’t even hiding their gay ass ong

liked by y/noffical, tilliesfandom and 780,987

marieclaire: Our most beautiful Y/n L/n for our June cover after finishing off her Australasian Tour 🇦🇺. Click the link below to hear her interview sharing all the goss of love and being back home!

INTERVIEW WITH MARIE CLAIRE

Interviewer: Hello gorgeous y/n lovely to see you again, or should I say welcome home! How’s the first couple of days been?

Y/n: I never thought i would miss the mozzies and the heat so much! But no it’s been wonderful to be back, as much as I enjoy the time away I have all my special people here.

Interviewer: So Y/n you’ve had an absolutely fabulous tour its been incredible but i was wanting to get a bit deeper with you. Your new single “Feather” is incredible, can you tell us more about the process of writing it?

Y/n: Of course, as the whole internet know by this point I went through a pretty big break up at the beginning of last year. This song just talks about how I've felt through the process and how I' d moved on.

Interviewer: Now social media plays a big part of anyone’s life but especially yours and taylor swifts, you both are always doing sneaky little hints to things. Now this week there’s been some chatter about someone in your past doing the same anything you’d like to say about that

Y/n: All I will say is that I’m very happy at the moment and am not going back in time to any memories or people.

Interviewer: Excellent! Last question for you today Y/n, you’ve shown your support for our nations team the Matilda’s at a couple of games of the FWWC now. I didn’t realise you were such a big fan of the sport?

Y/n: I should have expected this question really (laughs), look i’ve always enjoyed the sport but a couple of the girls have supported me at my shows and it’s the least I can do to reciprocate. They are very special people to me.

Interviewer: Anyone particularly special? (interviewer smirks and winks)

Y/n: Mmmmh I’ll keep my eye towards the front of the pitch (y/n laughs and winks with the interviewer)

liked by yser567, gossipbunny, baby/n and 67,890

dailymailaus: Spotted! Y/n L/n kissing secret girl following the celebration of her Australian tour finishing at a nightclub in Perth. Many fans speculate it is Matilda’s captain Sam Kerr after the two have been interacting on social media and a recent interview L/n did with Marie Claire. Click the link to discover more! 📸🔥

baby/n: that interview was so sweet but this is JUICY

floscrockpot: girl flo is literally in aus rn this could be her

baby/n: babe you’re delusional did not see y/ns most recent interview DONE 👏

user678: I wish they would just confirm it omg

samsleftboot: it makes sense they would want to keep it quiet they are both super busy tn however they aren’t doing a very good job hiding it.

mummy/n: my two girlfriends happy as can be

#sam kerr imagine #sam kerr x reader #sam kerr fanction #fanfic #samantha kerr #social media au #wlw