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#it’s hardly even a surprise at this point
enaus · 3 days
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❤︎— paper rings. (l.heeseung)
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tumblr’s algorithm works best with reblog’s not just likes, so, pls reblog my work, thank you! <3
pairing: bf!heeseung x f!reader genre: established relationship, romance. warning(s): cuteness overload.
synopsis: in which your boyfriend heeseung proposes to you with a paper ring. wc: 0.688.
author's note: hi everyone,, i got inspired by taylor swift’s song paper rings off of the album lover n’ thought i’d write this. i do have my taglist open so if you want to be in it just send me a message in my inbox. as always, all feedback is welcome, just don’t be negative pls n’ remember to have a good time, happy reading everyone! 📖
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“Do you ever want to get married?”
Feeling surprised and startled by the sudden question, you looked up from the small tech device you were holding in your hands, your gaze falling upon your boyfriend, Heeseung, whose head was currently laying flat against your lap.
You took this opportunity to scan your boyfriend’s features for a tell that he was joking around, and it didn’t take long till you made the startling realization that he was genuinely being sincere.
“What’s with the sudden question?” You questioned as you fixed your gaze on him and raised your eyebrows. Your eyes catching his own.
“Technically, it’s not sudden; we’ve been dating for three years. Last time we spoke about this was maybe a year ago. Isn’t the topic supposed to come up again eventually?” He asked, cocking his head so he could see your face better while leaning against your lap. His maroon colored lips that were originally straight in form, now curled into a little pout as he raised his eyebrows in curiosity.
Naturally, the topic would come up at some point, and that didn’t bother you at all. Not that you were against getting married to your boyfriend—in fact, you were all for it. Hardly a day went by where you didn't consider asking him directly as opposed to just dropping those small, subtly hinting clues whenever he was nearby.
It wasn’t like you both were in a rush to get married; it was clear that you both intended to tie the knot at some point, but you both just never really had the opportunity to discuss it in thoroughly.
“You’re right, it is. It's just that we’ve never really spoken about it since.” You spoke, your hands finding their way into his messed-up hair. The few hairs that were delicately draped across his forehead, almost completely hiding his eyes, were now brushed away by your finger tips.
“Exactly.” He mumbled and fiddled with a piece of straw wrapper, probably from the remaining takeout you two had ordered an hour prior. He mumbled a string of nonsense under his breath before letting his thoughts break the silence once again; “If I were to propose to you right now, but I don’t have a shiny ring to offer you, would you say yes?”
You giggled and softly grinned at your boyfriend laying on your lap while you continued to run your fingers through his silky locks, a mutter slipping past your lips and under your breath in contemplation, “Yes.” You nodded, your smile remaining small and sincere.
“Wait, really?”
“Of course, why would I say no?”
“I figured maybe you’d prefer something extravagant..” He laughed, grinning, “I guess I was wrong.”
“Hee, I like shiny things but I’d marry you with paper rings. I don’t care for it to be expensive or fancy, as long as I have you, that’s all I want.” You spoke, as you watched the way his eyes soften, the reflection in them displaying a mix of love and comfort and that alone was just enough to make your heart beat even faster. The way the sparkles in his eyes resembled the stars located in the night sky, balancing beautifully with the way his eyes stared into yours.
“So, marry me.” Heeseung, who had previously been lying down, was now sitting up straight and motionless. His body facing your curled-up form on the couch, as he awaited your response.
“What?”
“Marry me.” He repeated, bringing his hands into view to match the words coming from his mouth and letting you catch a peek at the piece of paper he was toying with just a few moments ago; the straw wrapper now neatly crafted into a paper ring—the sides were twisted as a tiny little knot rest at the top to resemble a diamond.
The moment you’d been wanting for a while had finally come, and you didn’t even need to think of an answer. This was the sweetest and cutest thing anyone has ever done for you, and it might not have been perfect or super romantic, but it was to you, and that's all that mattered.
“Yes!”
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enaus all rights reserved, do not repost, copy, or plagiarize my work.
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blbrrymilk · 2 days
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😽🫶wren! How are you doing today? I was sleepy at work today and drank a lot of coffee. I hate capitalism 😭
Anyway, I want to share an interesting idea, what do you think would happen with Dr Ratio + bimbo reader? The reader has always been stupid and naive, and can't even understand his sarcasm… She often does wrong things accidentally, such as getting stuck on the wall, and even pouring drinks on him…
Oops, sunday / aventurine + bimbo reader would be interesting too…🥺
good luck with work love!! im relaxing in the bath today 🥱
I LOVE BIMBO READER... and stuck in the wall… 10/10 guilty pleasure...
cw: dubcon, dumbification kink go brrr, implied fem reader, slut shaming, manipulation
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ratio thinks you're beyond help. there's negative numbers going off in his head every time you open your airheaded mouth to speak some nonsense. -20, -25 - 30...
(“what’s this symbol mean again..?” “I don’t get it…” “these books have soooo many big words..”)
he really can't stand to listen to you stumbling around your own thoughts just to never actually reach a valid point or say anything of substance. he holds his head in his hands, raking his hands down his face each time his sarcasm and witty comebacks go right over your head.
he thought you might be good for taking simple orders for him, since you're no good as an apprentice to teach. but you can't even manage to serve his tea without tripping and falling and spilling it on his clothes. when he finds you stuck in the wall- he scoffs in disappointment. you're truly a lost cause. he knows you won't manage to get yourself out of there without his help. he's not even sure how you managed to get in there- but he's not surprised with how often you make these ridiculous mistakes.
you think he's going to help pull you out- but you feel the harsh smack of his ruler instead. you babble and whimper, confused- but he silences you immediately with another slap. you've been trying his patience for too long- always being troublesome. there's really nothing going on in that head of yours is there beyond your pretty face- is there? you end up hanging from the wall, drooling and leaking with his cum from your holes. your ass red and stinging and your legs quivering- still unsure what you did wrong.
ratio sighs, sticking a note of -10000 points (fail) on your forehead. at the very least, you're nice to look at. you make a nice decoration in the wall of his room. and you're pretty good at taking his cock and relieving some of his frustration. 100 points.
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aventurine thinks you're too fun to mess with. you really believe anything he says. and you fall for every single trick so easily. it's not even fair to call it a challenge when he gambles against you. he wouldn't even have to cheat to win. you don't seem to follow the rules of any of the card games or dice rolls- despite how many repeated explanations you're given. "ohhhhh... i get it now!" (you don't)
he charms you with his lies, someone like you is so easily impressed, gasping in awe and praising him for accomplishments and things he's never done. it's really too easy. if he asks you to bend over to pick up a coin he “accidentally” dropped, you bend at the waist fully, your panties on full display. the puffy outline of your cute pussy exposed to him- he takes a snapshot with his cell phone, laughing to himself. you're like putty in his hands, really. he hardly has to try.
when you end up stuck in the wall, he makes you a deal. promising to help you if you suck his cock first and let him record your cute face. of course this will stay a secret between just the two of you! you do your best, taking him all the way into your mouth until your jaw is sore and aching- his cum dribbling off your tongue. you look up at him with those thoughtless, wet eyes- asking if he'll finally help you- but he sneers, taking out a pen to write on your face and body. (aventurine's property), (dumb slut ♡)
he puts his sunglasses back on and waves you off, telling you to take this as a lesson not to believe everything you're told. don't worry- he'll be back to use you again when he's in the mood. he knows you won't figure out a way to get yourself out of there until then. so be a good onahole and wait for him <3
-
sunday feels sorry for you. it's in good faith to take pity on the less fortunate... and the ... less intelligent, right? you always hear his soft sigh after every silly, thoughtless question you ask him. following behind him like a puppy with your wide-eyed, brainless expression.
(“who is xipe? what is the path of harmony? is the Family a real family? so you're like a dad, right? is your halo real? can i touch your wings?”)
you giggle and keep asking him these sort of questions all day long.
sunday looks at you with an exhausted, pitiable smile always. your naivety is a bit endearing, but you're bound to run into the wrong person one day who might take advantage of you- or have far less patience than he holds for your antics. it's difficult to take you with him on business matters. you can't keep up with the serious topics in political conversations- much less be left with the responsibility of being his assistant. even simple tasks like serving drinks and sorting paperwork proves too difficult for you. his office seems to be in a much worse state than when he left you to tidy it.
and somehow, you managed to get stuck in the wall too... a person with lower morals just might think of taking advantage of a pitiable thing like yourself. not that he hasn't entertained the thought... you really do anything he asks. you sit on his lap, and change your clothes without even waiting for him to leave the room- blissfully unaware that he's still a man. his eyes can't help but wander over the curve of your hips, your plush butt pushing against him as he attempts to pry you out of the wall. you won't stop wiggling around.
("u-um...! there's something hard pressing against me…? mr.sunday...?”)
he grits his teeth, ordering you to hold still while he figures out how to get you out- his mind filled with all sorts of ways to relieve his frustration on you. he really does pray for your wellbeing (and his sanity.) hoping you might finally gain some common sense.
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ghouljams · 3 days
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Ok this is the little fae!Soap/fae!Ghost/Love piece I was working on that was getting away from me. Disaster throuple, but in a wholesome sort of way.
Soap is good with the baby. Of course Ghost knew he would be, trusted Soap with his life, but it was still reassuring to see him so gentle with the little flower. Bouncing the baby in his arms with a grin, wiggling his fingers until she grabs at them. It’s sort of domestic. Ghost hasn’t had a house this full in, well, not since Tommy was alive. 
“When dae ya think her petals are gonna come in?” Soap asks. You shrug, run your fingers along the baby’s brow. It’s not exactly strange, but- Ghost doesn’t know, can’t put a name to the feeling. Soap fits into life with you both so easily. He’s never seen the man trade ties so easily with anyone outside of their circle. Even you had commented on how quickly he was able to cross the flat's threshold.
“Who knows. She’s just a bud, she’s got plenty of time,” You lean to kiss the baby’s forehead, hardly bothered by Soap holding her. That’s another thing that’s surprised Ghost. You’re not standoffish by any stretch of the word, in fact he’s used the phrase “overly friendly” to describe you too many times, but you’re not this touchy with everyone. Your personal space bubble seems to include Soap the same way it includes him.
“Aye, suppose that’s right,” Soap hums. You tickle Karma's tummy, kissing her little fingers when they grab for you. You look up at Soap, then over his shoulder to meet Ghost's eye, Ghost feels a strange spark of... something in his chest. Not jealousy exactly, but something cousin to it.
It's enough to make Ghost step towards the couch, to settle his hand on Soap's head before leaning in to kiss you. You tip your head back for him and Ghost feels you smile against his lips. Nothing to worry about, you're as sweet and pliant as always. Your lips move against his with a softness Ghost has only ever had in his dreams, pulling back to murmur a quick "love you" against his mouth before your attention is turned back to the baby.
Ghost ruffles Soap's hair, tipping his head back with a gentle tug to get the Scot smiling. “‘Bout time you learned how to change a diaper Johnny,” Ghost tells him, scooping the baby out of his arms. You giggle and wave Soap off to follow him as he stands from the couch.
“Anno how to change a diaper,” Soap rumbles, following despite his insistence.
-
"Cannae believe such a little thing makes so much shite," Soap grumbles, snapping the onesie back together, echoing Ghost's thoughts back to him. That's one thing he certainly wasn't prepared for in this entirely unprepared for surprise of an infant.
"Swear we almost took 'er to the 'ospital once, thought she'd shat half her body weight." Ghost smiles cleaning his hands off with a fresh baby wipe. He tosses it in the little bin next to the changing table, and gives Soap a firm pat on the ass as he turns away. A thoughtless affectionate gesture, one Ghost has done countless times on you, much fewer on any of the 141.
Both men freeze.
“Johnny,” Ghost warns.
“Simon,” Soap grins.
The baby on the changing table wiggles, kicks her little bootied feet. Ghost glances at her, and in an instant Soap takes off running. Ghost makes a strangling motion after him and points a finger at his daughter.
“Stay,” He tells her seriously, before turning to go after Soap. 
Soap skids past you as you exit the bathroom. You turn to watch him vault over the living room couch before Simon races after him. It’s not the strangest thing that’s happened, you suppose. Weren't they supposed to be changing Karma? You make eye contact with Soap as he ducks out of Simon’s reach and decide it’s not your business. You’re going to check on the baby you’re sure they left somewhere they shouldn’t have. Soap beats you to the nursery door and scoops you up before you can reach turn the knob, holding you in front of him like a shield.
“Ghost spanked me,” He tells you quickly. You give Simon a confused look.
“It wasn’t a spank, it was a pat,” Simon clarifies, and you think that doesn’t actually help your confusion at all.
“Is it open season on Soap now? Where’s the baby?” You’re undecided on which of those is more important. You haven't heard crashing or crying, you assume the baby is safe for the moment.
“Open what?” Soap asks behind you.
“She’s fine,” Simon stresses at the same time. You roll your eyes, not entirely convinced. Soap kicks the door behind him open and peaks into the nursery, you twist to look over your shoulder, pleased to see your baby kicking her feet on the changing table. Thank God she hasn't learned how to roll over yet.
You swat at Soap's arms to be released, at the same moment Ghost scruffs him. Two firm hands leave you to grab at another. You scurry to pick up the baby while the boys are having it out. Soap scuffles, grabbing Ghost's wrist to try and get his hand off his neck, Ghost growls a warning loud enough that Karma sniffles. The baby's eyes growing watery as she scrunches her tiny nose and prepares to make her displeasure known. You shush her, bouncing her gently as you lay her head against your shoulder.
"Non, non, mon petit chou," You gentle, "Daddy's not mad at you." You glare at the grown ass men wrestling like children. Ghost has Soap in a head lock, and is looking at you like you're supposed to solve that.
"What'd ya mean open season?" Soap asks, his voice muffled by Ghost's grip.
"We're gonna hunt you for sport," Ghost deadpans.
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schemmentis · 2 days
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Like I Can - Pt. 3
Pt. 1 / Pt. 2
Warnings: None
Word Count: 1.7k
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You see more of Melissa in the weeks after your one night stand. Not quite as much as the beginning of your friendship, when you saw her without fail every weeknd. Still, more than the near nothing you’d been growing reluctantly used to.
You still spend more time with Barbara than your favorite redhead, but you’re pleasantly surprised on the evenings that she joins both of you. It’s one of those surprise evenings where she surprises you further.
You’re already at a table at one of your favorite restaurants across from Barb when Melissa strides to the table, apologizing for being late. Like every other time she’s suddenly joined you, you only smile and say you’re glad she’s there. You are. It’s been much nicer to see her and know what’s going on from her than through Barbara.
Occasionally, you feel the knife stab you a little deeper beneath your chest. When she’s laughing. When she’s loose and carefree in a way you know she only really is with you and Barb. Still, you’re never upset to see her and you aren’t disappointed by her appearance tonight.
You’re all nearly through your meals when Melissa snaps her fingers like she’s forgotten something. “Barb, the kids mentioned game night next weekend. You think Gerald will forgive you for missing one Saturday night?”
Good-naturedly, Barbara’s eyes are rolling. “It is a Saturday night tonight.” She points out with a look your way that is meant to convey exasperation. Except you know Barb is very rarely actually so fed up with Melissa. You’re the same way. “I assume you’re hosting?”
“Well, I ain’t goin’ to Janine’s, that’s for sure.”
“Oh, the other teachers.” You laugh slightly. “You said kids. I thought you were going to have all your little students running around for a second.”
“Oh god, no. You know I love my little eagles but they ain’t comin’ to my house that’s for sure. Janine is lucky she gets to.”
“Melissa!” Barbara chastises. Or, she tries to. Except you’re laughing and Melissa is smiling at you. It doesn’t really land. 
“Hey, you should come, Y/N.”
“Me?” You scoff, waving Melissa’s invitation off. “Come on, I’m not going to get in the way of your teacher bonding time.”
“You wouldn’t be in the way. ‘Sides they’d like you.”
“You just want me there so you can have me on your team and guarantee you win.”
“Maybe! It ain’t my fault Barb has us on a losing streak!”
“I do not!” Barbara protests from across the table. 
You sigh, pretending to think it over. You are tempted. More time with Melissa is hardly anything you’d say no to. Still, you’re hesitant. These are the people she sees every day. You’ve heard a little when Melissa tells you about her days and what’s gone on but that’s hardly the same as meeting these people. And then spending an evening in Melissa’s living room with them. In competitive mode over games on top.
“Alright, I’ll come but Barb has to be on our team, too. She’s better at trivia than you, Mel.”
Melissa pretends to be offended, a hand to her chest at your trivia comment. “I won trivial pursuit the last game night we had, thank you very much.”
“Did you sneak in extra sports questions?”
“No! I did win on one though…”
“Of course you did, Mel. Just text me when to be there.”
By the time Melissa texts you about game night and what time; you’d nearly forgotten you agreed to go. You don’t panic though. For some reason, knowing both Melissa and Barbara will be there, you aren’t nervous to meet the others. It might help that you know Melissa doesn’t just let people into her house. Not easily at any rate.
Once you’re stepping into Melissa’s living room, Barb has already beaten you there. Not the others. You would guess having those she’s most comfortable around here first makes inviting the others a touch easier. You barely say hello before she’s handing you a cold beer from the fridge.
The others trickle in over the next half hour. You understand now all the little comments Melissa has made about them as you meet them and the small chit chat that ensues as each of them arrive. Janine is sweet but definitely too peppy for Melissa. You suddenly understand each time Melissa said she would keep coffee as far away from the younger teacher as possible.
“Traitor!” Melissa teases when you pair up with Barb one game. You merely roll your eyes at her, it’s a two person team rule and she’d been claimed by Jacob for that game. Otherwise you probably would have picked her yourself.
You find yourself sprawled across Melissa’s couch. Barb had been the first to leave that night, as you expected. She wasn’t one for late nights in the entire time you’d known her. The others had stuck around a bit longer. Now, it’s just you and Melissa.
The two of you had mostly cleaned up her living room, ignoring some of the empty bottles and other drinks. Now, her television is on. It’s playing one of the reality shows Melissa loves that you don’t pay much attention to. Though you’re learning them and the drama in them through osmosis. 
You’re next to Melissa, your legs stretched over her lap. Your thighs rest in her lap more than your legs or feet. One of her hands is idly messing with your hair as she watches the screen. You don’t remember how this is how you two ended up but you aren’t complaining at all. It’s perhaps the most content and safe you’ve felt in a long time. You struggle to remember when you last did.
“Hon?”
Melissa’s soft voice calling to you has you blinking. You’re almost worried you fell asleep. You may be on your way but as your eyes refocus on the television screen you realize it’s still the scene you last remember so you couldn’t have fallen asleep just yet. You likely won’t be awake much longer though.
“Hm?” You wordlessly answer her. Her fingers are gently rubbing a mindless pattern at your temple.
“You gonna see that woman again? The one from a couple weeks ago?”
You blink at the television set, your half awake brain slowly turning over her question. “No.” You finally answer. You’re too tired to be worried about what the right thing to say is. Too tired to be worried about how you sound, or accidentally saying something will tip the redhead off to your feelings.
“You didn’t like her?”
“She was fine.”
Melissa laughs, just a little. “Fine. Yeah, that’s how you said she was in bed, too.”
“Mel…” You groan. You trail off, letting your tone and the following silence convey your plead for her to not get started on that again.
“You just…deserve better is all.” Melissa finally says softly.
“Yeah, and you deserve better than Gary.” You grumble in response.
Her fingers stop their movement against your temple. You feel her freeze beneath your thighs still draped over her lap. You go to sit up but her hand presses lightly to your shoulder to keep you in place.
“What’d you say?”
“Melissa…”
“No, no. Say it again. What you said.” Melissa urges. Her hand is still lightly pressing into your shoulder still. 
“I said you deserve better than Gary.” You repeat quietly.
“You never liked him.” She says. Definitively. Just like she did after you first met him. She knew then. She knows now.
“He’s fine.”
Melissa laughs. Enough that her head throws back against the back of the couch. She tips her head forward again. Her smile touches her eyes when they refocus on you. “Fine is what you say when you’re tryin’ to be polite, ain’t it? Gary is fine. Your girl from a few weeks ago is fine. You really wanna say they kind of suck, don’t you?”
“No! She really was fine. I told you I’m not really interested in the one night stands and all.”
“And Gary?”
“Gary is…you like him.”
“He’s fine.” Melissa says with a small smirk down at you. “How do you feel ‘bout him though? Don’t worry about sparing my feelings, Hon. I wanna know.”
“He’s nice enough. I might like him if he weren’t dating you.”
“What’s him dating me got to do with it?”
You sigh. “Melissa. You could do better than Gary. You could have any guy you wanted, in a heartbeat. I know Joe, bein’ Joe, made you think differently. I watched him hurt you plenty of times while you tried to work things out, and then through the divorce process. You don’t have to settle for just a….nice enough guy.”
“Any guy I wanted, huh?”
“In a heartbeat.” You repeat.
“What if I didn’t want a guy?”
You blink up at Melissa. In the time you’d known her she’d ever spoken about men, gone out with men. You hadn’t even considered her with a woman. Even though that little bit of hope in your heart for it still lived on with your feelings for her. Still, you’d never even entertained it being possible with how much you’d seen her with men. 
“I…wouldn’t have expected you to be into women, I guess.” You finally stammer out. 
“Why not?”
“You never talk about women. I’ve seen you pick up plenty of guys at the bar. Then of course Joe and Gary.”
“I experimented in college. Like a lot of people do.” Melissa shrugs. “I lean toward men, usually heavily, but I wouldn’t call myself straight.”
“You did once tell me if Barb wasn’t with Gerald you’d make her a Schemmenti.”
She laughs again, nodding. “In another life, absolutely.” Melissa doesn’t hesitate in backing up that drunken comment she made to you forever ago. “So, you think I could get a woman?”
“In a heartbeat.” You breathe out the repetition. You know for certain Melissa could land a woman just as easily as she could a man; or anyone for that matter.
“And if I had a specific woman in mind?”
“Do you? Have a specific woman in mind?”
Melissa only looks at you for a long, drawn out moment. You have half a mind she’s memorizing your face for some reason you don’t know. “I think it would take a specific one, for me, personally, y’know? Like you said…no secret I like men but if a certain woman got to my heart and all…”
“What are you saying, Melissa?”
“I’m saying…I’m saying we both deserve better, Y/N. We both deserve better and I…I wanna be the better you deserve.” Her fingers brush at the small hair near your temple tenderly. “You’re the woman I want.”
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lostloveletters · 2 days
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Little Wing (John Brady x OC)
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Summary: Kate "Woody" Woodward and John Brady have it bad for each other, except Woody's convinced he doesn't care for her and Brady's convinced he messed up his shot with her. They prove each other wrong.
Note: Woody and Brady’s first kiss fic yay🤭 Title comes from the Jimi Hendrix song (which is on Woody’s playlist).  I know I keep saying this, but I’m so overwhelmed with the response to Woody/Brady, I didn’t expect it at all, and it means so much to me🖤 Do not interact if you’re under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.
Word count: 1.6k
Warnings: Inevitable historical and technical inaccuracies. Suggestive to a point, but not explicit. Light miscommunication plotline.
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Darla had been the one who pointed it out. The Texan wasn’t one for biting her tongue, and expressed earlier that day while they were eating lunch with Meg that John Brady wasn’t making himself scarce around the hardstand, or the hangar. Wherever that downed plane of his was while they were working on it, he’d inevitably show up at some point. 
“‘S like he don’t think we can fix a damn plane,” Darla said through a mouthful of toast, stale from that morning’s breakfast. The guys in the kitchen knew the three of them weren’t ones to pass up food just because it was a few hours old.
“I got the same thing at my pop’s shop back home. These fellas would bring in their cars and tell ‘im they didn’t want me workin’ on them. Half of ‘em didn’t even know how to change a tire,” Meg agreed, her thick Boston accent making Woody have to strain to understand what she was saying sometimes.
Darla shook her head. “Some ‘a these flyboys, I swear to god they got more swagger than sense.”
Woody didn’t want to tell them that Brady’s frequenting their work area might have coincided with the one day he showed up to check on how things were going, and she apparently struck a nerve by trying to be nice—something she was rusty at despite her best efforts. So he’d hang around and watch, sometimes not saying very much at all while puffing away at his pipe. Made her feel tantalizingly scrutinized beneath his stormy gaze.
His crew were all nice enough guys. A little rowdy sometimes, but nothing she couldn’t handle. Still, their pilot’s recent behavior made it tough for her to shake the feeling that he wasn’t all that fond of her. A damn shame, because she had it bad for him. Figured it was the first time she was into a guy who was decent.
Earlier that week, Hambone waited out the English rain in the hangar with her, telling her what he and the rest of them did before the war. Mostly recent high school graduates or everyday working guys. She didn’t find it surprising that the pilot had a degree, but almost couldn’t believe her ears when Hambone told her that Brady was a musician before the war. If anyone deserved to walk around with the swagger most of the pilots did, it was Brady, in her opinion, yet to her, he seemed level-headed and reserved. 
She had left lunch with Darla and Meg that afternoon with a newfound resolve to win Brady over somehow. If not for her own sake, then to at least not make her own faux pas the other girls’ problem.
Her quip to Holly about John Brady and his cockpit was mostly for her best friend’s amusement. Anything in her past she’d remotely consider a relationship boiled down to little more than sex. Never exclusive, and never all that satisfying, either. 
Woody nearly scoffed at herself. As if he’d want anything to do with a woman like her.
“Evening, Lieutenant,” she said as he walked up.
He sighed, taking his pipe out of his mouth. “You don’t have to be so formal, Woody. It’s just us out here.”
“Bucky and Holly are listening to the Yankees at the Nationals.” She nodded in the direction of the jeep in the distance. “They made some bet on it.”
“I hardly think that counts considering how far they are.”
She hesitated. “If you say so.” Stopped herself from adding ‘sir’ at the end. 
The following ten or so minutes were all hers. Pointed out every inch of the plane that’d been worked on since he last came by. Had an answer for all of his questions or concerns. She didn’t miss a single detail, wanting him to know yes, she was serious, and yes, she could fix a damn plane. Got the same thrill she did when she’d tell people how she souped up their cars to race, watching the appreciation and at times disbelief for her work on their face.
“Still got some kinks to work out, but it should be coming along a lot quicker now,” she said.
“You did all of that since yesterday?”
“I can’t take all the credit. Darla and Meg helped out, too.”
He cracked a grin, his pipe between his teeth. “You’re pretty damn good, Woody.”
She smiled. Her heart might’ve skipped a beat or two. “Thank you.”
“You must’ve been a mechanic before this, huh?”
“Here and there,” she said. Eager to steer the conversation away from herself, she quickly added, “You’re a musician, aren’t you?”
“I am. I got my degree in music, too.”
“Let me guess what you play…” She folded her arms across her chest. “You don’t strike me as a tuba man.”
The slightest smile worked its way onto his face. “No, I’m not.”
“Way too smart to be playing the triangle.”
“Hey, don’t count out the triangle.”
“You’re pulling my leg!” She laughed, silently proud of herself for not saying 'You're fucking with me' which otherwise would've been her reflexive response. “Alright, I’m gonna make my real guess now.” She pursed her lips as she considered her options. “Clarinet?”
He nodded. “And saxophone.”
“Both? Oh, I’d love to hear you play sometime,” she said. “Either. Whichever one you like best.”
“I play with the band in the officer’s club once in a while. You should come by. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you there.”
“I’m not an officer.”
“I’ll make sure no one kicks you out.”
“Are you offering to be my personal muscle?” she half-joked. 
He shook his head, smiling. “I don’t think you need it, but sure.”
“Thanks, John,” she said. “Unless you prefer Jack? Or just John?”
“What do you think suits me?” he asked.
“Well, I like Johnny, if you’re really asking.” She smiled like she was letting him in on a secret, like she knew all along he’d be Johnny to her. 
It was her eyes that got him, though. The same green he saw when someone else made her laugh or how just about everyone seemed to have some anecdote about Woody—how she helped them out or told a joke that was just the thing to lift their spirits.  But for all of the stories about Woody, the undertones of admiration or outright expressions of desire within them, nobody had one like his. Kissed his cheek without hesitation. Looked at him with those forest green eyes he could lose a hundred years in. Just when he was sure he had his chance and missed it, he was Johnny, and instead of getting lost in that forest, he knew exactly where he was going, how to push his way through and find her.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” she muttered, staring above them and shaking her head. 
Woody grabbed a screwdriver and kicked over a wooden milk crate that had seen better days. She tentatively placed her boot on it, pressing down a moment before stepping up.
“What are you doing?”
“I can’t reach otherwise.”
“That thing’s about as flimsy as cardboard,” he said, setting his pipe aside. “You’ll break your neck.” His strong hands were on her hips before he finished speaking. Held her steady as she stood on top of the crate.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. 
She worked in silence until she stood on her toes, and the crate wobbled ominously beneath her. “I can’t see. Can you get me a flashlight and—”
He squeezed her hips in frustration. “Woody, just do it tomorrow. It’s not worth getting hurt over.”
“Help me down, Johnny?” she asked, turning slightly in his hold, her eyes flashed an unmistakable desire that nearly sent him to his knees.
He kept one hand on her waist, the other holding her free hand as she stepped down from the crate. A flash of red spread across her cheeks, and he was drawn in closer like a moth to flame, following her to the nearby toolbox where she put the screwdriver back in place, double-checking the contents before locking it up for the night.
“You got something…” His thumb brushed just below her lip. They stared at each other in silence, voice caught in his throat before he closed the gap between them, cradling her chin in his hand as he kissed her. 
A shock to her system, there was something uniquely vulgar in his tenderness. Past lips on her own had been rough and selfish, part of a song and dance she grew tired of by the time she was nineteen. To be kissed with such care at twenty-three made her skin burn for more. 
She grabbed his collar, pulling him closer. Threatened to lose herself in the embrace, almost unsure of where Woody ended and John began. 
He caught her bottom lip between his teeth for a moment. She shuddered when he released it and pressed a hungry kiss to his lips, her want betraying her with a soft whimper. 
She felt him pulling away and thought her heart was going to beat out of her chest. “Johnny, don’t go. Not yet,” she whispered pleadingly, raking her fingers through his hair.
It didn’t take much else for him to give in, losing himself in that forest in her eyes. “Is there anything you’re not good at?”
“Being good,” she answered, “and I was getting better at that until you got here not even an hour ago.”
He smiled, eyes glistening almost mischievously. “Well, I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
“Am I your sweetheart?”
“If you want to be.”
She smiled. “I’d like that a lot.”
“Good, I wouldn’t want you to be anyone else’s,” he said, kissing her forehead.
“Me either.”
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nico-di-genova · 1 day
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Post Jeddah Strollonso Snippet
There are scars on Lance’s wrists, faint and hardly noticeable. Two even cuts along the bone where the metal pins were put in and taken back out that have healed into pale lines. Fernando catches Lance running his thumb along the scars sometimes, absentmindedly, like a twinge of phantom pain can be felt there anytime he fails. He clips the wall in Saudi, just brushes the corner at turn twenty-two and send it into the barriers on twenty-three. When Fernando gets him alone afterward, he’s running a fingernail along the line on his right wrist.
“Lance, stop,” he berates, sliding off his shoes and kicking them in the general direction of his suitcase that lies open on the hotel floor. They land beside Lance’s slides and a green Aston Martin hoodie that started in Lance’s ownership but has since been rehomed into Fernando’s growing collection of stolen loungewear.
Lance blinks, slow and lethargic, but doesn’t indicate he’s heard Fernando otherwise.
“Lance.”
Perched on the edge of their bed, leaning on one arm and looking at the man sprawled out across the mattress behind him, he waits. Lance’s hands are resting on his stomach, rising and falling with each of his breaths in a steady rhythm. He’s still wearing his shoes, and jacket and the blank expression he’s worn since they left the circuit and wound up back here.
“Lance,” Fernando presses, not surprised when he doesn’t receive a coherent answer. Instead, Lance hums in something that is maybe meant to be acknowledgement but could easily be dismissed for the sound of the air conditioning kicking on.
Not for the first time, Fernando finds himself wishing he could follow Lance wherever it is he goes when he’s like this. Back in the car, trying to figure out how he could have salvaged the broken Aston, or back in front of the cameras where he wonders what he could have said to make them see him any differently. Usually, Fernando knows he thinks about the damage, the toll that it’s taking to his father’s credit. It is one of the rare times where Lance thinks about money, the true cost of it, and how much it’s piling up each time he ends up buried in the tires.
Sometimes it’s good to give Lance his space, let him come back on his own terms. Other times the silence scares Fernando, makes him wonder if there will ever be a point where the man won’t come back at all.
It scares him more to realize that he actually cares – that at some point the bosses son had become something more than an obstacle in his way.
Lance breaths, presses his fingernail harder against the scar. Fernando watches as the skin turns white with the pressure before leaning over and pulling the assaulting hand away from where it’s injuring it’s twin. Lance lets him, limp and pliable.
“It was small,” Fernando tries, “an easy fix. You will come back stronger next time.”
Keeping Lance’s wrist in his grasp, he shifts until he’s lying beside the man, his head resting on Lance’s chest.
“It will be okay,” He soothes, bringing Lance’s wrist to his lips and kissing the scar there, warm breath ghosting over marred skin.  
“I crashed,” Lance states, empty. “Again.”
Fernando is not good with feelings, not good with lingering in his mistakes. His motto has always been to keep the past in the past. Lance, no matter how much he tries to make the public think otherwise, does not share this belief. He internalizes, he stews, he lashes out at the cameras, the team, Fernando and then he gets quiet. It is like a cycle, dependable but self-destructive, nonetheless.
 Fernando thinks he should try partying, or maybe alcohol, but that probably wouldn’t solve much either, even if it would be more fun.  
The quiet is oppressive, broken only by the chatter of passerby in the hall and Lance sighing intermittently. Fernando listens to the beat of his heart from where his ear is pressed against the Canadian’s chest, if only to give himself something to focus on. He keeps Lance’s wrist against his lips. They both smell of sweat and rubber, the stench of the track sticking to them along with Lance’s fog of disappointment.
“One-hundred twenty-six,” Lance mumbles, seemingly to himself.
Fernando yawns, “What?”
“A front wing.”
“The cost?”
“Yeah. Thousand."
“Small. Cheaper than the whole car.”
What he wants to say is ‘cheaper than a hospital bill’ but he’s not ready for the argument those flood gates would open. Because it’s not about the car, not really, and it’s not about the bruises that Fernando knows he will find forming when he finally gets Lance to remove his clothes and step under the warm spray of a shower. It’s not about Lance at all, but the man who always seems to find a way into their relationship – Lawrence and his checkbook and the expectation that Lance has taken from the man and placed onto his own shoulders.
Fernando is tired, too tired for a fight, so he stays quiet.
Lance loves his father, and Fernando loves Lance and so there’s no use in fighting over the boulder that has planted itself firmly between them. They work around it, or they sometimes kick against it when they’re feeling particularly bold, but it’s too heavy to move and so neither of them tries.
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Only Natural
In which Gale’s attempt to come clean is interrupted by a bath, and Gale is not cut out to be a druid. Pre-Weave scene.
AO3 Link: More Than Magic - Chapter 1 - InquisitorLavellan - Baldur's Gate (Video Games) [Archive of Our Own]
.....................................................
“Aster?” Gale called into the trees as he walked away from camp. It was rare to be able to catch one of their band of misfit, reluctant adventurers alone, so Gale was eager to seize the opportunity while the druid was away from camp for a moment.
Well, somewhat eager, somewhat terrified. Part of him hoped he would fail to find her and have an excuse to hold on to his horrible secret just a while longer. His anxiety caused the orb lodged in his chest to thrum, as if that secret were mocking him. He paused for a moment and took a deep breath, gathering his resolve. Even if she turned him away, even if she could never look at him the same way again, she deserved to know. She was the kindest, most generous person he had ever met, going out of her way to help anyone in need despite the imminent danger of ceremorphosis lurking in their skulls. She had given him so much, quite literally saved his life many times over, without question or hesitation, and the very least he owed her was the truth.
As he passed through a thick patch of trees, he emerged to find a small, secluded lake. The clear, still water reflected the vibrant hues of the sky painted by the setting sun. Rocks were scattered across the muddy shoreline, and leaning against one Gale spotted a familiar staff with a neatly folded leather coat beside it. She must be somewhere nearby, likely enjoying the picturesque display of nature’s beauty stretched out before him. He took a second to appreciate it himself before calling out again.
“Aster? I was hoping to talk to you about something, if you have a moment.” His eyes scanned the lake again, still not spotting the druid. As a gnome, her small stature did make it easier to hide, though her striking red hair somewhat negated that stealth advantage. Still, she might not currently be gnome-shaped at all, and if she were one of the many birds and squirrels visible along the lakeshore, he would hardly be able to tell.
He saw something emerging from the lake, which quickly revealed itself to be the top of Aster’s head. As she walked closer to the shoreline, the tips of her pointed ears broke the surface of the water, with the rest of her head and shoulders following quickly behind. Her wet brown skin glistened in the sunlight, freckles smattered across it like stars in the night sky.
“Of course. What do want to talk about?” she asked as she continued toward the shore. She grasped her auburn curls between her hands to wring the water out. It fell from her hair and cascaded over her shoulders like a miniature waterfall, droplets of water leaving curving trails over her ample breasts.
Hold on a moment. Her breasts. Gods, she was completely naked.
Gale felt his face grow hot as blood rushed to his cheeks and, well, . . . elsewhere. The orb in his chest began a familiar thrum as it always did when he experienced a strong emotion or physiological response. He closed his eyes and raised his arm in front of them, half making a show out of not looking and half attempting to obscure his flushed cheeks from view.
“Ahem,” he started, clearing his throat, “my apologies if I caught you by surprise, but you are aware that you’re not wearing any clothes, aren’t you?”
“One generally doesn’t when bathing,” she replied, and he can practically hear a smug smile in the tone of her voice. Alright, not the response he was expecting. It seemed he was the only one to have been caught unawares.
“Fair point,” he responded with a slight nod, arm still covering his eyes, “though I would counter that one generally does whilst having a conversation.” 
She laughed, “I forget how . . . weird non-druids can be about nudity. Clothes have their uses, sure, but there is nothing strange or shameful about our naked bodies; they’re only natural.”
He had heard druids had a more casual outlook on such things but had never been confronted with that philosophy head-on. Gale couldn’t imagine being so blasé about seeing someone naked. Especially her. The image of her emerging from the lake, all soft curves and sun-kissed flesh, popped into his head again and threatened to reignite the fire in his body that had only just started to subside. He prayed she would dress quickly so he could open his eyes again and stop his mind’s eye from running wild in the dark.
“Well, some of us are not prepared to embrace your free-spirited druid ways just yet.” There was an awkward pause as he waited for some signal that she had finished getting dressed. Surely it couldn’t take this long. Perhaps she simply enjoyed watching him squirm.
Mercifully, she spoke. “You can stop covering your eyes now.”
He opened his eyes to see a now fully dressed Aster, leaning her shoulders forward slightly as her hands rested on tilted hips. “So,” Aster said with a smile and a quick raise of her brows, “did you enjoy the view?”
Gale froze like a cornered animal, sensing the trap closing in. What response was she looking for? If he answered honestly that he had, would she think him a leering creep? If he lied or refused to answer, would she be insulted? Did she want him to find her attractive? He doubted she shared feelings similar to those he was developing toward her, but that didn’t mean she would not appreciate a compliment.
The right corner of her mouth lifted even higher into a devious smirk and there was a playful twinkle in her eyes, as if she could see the thoughts warring inside his head. Oh, she definitely enjoyed watching him squirm.
“As I am sure you are aware, you are a most attractive woman, though also rest assured that I was not attempting to spy on you,” Gale replied, finally settling on a carefully measured response that would hopefully not offend regardless of the answer she sought.
“Gale!” Aster replied with a tone of sarcastic shock, “I was talking about the lake! Doesn’t it look beautiful at sunset?” She tutted and shook her head in mock disapproval, “And here I thought you were a gentleman.”
Gale rolled his eyes and breathed out sharply through his nose. “Tease me if you wish, but you and I both know you were not talking about the lake.”
She laughed. “Speaking of talking, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
Ah, right, he had come here for a reason that was not to thoroughly embarrass himself. However, now hardly felt like the time to discuss such serious matters. The right moment would come, and Gale prayed, to whom he wasn’t certain anymore, that the truth of his condition would not ruin everything.
“You know,” Gale lied, shaking his head, “I completely forgot.”
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avelera · 2 days
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Apologies for screaming into your askbox like this but
EVERYTHING YOU SAID ABOUT BENIOFF AND WEISS IS SO FUCKING TRUE AND I AM SO GLAD SOMEONE ELSE IS FINALLY SAYING SOMETHING
As someone who read the Game of Thrones books (probably younger than I should have...but that's beside the point) the sorts of things that the two Ds decided needed to be added for the sake of "realism" or "accuracy" was ALWAYS just an excuse to brutalize someone. Be it kids, be it women (though in GoT is was usually women) and so much of it was not in the books!!! Like, sure, the books have accrued a reputation for being brutal, and they totally are...but they never seem as gretuatus in the way that David and Dan seem to revel in the crualty. Utterly original characters are introduced for the express purpose of being killed or assaulted, and it makes watching Game of Thrones a harrowing experience.
I'm not surprised that this has continued in their other work, in so many ways, the bloodlust became their calling card. I am deeply thankful that most of the other places that had been courting them to make projects have dropped them.
I will say in defense of the no doubt huge team who worked on Three Body Problem that it's not a gore fest or anything. There was a lot I've enjoyed in eps 1-5 (which as far as I've gotten at the moment) and scenes of violence are hardly the only thing that happens (though umm... maybe be prepared for the opening scene. It's also a doozy.)
Anyway, as I see it, Benioff and Weiss's sadism is more like... Tarantino's foot fetish. It doesn't consume the entire story, but when Tarantino does a loving closeup of feet you're like, "Ah, there it is. I was wondering when that would show up." If B&W work on something, like it or not, they're going to mash the cruelty button and heighten the cruelty of canonical scenes (if it's an adaptation) in order to try to get a reaction out of the audience. It's just how they work. For some audiences, that might even be a feature, not a bug!
The thing that makes me so frothing at the mouth enraged about Benioff and Weiss is how fucking coquettish they are about their sadism. They always act so fucking surprised like they're shocked that anyone would think that the gore and the horror were the point and what drew them to the story (I know, I'm just repeating my post at this point but STILL--!).
Look, when I was a teen, I totally first started writing angst to sort of... express this vein of sadism in myself in a safe outlet like fiction. I wanted to make people cry with my writing. So I'd do things like just kill off all the characters and be so proud when a reader said they were sad after.
But that's just... really flat and amateurish angst, y'know? There are so many more sophisticated and meaningful ways to create emotion, including sadness, in an audience other than just killing off all the characters or torturing them.
But I feel I remember enough from those days (I'd like to think I've long since grown out of that impulse) to know a sadist when I see one? And Benioff and Weiss's storytelling, to my eyes again, is simply sadistic. It glories in watching people in pain and it finds ways to exaggerate that pain and the chance to exaggerate moments of pain is what draws them to the stories they like to depict.
And that's fine. Plenty of horror creators revel in gore and cruelty and it's an entirely worthy art form!
But for the most part, those horror creators know what they're doing and they're open or even joyful about the fun they have creating these horror stories! Enjoying creating horror stories or depicting suffering or even being sadistic, particularly in fiction where no one is actually getting hurt, is perfectly fine.
I just fuckin... wish Benioff and Weiss would admit that's what it is goddamn it makes me INSANE.
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soy lago
masterlist
lando x carlos (carlando) (2.6k words)
summary: since carlos left for ferrari, lando has spent the last four seasons trying to move on. but then the world learns that carlos might end up anywhere next year, and lando dares to let himself hope...and puts some of those hopes down on paper.
warnings: plenty of ✨angst✨
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soy lago
Sweaty, exhausted, and covered in stubborn pieces of green and yellow crepe clinging to the sticky champagne on his race suit, Lando does his very best to stand up straight, holding his P3 trophy with stiff arms. He doesn’t smile; it’s hard enough as it is remaining upright. Then he feels an arm around him. He knows its owner is clad in red—although once upon a time, he wore papaya orange. And the feeling of that arm is what lets him scrape together the will to put on some semblance of a smile as the cameras flash, capturing Charles Leclerc, Carlos Sainz, and Lando Norris in their podium photograph of the 2024 Australian Grand Prix.
Dear Carlos,
I’ve always been rubbish with words—hell, I showed a million people on Youtube that it took me three tries to spell “heights”, in English, no less. So it shouldn’t surprise you that, when they told me I needed to go on camera and speak Italian, I downloaded Duolingo and didn’t open another app for a week straight. Never mind that it was one single sentence. I could not mess this up.
Ai nostri amici della Scuderia Ferrari ed ai loro tifosi.
I could say it in my sleep.
And yet, when the camera started staring into my soul, I still managed to fuck it up. On the very first word. They asked me later, you know, if I wanted them to edit it out…but when I watched it again it seemed right somehow. Because the truth is, they could’ve asked me to say “to our friends at Scuderia Ferrari and the famous tifosi” in plain English, and it still would have been the hardest thing I’ve ever had to say. So I figured it’d at least be honest.
When I joined F1 my rookie season, you had already raced for four. Two other teams. McLaren was not your whole past. At Melbourne, the season opener, I already knew by the way your eyes sparkled so hungrily talking to the press, that it would not be your future either. But for me, it was all I had, my precarious shot at making it in F1. I had something to prove.
So why was I so nervous when they stuck a camera in front of us to play that stupid game of ‘Would You Rather’? I can’t even rewatch that video now, because I already know I’ll cringe seeing myself slowly dismantling the sole of my shoe with my fingernails, hardly even able to make eye contact with you. You had a reputation of charming every teammate you got with—I won’t pretend like I didn’t scour the internet for every video you filmed with Max with Toro Rosso. You made Max Verstappen giggle like a little girl on video. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—let that happen to me.
But at the Chinese GP, after Kvyat crashed me out, you came up to me in the paddock. “Wanna go on a walk?” you asked. As if you’d seen me crying in the garage. There was a little lake, a pond really, near the track, and I don’t know how many laps we must have taken around it. What I do know is that you pointed to the water, told me that in Spanish, it’s called “el lago”. And that you stopped me from feeling like I didn’t belong, didn’t deserve to be in F1.
I had a lot of retirements that first season. And after each one, I knew I’d hear your voice, or see a text on my phone, or once, a little paper airplane in my driver’s room. Every time, the words were the same. And every time, I wanted it more. I just didn’t want to admit to myself that at some point, it became less about debriefing the race failures and more about the person I had an excuse to see off the track. Away from the cameras. Away from everybody else.
On the flight back to London, Lando scrolls through headline after headline, all pondering the next move for the triumphant Spaniard. Red Bull, Red Bull, Mercedes, Red Bull, Kick Sauber—Lando chuckles at that one—Red Bull, McLaren, Mercedes, Red Bull…
The speculation about McLaren is clearly a joke. And yet, it makes Lando’s breath catch in his throat…fuck, if Max Verstappen can DNF on Lap 2, give Ferrari a 1-2 podium with Lando in 3rd after the team told Oscar to give it up for him…clearly, crazier things have happened in F1.
The pandemic hurt, a lot. It’s all a blur now, logging onto my computer day after day, gaming with George and Alex and Charles to pass the time, refreshing Instagram in case you posted a story from Madrid. Until one day, the first day of May, the phone rang. You told me you were in Woking, that you were going to be at the MTC but you’d explain later. And then, those five magical words.
“Wanna go on a walk?”
Maybe we were all a little crazy during lockdown. Let’s just call it that. How else do you explain the fact that I spent twenty minutes picking a pair of jeans after spending four months in sweatpants, another twenty picking a shirt that wasn’t bright orange? What excuse do I have for dumping every beanie I owned onto my bed, cursing myself for shaving my hair off, even if it was to raise money for COVID? It was a miracle I made it to the MTC at all.
You were already outside by the time I skidded into the parking lot. The sun was low in the sky, not quite setting, turning the lake lavender, cotton candy, papaya. You faced the lake, just a dark silhouette against the colors. Suddenly, it felt hard to breathe. I just knew you were going to say something…big. I wanted to tell you so many things, how I’d been counting down the days until lockdown would be over, how not a day went by that I didn’t wonder what you were doing, how you had become someone that I could never be close enough to. You made me greedy.
I knew something was wrong when you saw me and smiled. It was happy…but not the smile I knew. This smile was tainted, as if someone had poured a single drop of vinegar into a glass of milk, and you could taste it starting to curdle just a bit.
“Lando,” you said. Another red flag. Normally, you drew out the “o” in my name in a tantalizing singsong. “My muppet friend, I have something to tell you. Something exciting.”
I wished time would stop right then. I didn’t want to hear what exciting thing you had to tell me. But no amount of wishing could stop what came next.
“Ferrari. They offered me a contract. Two years in their fastest car…I cannot believe it, my muppet friend. I will race for them in 2021.”
The sun hadn’t set yet, but there were stars in your eyes. Stars that I had seen since your—our—very first race with McLaren. Carlos Sainz, destined for champions, for greatness. There would not be room for slow cars, midfield teams; there would not be room for Lando Norris. And I knew this from day one. So why, looking at the stars that filled your eyes, did mine start to fill with tears?
I smiled in the hopes you’d think I was simply overcome with happiness on your behalf. “Aren’t you going to say anything?” you asked.
I had wanted so badly to find the words that would’ve made your journey all the way from Spain to see me worth it. But even if I had them, all of those words were useless now. And in the moment, I could only think of one thing.
“Soy lago,” I said. You furrowed your brows in confusion. “I am lake?” you laughed. “Your Spanish has always been terrible.”
Then I told you that my tears could fill the very lake we were looking at. Watched the realization dawn on your face. Heard you call after me as I ran back to my car, so you wouldn’t have to see any more of those tears.
In his room in the MTC, Lando sits, clicking his pen compulsively. Balls of crumpled-up paper surround him, ghosts of past attempts at penning a letter worthy of its reader. He curses his messy penmanship, curses his inability to spell anything remotely non-phonetic correctly. He resorts to writing in pencil, then painstakingly tracing each letter over with ink. By the time he’s finished, the sun has begun its descent towards the horizon. Just in time, he thinks.
Later, I texted you my congratulations, assured you how happy I was for you, how much you deserved it. I meant it. But maybe you sensed that something was up, because even when the new season started and we no longer shared a garage, you kept sending me texts after every race. Each one was the same: “Wanna go on a walk?”
I couldn’t tell you if it was an act of self-preservation, because of how badly it hurt to see you with Charles at Ferrari, or if I wanted to feel the twisted, bitter satisfaction from knowing that I got to reject you after you left me. Either way, the excuses were simple enough. Meetings with Mark. Last-minute training sessions at the gym. And my favorite—dinner with Danny Ric, my new Carlos Sainz.
Come to think of it, I never did end up getting dinner with Danny while we were teammates.
When I did show up, I’d make sure to tell you about how charismatic Danny was, how good the banter was, how hard we made each other laugh off-track. Only later did I realize that everything I was saying was what I would see in your C2 videos with Charles, which I followed with a level of manic compulsion that scared even me.
Eventually, the texts stopped coming. I thought I’d feel…relieved, or at least like I was moving on. And maybe I tried to tell myself I felt that way, but in reality, everything was just empty. I couldn’t have all of you, and I was so greedy that I chose rather to have none of you at all.
Lando searches his contacts for a name that doesn’t exist. Carlos Sainz: Not found, his phone tells him infuriatingly. With an exasperated sigh, he starts to swipe. And stops short, realizing that he had saved Carlos under Chili.
His thumb hovers uncertainly over the keyboard. He presses send.
Me Wanna go on a walk?
Time, teammates, and races passed, and as you got used to seeing yourself in red, I got used to being a Formula 1 driver, then a team leader as Oscar came in. I buried us deeper and deeper with each passing season and perfected the art of a casual hug on the podium, a cheerful clap on the back if we happened to pass each other on the paddock. I had only just come to terms with the realization that we would likely never be the same again when I woke up on the first day of February, 2024, to the news that Lewis would be taking your seat at Ferrari next year. Leaving the question of what color you would wear, if not red, open to every shade of the rainbow.
Then the dreams started.
When you came off a surgery hardly two weeks ago and snatched P1 at Melbourne, I dreamt that I walked into the motorhome, saw someone wearing a papaya cap with his back turned to me. And I knew it wasn’t Oscar, because those broad shoulders, the shock of hair that even a cap couldn’t contain, could only belong to a certain Spanish driver I knew so well, once upon a time.
You turned around, just like I knew you would. Smiled in a way I haven’t seen in four years. “Landooo…my muppet friend,” you crooned, drawing out the “o” the way you always used to do. You wrapped your arms around me…you always did have such strong arms.
“Chili. I should have done this long ago,” I told you, before the kiss…
A little gray bubble appears on the screen. Three dots, pulsing to the time of Lando’s pounding heart. Then:
Chili Can’t today 😞 dinner with Charles!! celebrating that Ferrari podium 🥳🇮🇹 But maybe some other time!
He stares at the messages. A minute passes, then two. He gently folds up the note, tucking it into his pocket as he stands and walks out of the MTC.
Lando looks out over the manmade lake in front of the building. The sunset reflected in it has uniformly turned it the exact shade of his hoodie. There will be no lavender, no cotton candy pink tonight.
He tugs the letter out of his pocket, unfolds it, and reads it one last time. A weary sigh. Carefully refolds it. A little airplane takes shape in Lando’s hands.
Four years of pushing you, thoughts of you, my feelings for you away, all gone with one headline. I hated myself for falling again so easily, but nobody can deny how addictive the feeling of hope is. Carlos, Chili, I had so many regrets, and maybe this is a sign that I should stop living with them from now on.
And if there’s one thing I regretted the most through all this, it’s not that I didn’t ask you to stay that evening at the MTC. It’s that I didn’t give you enough reason not to leave in the first place. Didn’t tell you what you meant to me when I could, didn’t try to make you see that there could be something here…something bigger maybe even than racing itself.
I don’t know if you’ll be wearing papaya, or navy, or (god forbid) highlighter green next year, but it doesn’t matter. I should have done this long ago, but that doesn’t matter either. All that matters is that you know how important you are, and have always been, to me. Know how the best podium celebrations and the fizziest champagne paled in comparison to the little blue bubbles of texts from you on my phone. Know that my trophies sit on a shelf collecting dust, but the paper airplane you made me never leaves my sight.
You are the stars in my eyes. In my wildest dreams, you’ll give me the chance to convince you that I can be that for you too. Teammates or not.
But until then…
In one fluid motion, he sends the plane sailing into the air, watches it catch the breeze until, robbed of its lift, it skims the surface of the lake, sending ripples emanating from where it first made contact with the water.
The plane bobs gently in the lake until it soaks up too much water to stay afloat. Lando watches it list gradually to the side, slowly disappearing from view as the paper disintegrates.
He turns and walks away from the lake.
Soy lago.
—Lando
notes: saw carlos explain lando’s comment on carlos’ mclaren → ferrari announcement post back in 2020 and have been unwell since also, yes, the mclaren building (mtc) does have a lake and boy the sunset does do it a lot of favors… easter eggs: lando not being able to spell, the damned ferrari video (where lando actually did have to start over and it RUINED ME), Would You Rather
more fics here! thanks for reading as always :)
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sisterdivinium · 4 months
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You know, for a show with so many female characters that so many of us love given how they all get time in the spotlight one way or another and they fill that time up rather wonderfully since they are deeper and more developed than what we're used to seeing in general media, it is peculiar (to say the least) to see so few "alternative" ships to the main one.
I'm not saying the canon ship doesn't deserve its attention -- I'm wondering instead why the canon ship and it alone seem to guide the WN fans who just so happen to enjoy writing/reading fic or fanart or whatever.
You'd think all these cool women would inspire more ships or combinations thereof, but those of us who aren't invested in avatrice just... Float along, around one another, ignored (and, yes, mostly undisturbed too; being unpopular does have its advantages and that includes a lot less weirdos leaving you strange or awkward messages -- it does not, however, shield us from people flooding our goddamn tags on AO3 with fic that has nothing to do with our little ships and I do wish such negligence of the pairing itself meant we didn't have to deal with this spam...)
I am also not saying that fandom activity should be based solely on shipping (and recently someone on Reddit was rather confused by the fact that a lot of it is, which is quite an interesting topic to discuss in itself -- after all, there is more to fan creativity than shippy fic... Or there used to be), merely that, here, it appears that a canon relationship can outshine interest in the other, non-canon ones. It's already there and it was doubtless well-done by the show, so it's natural that it should claim people's attention, sure. It's just that being canon was never the parameter for whether people were interested in these or those two (or more) characters maybe being involved and trying to explore what that could mean through fanwork.
There has always been a complaint haunting fandom spaces concerning the minuscule amounts of f/f fic, art, discussion, w/e based on how few (interesting or sympathetic or relatable) female characters there are in media at large. So what I'm curious about is why fan creations made around WN -- a show that finally gives us a whole cast of female characters that are what we have been craving for decades -- don't also reflect its diversity.
There are alternative ships (I'm here, all happy in my tiny Doctor Superion bubble, and I know there are Camila/Lilith, Ava/Lilith, Mary/Shannon, Mary/Lilith shippers out there, so a warm hello to you if you're reading this), but go on AO3 and compare the numbers of things tagged with these proper pairings to the grand total of WN stories. Better (or worse) still, do so with the "otp: true" trick or simply by excluding avatrice from the search to see how many are left.
It's... A considerable difference. And a mystery, at least to me.
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apparitionism · 2 years
Text
Appreciation 5
This one is very rough, and it doesn’t hit any beats quite right, but I’m pushing it out anyway. “Apples/Warehouse shenanigans” is the prompt, and what came to me in response was a version of the conversation that’s the primary component here (hence the title, sort of), which I’ve shoehorned into a semi-frame... ideally it would have become an actual story, but time zips along, and the story-pieces didn’t. (I should note that this little thing takes place in a world where season 4 never happened except for the Warehouse came back; after that, so did Helena.)
The appreciation proceeds, in any case, and earlier came four days’ worth of same: “Architecture,” “Bridge,” “Worry,” and “House.”
Voice
Steven Connor, Dumbstruck: A Cultural History of Ventriloquism. New York: Oxford UP, 2000.
[M]y voice is not something that I merely have, or even something that I, if only in part, am. Rather, it is something that I do. A voice is not a condition, nor yet an attribute, but an event.... [T]he voice always requires and requisitions space, the distance that allows my voice to go from and return to myself.... My voice can be a glove, or a wall, or a bruise, a patch of inflammation, a scar, or a wound.
****
Myka enjoys spending time in the Warehouse office. She likes it when she’s alone, naturally, and she’s perfectly fine with Pete, as long as he isn’t acting out; with Steve; and even with Artie, though in that case she’s always on alert, trying to perform as perfectly as she can.
She enjoys being there with Helena, of course, and in that case, too, she’s always on alert, trying to perform as perfectly as she can... but what she’s attempting to enact is less clear. It isn’t “Warehouse agent,” because she knows she accomplishes far less, work-wise, when Helena is present. For a while she’d tried to pretend otherwise, but holding the falsehood in her head made her feel like a fraud. And given their history, Myka doesn’t want anything fraudulent to intrude on their deepening accord.
But as much as Myka enjoys any time she spends with Helena, she has discovered that spending time in the Warehouse office space with Claudia is differently, maybe even commensurately, enjoyable, for it is also something very like therapeutic. This is because Claudia—when she is genuinely engaged in a project—talks. Her voice hums incessantly as she talks and talks and talks: to herself; to various screens; to deities, oracles, and ghosts; even to Mrs. Frederic, whom Myka usually presumes is absent and yet of course might not be... then again, she might be one of the those deities, oracles, and/or ghosts, based on Claudia’s mutterings.
In any case, the vocal chaos paradoxically soothes Myka. She knows she’s not being invited to participate in the conversation—or the “conversation”—so she’s free to absorb or ignore as she pleases. It’s how she imagines people who like a television on in an empty house probably feel about that sound: it’s there, it gives the space a sounded shape, but it creates no obligation.
Today, she and Claudia are working, companionably, with Myka silent and Claudia not, when a sharp question from the doorway upsets their yin-yang balance: “What are you doing?” asks Helena.
“I’m—” Myka starts, but the question was clearly for Claudia; Helen has marched to stand beside her, and she is looking down judgmentally at what Claudia is holding in her non-mouse hand.
Claudia looks up at Helena, looks down, then up again. “Eating an apple,” she says. She takes a bite and crunches away at it.
A defiant move, given the expression on Helena’s face, and Helena certainly seems to have read it that way: “Here?” she demands.
“You’re watching me do it, so I’m pretty sure you know the answer to that question.”
Again, defiant (or at least careless), but Helena calms, if only infinitesimally. “Isn’t that... unseemly?”
“It seems like I’m eating an apple, so I think it’s at least seemish. But I don’t really know what your Victorian-offended words mean, so maybe?”
Helena crosses her arms and nods severely at the apple. “Doesn’t it seem a bit... cannibalistic?”
“No? Because I’m not an apple?” Claudia’s tentative now, perplexed, and Myka can’t blame her.
“Given the architecture that surrounds us,” Helena says, freeing her arms to perform an all-encompassing swirl.
“Did you get hit in the head?” Claudia asks. “Maybe with an apple? No, wait, that’s Newton. No doubt you did a lot, but you didn’t discover gravity.”
“Entirely apocryphal, that. And he didn’t discover anything. How could one ‘discover’ a fundamental force that acts at all times upon every body on the planet? At any rate you needn’t worry about my head. What about yours?”
“I’m fine. Or I was until you called me a cannibal.”
“I called you no such thing, but in any case, I was making reference to the known affinity of this facility.”
Claudia squints at the fruit in her hand. “This place isn’t made of apples. And even if it is, I’m not made of Warehouse. Am I?”
“As Caretaker-in-training?” Helena asks, a muse of a question.
“Did Mrs. F swear off apples?” Claudia counters.
“I have no idea.”
“So you’re saying that if she didn’t, she’s a cannibal?”
“That is not in fact what I am saying. Did you not hear me utter the words ‘a bit’?”
“‘A bit?’ Isn’t that what British people say when they mean ‘you’re bathing in the thing’?”
“A bit and a bath being entirely dissimilar, I—”
“Here’s what I’m doing: never eating an apple again. Happy now?”
Helena smiles. Serenely. “Of course not,” she says.
It’s such a completely Helena response that Myka, who’s been trying to stay out of whatever this is, inadvertently contributes a small “hmph” of laughter. Helena gives her a look, one that doesn’t quite contain a wink. But it could have.
“Is there any pleasing you at all?” Claudia demands, and is that another look Myka receives from Helena? She resolves to ponder it later, as Claudia says, “What is it now?”
Helena, still serene, says, “The adage about the doctor.”
Claudia snorts, then offers Helena a big-eyed, sentimental blink. “But I love Dr. Calder. Don’t you?”
Helena bows her head—a “well played” nod of concession. “Of course. But I believe ‘the doctor’ is in this case a synecdoche for the medical profession.”
“Synecdoche, schmenecdoche. Which it turns out is hard to say... anyway, it’s the doctor. That’s what that daily apple keeps away,” Claudia says. “Queen Myka of Literalism, back me up on this.” Myka scrambles in her head for a way to resolve a synecdoche-versus-literalism battle to everybody’s satisfaction—scrambles also to resettle herself after Helena graces her with an “I know I’d win” lift of lip—but she’s saved by Claudia pushing on with, “And Dr. Calder’s the doctor as far as I’m concerned.”
“Consider a compromise,” Helena says. “For health purposes, you might eat an apple every other day. Ideally in some other location.”
“Location, location, location. But what if one of those other days is when Dr. Calder’s supposed to be there?”
Helena offers a little frown. Is she getting rankled at Claudia continuing the joke? “Perhaps adages aren’t edicts, darling.” The little condescension of “darling” suggests maybe so. “That is, perhaps they don’t behave as artifacts do, compelling a particular outcome.”
“Here’s another one: perhaps Warehouses aren’t made of apples, compelling you to call me a cannibal.” She looks down at her snack. “I don’t even like apples all that much, so no loss. Myka gave this one to me. Cannibalism-enabler,” she accuses, and she tosses her semi-eaten apple at Myka.
Myka wishes her reflexes weren’t so good: now her hands are sticky, their damp tackiness taking up space in her head even as Helena turns to her, apparently ready to spar. “I really don’t think you want to pursue this,” Myka tells her.
“Or perhaps I do,” Helena says, with a dangerous glint in her eye.
Claudia seems to have glimpsed the glint and determined that whatever danger it portended outweighed any benefit to watching what might play out. Backing away—as if letting Helena out of her sight would be dangerous in itself—she says, “If an apple was enough to set her off, Myka, you’re on your own.”
Helena watches her go. Then she says to Myka, with no glint and no hint of combativeness, “You seem less than pleased to have that in your hands.”
“It’s kind of mangled,” Myka says. “She doesn’t eat apples very precisely.”
“Are cannibals known for their precision?”
“I have to side with her on this one: I don’t think she and the Warehouse are made of apples.”
Helena smiles. “In all honesty, neither do I. But twitting Claudia is.... I’m sorry, but it’s entertaining.” She’s not wrong, but Myka can’t help frowning a little. “Don’t worry,” Helena says, “that isn’t my primary purpose. Ideally, I’d like to make her think.”
“About the Warehouse?”
“About who she is in relation to the Warehouse. Is, and is becoming.”
Myka finds Helena’s investment in Claudia sweet, but truth be told, a little overwhelming—and if it seems that way to her, Claudia surely finds it several orders of magnitude more so. But maybe the fact that they’re kindred genius spirits creates an easier bridge that Myka can’t sense? “Helping her with that becoming... it seems like a pretty noble goal.”
“Haven’t we established my lack of nobility?” Helena asks, and her increasing ability to speak lightly of that terrible, terrible time is yet another reminder that things are—and are becoming—different now. “There’s a bit of self-interest as well. Or rather, interest that is selfish, with regard to her future. Given that I myself was intended to be Caretaker. Until.”
This revelation levels Myka, who struggles to keep her reaction from showing. You should have known. Helena’s connection to the Warehouse has always seemed so strong... Myka has attributed it to her having simply been there for so long, even as she hated her imprisonment. In inadequate response, she begins, “I think that would have been...” An infinity of ways to finish that sentence, but the first one that comes to mind is “perfect.” But that seems a damaging thing to say, so she starts again, with “I’m glad you...” Now she wants to say “told me,” but that sounds selfish. She settles for a question: “Have you told Claudia?”
That seems to startle Helena. “Heavens no. She has no need to think about that sort of might-have-been.”
“I’m sorry you have to,” Myka says.
“Well. At this moment, I prefer the situation as it stands.” She tilts her head down at Myka. “Or sits.”
A low-grade giddiness that’s been swirling in Myka’s head since Helena invaded the office begins to ramp up its intensity. Years ago, she’d felt a quivery exhilaration begin to overtake her every time she was in Helena’s presence, every time she witnessed Helena being, whether with Myka alone or in any combination with others. She’d resisted it, then, as much as she could, but now there’s no need to fight it. If it’s a threat, it’s to Myka alone.
Helena chooses that moment to turn decidedly unthreatening: she reaches out and briskly plucks the apple from Myka’s grasp. It’s a considerate gesture, one clearly intended to save Myka the trouble of dealing with the mess; she should probably say a generic “Thanks, I appreciate it” in response.
But she can’t. All she can think is that now Helena’s hands are sticky too, that if she raised her own hands and caught Helena’s, now, they would join and hold, sugar-stuck, juice-wet.
She stays still. It’s not time yet. Not yet. (Yet. Yet. Yet.) But every new detail Helena shares is an intimacy, a small weight added to what Myka knows, added to what she wants, tilting the scale an imperceptible bit more toward resolution. Every new detail, that is, helps the resolution resolve...
“Unless you wanted a bite?”
Myka’s eyes rise from the hand that’s now extending the apple toward her to find a lifted eyebrow. A challenge?
Helena lowers the eyebrow and smiles, releasing the tension.
Not quite yet.
END
Note:
I was also thinking about the idea/problem of if somebody’s eating an apple in the Warehouse, they probably can’t smell any apples other than the one they’re eating, and that might offend the building—it might think the eater’s trying to appropriate its approval thunder. Or maybe it would get into a perfume competition with the actual apple, thinking that that apple was being the thunder-stealer, expressing its liking for the person... I was also wondering about varieties: like, does the building personalize the apple smells depending on which one(s) the person it likes tends to favor? Or it just Granny Smiths all the way down? What I’m really asking, I guess, is some variations on “how does the Warehouse deploy its weirdo aromatic ‘voice’?”
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i’d rediscovered this Titrated Expectations for billions s6 that i apparently made last december a month before the debut, so congratulations that the realistically low standards resulted in a bingo win here
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dduane · 11 months
Note
Hello.
I've seen you posting detailed information about the WGA strike and wondered if you had any suggestions as to how those of us not directly involved can show our support for the Union?
Okay, bearing in mind that all this is entirely subjective at the moment (and so far lacking any more useful input from other sources): a few thoughts.
This will be my third WGA strike. (My first one was in 1988, just after I'd made my first live action sale—s1e6 of ST:TNG). And the thought keeps occurring to me at the moment that this time out, there's a potentially gamechanging player on the field that wasn't there before: truly pervasive social media.
(Adding a cut here, because this goes on a bit...)
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In 2007, social media as we now understand it was still in its cradle. Now, though, those of us who're striking can make our voices much more widely heard. And so can those of us who're not, but just want to show solidarity. Last time, the AMPTP was able to do pretty much what it wanted without the public noticing or having even a medium-profile way to make their feelings known. But this time? Not so much.
So as an otherwise uninvolved person who wants to show solidarity, I'd start with something seemingly low-value. If I was on Twitter, I'd start routinely tweeting about the strike and my support for it—not obsessively, just persistently, a couple/few times a week—using the Twitter hashtags that are gaining ground even now, such as #DoTheWriteThing (and of course #WGAStrike). I would make sure I was following @WGAEast and @WGAWest, to keep an eye on what's going on.
Additionally: I would start politely, but repeatedly—again, maybe once or twice a week at least, and not stopping—tweeting the various major players in the AMPTP, especially the streamers: Amazon, Netflix, Hulu et al. I would start suggesting that their current attitude toward the WGA's contract negotiations is not only unrealistic but potentially (for the AMPTP) bad for business. (And self-destructive, too, as if this goes on much longer in this vein, they'll be seemingly eagerly casting themselves as The Baddies.) I would suggest that their bad behavior, if not amended by them coming to the table to bargain in good faith, might start affecting both my interest in their shows and my willingness to keep paying unreasonable people for access to them.
I should emphasize here that so far there've been no formal calls from anyone for boycotts or subscription cancellations. For the moment, this strikes me as wise. The point for WGA-friendly observers, right now, would be to keep what's happening to the writers visible: to keep bringing it up: to refuse to allow it to be swept under the rug. The "They only want two cents on the dollar!" angle seems potentially useful the more it's repeated. The point is to keep the repetition going: to make it plain, day after day, that the other side's being not just unreasonable, but greedy. Day after day, and week after week, and (if necessary: please Thoth may it not be...) month after month.
And tweeting is hardly all that can be done. Email is cheap and easy. But actual letters, written on actual paper and mailed, can still create a surprising amount of attention in a corporate office. (The saying in TV used to be that for every person who actually writes in about an issue, there are ten, or a hundred, who feel the same way but never got around to it.) Write letters to all the AMPTP members' CEOs, and make your feelings on the WGA's core demands politely plain. ...Especially when those CEOs collectively made almost three-quarters of a billion-with-a-B dollars in salaries last year, when many of the writers working on their shows can't afford rent.
After that: here's another thought, a little more physical. If by chance you're in an area where one or the other of the Guilds are picketing: turn out and support them! Honk when you pass: and if you're interested, show up and offer to walk the picket lines with them. These things get noticed. (In 2007 a bunch of us, both Guild members and non-, caused significant astonishment by turning out to picket AMPTP members' offices in Dublin.)
...Obviously not all that many people are going to be positioned, in terms of location or their own work and time commitments, to show up physically. But online? Find ways to keep this issue visible. The AMPTP wants this to go quiet, wants people to get bored with it, wants people to find reasons to blame the writers. They've tried spinning the story that way before. Don't let them pull that shit. Find ways to back those who're calling them on that, publicly. They do respond to this kind of thing (though they may strenuously deny it). If enough attention continues to be paid by the general public, they will blink—if sometimes excruciatingly slowly, as Disney began to blink over the dispute tagged #DisneyMustPay.
As viewers, and as viewers who pay for subscriptions to things, we far outnumber them. Help be a part of making the AMPTP understand that this quest for a truly fair deal is not going to go away. And the longer they try to act like the Guild's negotiation positions are beneath their notice, the more it's going to hurt them, and the stupider and greedier it's going to make them look.
...That's all I've got for the moment, as I need some lunch. :) ...But I hope this has helped. And thanks for your concern, and your desire to stand in solidarity with us! It's so welcome. :)
ETA: here's a link to the Guild's social media toolkit, for those who'd like to change PFPs or icons, etc., to show their support.
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spicytartwrites · 3 months
Text
Surprise, I brought friends.
You show up at your dom’s house in your usual attire for a night of fun, but when you walk in you instantly know tonight is going to be much different than what you’re used to. All eyes are on you as you walk in to a room with three guys sitting like they’d been waiting for you. Your dom’s hand is on your lower back guiding you in gently.
“We’re having a little Barbeque, forgot to tell you.”
His tone is flat, giving nothing away but you know better. Feeling unsure of the situation you follow him to the kitchen and give him the *what the fuck* gaze as he nonchalantly chops veggies for the grill.
“I told a couple of my friends what a goddess you are when you’re on your knees and they wouldn’t believe that you were that good, so I told them to come see.”
His hand gently strokes your cheek and his thumb trails across your bottom lip and you suck it into your mouth knowing whatever his plans are you’ll go along with it.
"You're not gonna let me down, are you?"
Your thighs begin to tremble and you can feel the stickiness building beneath the slutty lingerie under your dress with anticipation. It wasn't planned, only ever joked about. As he fires up the grill you’re set to making sure everyone’s got drinks and that there is a steady supply of blunts in rotation. You can hardly eat, the nerves of the situation are causing you to squirm around on the couch while everyone else eats and watches the game on the tv.
After plates have been cleared up another round of drinks and blunts starts, you’re sitting next to your dom with your hand on his thigh and you realize that he is unzipping his zipper and pulling out his cock. Nobody seems to be paying attention and you look at him as he guides your eager mouth to his cock. You watch it begins to grow hard in anticipation of your lips and you can’t help but smile knowing how bad he wants to show you off.
“Go on goddess, do your thing.”
You look around and take a deep breath, slowly you wrap your lips round his cock and start to lick and suck the exact way you know he likes. It isn’t long till he’s moaning with his hands on your hair, you’ve moved from the couch to your favorite spot between his knees on the floor. You’re moaning watching his reaction as your talented mouth works his cock. You could cum watching his face while you worship him. His hand cups your chin and pulls your mouth off him and you continue to stroke his cock with your hand.
“You gonna show my guests a good time?”
You look around and realize two out of the three guys in the room have now also taken out their cocks and have been watching you worship your dom with your mouth. Shyly you crawl over to the couch where one of them is sitting and look up at him, slowly you lick his balls and up to the head of his cock taking him in your mouth.
“Holy fuck, her mouth really is magic.”
Listening to the praise and compliments the two guys are swapping, talking about how amazing your mouth is, makes you even more eager to please. You crawl over to the third guy and repeat the process watching as his eyes roll back when your tongue swirls around the throbbing head of his cock. You spend the next half hour crawling around on the floor between then tree men while his other friend sits back and watches. Every one of them praising you and your pretty little mouth. So eager to please, licking and sucking like each cock like the gift that it was.
At some point you feel your panties being pulled to the side, looking back you see your dom on his knees behind you watching you suck his friend’s cock with a proud grin. He slides his dick deep inside you making you gasp while his friend is in your throat, you feel him pounding into you deep and hard making you lose yourself as you almost instantly cum from the built up need. His best friend’s cock still hungrily pounding into your throat. He growls in your ear.
“I told you when I met you, I’d turn you into a little slut.”
You spend the rest of the night getting passed between the three men in varying combinations all while the guy in the corner watches. At one point each one of them takes a turn with you in the room one on one, your dom going last. He’s gentle at first, asking if you had fun, kissing and praising you. Telling you what a good girl you’ve been while he kisses and licks your sensitive pussy. Then to remind you who that pussy belongs to he fucks you out of your mind, hard and fast pounding in all positions. Tossing you around like you’re nothing he uses you exactly as he needs, his primal growls driving you feral. You claw at his skin, sink your teeth into his flesh, you cum wildly on his cock over and over again. You’re already a brainless mess from the last few hours of pure sexual debauchery, but by the time he’s close to finishing you’re face down in a puddle of drool and have no idea how long he’s been pounding into you. Pulling you onto your knees you greedily suck every last drop of your reward from his cock before he lets you rest.
You lay there on soaked sheets wondering how many sticky loads have coated you this evening, how many you’ve swallowed; your whole body is tingling, you lost count of the number of orgasms you had. As you’re drifting off you can hear the men in the hall talking about how amazing tonight was, their compliments about your performance floating through your head as you fall asleep.
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If you enjoy, please✨️gimme a lil love✨️
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otomempress · 10 months
Text
What They Do After Their Breakup with You
Pairing: Honkai Star Rail Men feat. Blade, Dan Heng, Gepard, Jing Yuan, Welt Yang, and Sampo x Reader (separately)
Genre: Angst
Warnings: Reader is GN except Jing Yuan’s (unless you don’t mind being called “queen”)
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Blade carves your name on his weapon.
If his sword breaks, he’ll just do it again. And again. And again. 
He’ll restore it as much as he needs to; until the relationship he had with you is restored too.
The pain courses through his veins whenever he slashes through his enemies, and even more so when he bleeds. 
It used to be bearable, but when you left him because of his circumstances, he somehow just feels everything even more.
The sword he has is supposed to be as durable as the weapon he has become. But each time, he wonders why every blade he carved your name on just breaks easily.
Is there really no more hope for you and him?
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Dan Heng locks the archives containing information about you.
The trickiest part of being a trailblazer is that all relationships formed in every world need to be transient.
But rare occurrences and outliers happen, and that includes you in Dan Heng’s world.
So when he assigned a password to your data, Dan Heng feels like a part of him is tucked away, not abandoned yet inaccessible at the same time. You’ve become a part of his mystery now, the dark side that no one needs to know about.
Nobody in the Astral Express dares to question the locked portion of the data bank either, because they all know what happened between you and him.
Whenever he can’t go back to sleep after a nightmare, he’ll access your records just to remember what it’s like to be with you. It’s what brings him comfort.
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Gepard has a trusted Silvermane guard to keep watch over you.
He can no longer protect you directly, he knows he lost that right after he put his duty before you, so he sends one of his men to provide him with a report of how you’re doing.
The slightest mention of how you’re hurt or, aeons forbid, in danger, he’ll leap into action, trying so hard to be behind the scenes.
But he fails to conceal that fact, and you find out either way.
He acts cold when you do catch him, and in response, he utters scripted lines that all Silvermane guards recite after helping out a Belobog citizen.
You both know it’s ridiculous, but there is now a wall of ice between you and him that is far too difficult to overcome.
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Jing Yuan subconsciously protects the queen on his side of the chessboard in every duel.
Yanqing points out he’s supposed to watch the king and Jing Yuan merely chuckles in response. It crushes him inside after he realizes what he’s doing.
“My queen,” he addressed you once as he placed a tender kiss on your knuckles.
You tried to reach out to him countless times after you recovered from your injuries, but he makes it a point to keep avoiding you. He feels like he failed to protect you, and he’s still beating himself up over it even if it happened a century ago.
When he’s alone, Jing Yuan would pick up the queen piece and stare at it, even going as far as cradling it close to his lips, murmuring all of his unspoken apologies. He is most afraid of putting you in danger again, so he has to be contented with the knowledge that you’re safe even if he has to stay away from you.
But who was he kidding, just like the king on his chessboard, he feels defenseless that you’re no longer with him.
After all, what is a king without his queen?
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Sampo stops being happy-go-lucky.
He’s flippant most of the time and hardly takes anything seriously, but that is exactly what pushed you away and he was too late to realize it. 
Sampo surprised the members of Astral Express and Wildfire when he actually pulls through with his word without any strings attached.
He made a mistake with how he treated you so he now makes it a point to honor every agreement he enters.
He thinks that maybe if you learn of his steadfast behavior from others, you’ll take him back.
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Welt creates tons of sketches of you.
He made them before and he’ll continue making them even if you’re no longer together.
Welt tends to pinch the bridge of his nose in annoyance whenever he comes to his senses after excitedly pulling out his phone with the intention of sending you a photo of his latest sketch.
[This user cannot be reached.]
The automated message glares at him which results in him throwing his phone across his room.
He hopelessly creates scenarios of what he could’ve done to keep you close to him, and he continues to torture himself as he watches the animations of his imagined situations with you.
It’s unlike him to make something of this genre, but at least there is a perfect world where you and he can be together again.
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Do not copy, translate, or plagiarize. Reblogs are much appreciated.
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kenjakusbraincum · 5 months
Text
Sukuna is old. He is also weirdly cultured for the monster that he is. With so much time on his hands, he loves indulging in arts and literature, and as with everything else he tries, he's good at it. You wouldn't know this, of course, you are only his pet. The time you spend with him is limited and hardly consists of intellectual conversation. You are there to serve one purpose and you know that quite well. So when you wake up in his bed one morning, two things come as a surprise. First that you're even here. It's one of those rare occasions when Sukuna couldn't be bothered kicking or carrying you out of his chambers once your time together was up. Second, he's awake, bent over his desk and so concentrated on a little figurine in his hand that he doesn't immediately notice you've shuffled awake. Once your eyes focus, you see that he's holding a tool in his other hand. He's carving wood. You're almost hypnotized by the scene. The scene feels so private that even for a pet like you, who knows Sukuna in the most intimate way, it feels like you shouldn't be watching. But you can't look away.
"Awake?", he asks, without sparing a glance at you. You apologize for staring, and look for your clothes around the bed. You throw them on just precisely enough to cover up until you reach your chambers, just wanting to be as quick and innocuous as possible. You wait for Sukuna's approval to leave. He gives you a simple nod, once more avoiding to look at you. You leave feeling conflicted. Special, because he allowed you to stay and watch (even as little as you did), but saddened because he barely looked at you, once more solidifying in your mind that you're only interesting to him when you're naked and bent over. As long as you've been here, you could never stop wishing for his validation.
Sukuna knows when you get insecure too. He notices the way your eyes droop, the way you close in on yourself and seem absent in his presence. He justifies this excessive worry about you by telling himself he likes to be the only thing that bothers his pets. All the way until he realized he already is the only thing that can make you sad. This realization falls upon him one time he lashes out on you and sees the immediate change of heart on your face. Now, he isn't one to apologize, especially not to someone who is as low under him as his pet. But why does he feel guilty when he sees this one act of his ruin your day? When he catches a glimpse of you sitting in the garden with your head hung low, or leaving more food on your plate than you usually do. If only you knew the way you really made him feel.
He beckons you to his chambers, and you follow three steps behind him like a good pet does. You didn't expect this time to be any different than others. You've become used to serving Sukuna on days you loved him and on days you hated him. But when he tells you to close your eyes, you know something is different. You obey, of course, and listen to his footsteps as he fetches something from the room. His hand takes yours and opens it, placing a piece of wood onto your palm. You already know, but you wait for him to allow you to open your eyes. He lightly presses his thumb on your cheek under your eye, and when you look, you find a small wooden fawn, curled up and asleep in your hands.
"Master!!..", you start, but nothing else can leave your mouth. You turn the figure around in your hand, inspecting and admiring the details. He's given you gifts before, but not ones carved by his own hand. Not ones made with love.
"You don't have to squint anymore.", Sukuna says, almost jokingly. But his face is as serious as ever as he looks at you, his muse. He thinks of the first time he's exhausted you to the point of passing out right after your nightly meetings. You were relatively new and very unsure of your safety. He thinks of your small body curled up in sleep on the edge of his bed, knees pressed to your chest in a primal, subconscious attempt to protect yourself. His little pet, his fawn.
You slur on and on about how beautiful it is, how you don't know how to thank him, the usual when you receive a gift. And as usual, Sukuna shuts you up with a kiss. You welcome it and wrap your arms around his neck, giving yourself in to him and letting him take you to the bed.
And he takes things slow tonight. He's gentle and so, so giving. Every sensation is delicate, prolonged and heightened to exhaustion. You cling to him, pull him impossibly close, and come apart under the comforting weight of him. Afterwards, you hold his hand to your face and kiss it softly. His hands, so large and strong, capable of such violence, yet for you they craft gifts, cradle, caress, love... in a very subtle and distant way, of course. With these thoughts your hands slip away from his, you turn around and quickly drift off.
He looks at you now, sleeping so close to him. Trusting him with your back, and turning your curled up form to the outside world. As if he is no longer a perceived danger. He smiles to himself in victory, and plants a chaste kiss to your shoulder to wish you one final goodnight.
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