Mass Graves Have Been Uncovered In Gaza.

⋆· ༘* you belong with me !

pairing ★ jock!luke castellan x drum major!reader

synopsis ★ the one where you come back from winter break and start operation cupid. meanwhile, charles and silena meddle in your affairs on their own mission. (3.9k)

content ★ no pronouns used for reader, lowk photography/carnival date weewoo, bad matchmaking shenanigans, will they wont they, best viewed mobile obv

notes ★ ngl this went in a slightly skewed direction than what i put in the synop, subtext reading may be needed to figure out what charles and silena r doing to meddle.

series masterlist

operation: cupid aka super evil plan >:)

NO ↓ ← yes ← ABSOLUTELY NOT

— blind date

— CARNIVAL @ ANTHOS FEST ^^ ok thats good

— get hmart napa 4 mom NOT A GROCERY LIST!!!

— fake dating? OPINION REJECTED

— SAYING TO GO SMWHERE AND THEN DITCHING THEM TOGETHER ^^ is this a romcom or smth??

You shift your shoulder to let your phone press closer to your ear, cringing at the uncomfortable warmth from the screen.

“So the festival’s a go,” you say, loud enough to be heard over the dishes. “All VAPA will be there early for the parade. Make sure you get to Hesperides Park at noon and meet at the big apple tree.”

“There are, like, fifteen apple trees in the park,” Luke says, voice bouncing around the tinny speakers of your phone. “Besides, the festival’s in February. We have weeks.”

“We’ve started practicing already,” you tell him, adjusting your shoulder again. “There’s a run through on the track next Tuesday, if you need some shots for yearbook.”

Luke hums and you hear him shift around over the phone, the noise captured between satellites. “Okay, I’ll be there. What are you doing right now?”

A plate clinks into the prongs of the drying rack, water running rivulets down your arm. You cringe when the soapy streams reach and soak into the edges of your rolled-up sleeves.

“Finishing the dishes,” you tell him after a moment.

You think Luke bites back a grunt, moving around again. There’s background noise with him, soft and faint. You think you can hear music, too.

“I’m getting napa cabbages for my mom. She’s been practicing kimchi,” he tells you, and then you hear the whine of a grocery fridge. “Do you like Asian soft drinks, by the way? Got a coupon.”

You consider it, turning off the sink and drying your hands. They feel all crunchy now, skin tight over your bones with the winter’s absence of moisture. You really need to remember to put on some lotion.

“Nothing too sweet, maybe fruity. I’ll pay you back if you buy Pocky.” You exit the kitchen, fuzzy slippers padding on the floorboards. You hear a staticky thud, and the whirring from the fridge stops.

Luke sighs, the sound nestled pleasantly in your eardrums. You flop onto your bed, listening to the not-silence. He talks faintly, words far-off and lost in the background, whirs and beeps and plastic crinkling.

He speaks finally, “I didn’t know how much you wanted…so. You owe me ten.”

You scoff, sardonic and not at all serious. “Fuck you, man.”

His world on the other side goes quiet for a heartbeat.

“Well,” he says, breaking the pause, “I’ll see you on Monday with the goods.”

“You sound like a dealer.”

“Yea, a dealer in love.” He sneers out the last word, a smile sewn into his voice.

You groan and hover your thumb over the hang-up button. “Cringe, go back to watching your Grand Prix or whatever.”

“Hey, pre-season testing hasn’t even started.”

“Whatever,” you grumble, sliding a palm down your face. “I’m hanging up.”

Not even five seconds after you press the red button, he calls you again. You swipe to accept begrudgingly, and then Luke’s voice cracks back into existence.

“You forgot to say goodbye. That’s bad manners, you know.”

“Good-fucking-bye, Castellan.”

He laughs, the sound of it swirling in your stomach strangely. “Thank you, major. See you Monday.”

You toss your phone to the foot of your bed when the line cuts and tangle your legs in the blankets, mortified at the heat curling around your neck.

♫ TV Girl ・Taking What’s Not Yours

[ IMAGE: a photo of you in your band uniform, baton in hand and a silver whistle looped around your neck. The jacket is orange with a pale yellow lining, gold buttons glimmering, and you wear a pair of black, straight-legged slacks. Your face is half eclipsed by the shadow of your cap. The photo may have been taken with an old digital camera, giving it a washed-out, nostalgic look. ]

Liked by luvvbeaus and 345 others

lukestellans sweepstakes at anthos fest, congrats @.majmajmaj

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majmajmaj dont tag theyre gna find me

↳ travstole fratrnisng w the enemy ICKK 🫵🤮 ↳ anniebethc That’s not the right spelling for ‘fraternizing’. You should enable auto-correct on your device settings.

The weather under the fruit trees is better than out in the street. You’ve shed your itchy uniform jacket, opting to just wear the loose, white under-tee to cope with the temperature. At least the metal of your camera keeps your hands cool, and the dry breeze that filters through the verdant boughs sends soothing, dappled shadows stretching across the grass.

It’s hot, and unbearably so. Marching down Zeus City Boulevard from the high school to city hall was hell; it’s only late winter, almost early spring, and the temperature is already in the high seventies. You can only dread the heat come summertime.

“If you told me it was this tree,” and Luke’s coming around the trunk, camera strap strung over his torso and glasses hanging from his shirt collar, “I could’ve gotten here sooner.”

Castellan pats the bark, disregarding the sign that reads DO NOT TOUCH welded to the small fence that encircles the roots. You try not to look at his arm, lean and veined, the pale stretch of skin under his bicep growing larger as the sleeve of his airy polo rides up.

You clear your throat, fiddling with the settings of your own camera. Around you, children shriek and dash in the alleys between the carnival game stalls.

“This is the apple tree, everyone knows that.”

“I told you,” Castellan says, rolling his eyes, “that there are a ton of them here.”

You snap a quick shot of some teens sharing a big, pink cloud of cotton candy. They’re smiling wide, wrinkles of joy arrowing around their mouths. It would have been a nice picture if not for the overexposure—you kiss your teeth and delete it.

“Sorry, was I supposed to say the biggest apple tree planted by Mayor Hera’s great-grandmother, coincidentally also named Hera, in the park next to city hall?”

He shrugs, making a face of agreement. “It would’ve helped. You also could’ve mentioned that it was the golden apple tree and not one of the red apple trees.”

You snag a fallen fruit off the grass, turning it in your hands. “Does this look lustrously golden to you?”

“Fine, the yellow apple tree.”

“Uh-huh,” you say, slipping it into your camera bag. You can already feel the imminent sweat stain forming under where the thick strap rests on your shoulder, and hope that Castellan won’t take notice

“You aren’t supposed to take the fallen apples, you know.”

You look at him, brows raised innocuously. “Who took what?”

Before he can chide you again, Charles steps up to your side, wearing the same black slacks and white under-tee. Castellan doesn’t seem fazed, unfolding the arms of his thin-framed glasses and pushing them up his nose.

Your bandmate stiffens when Silena skips over, still in pep uniform, her manicured fingers wrapping around Castellan’s shoulder. It’s the first time you've looked at Silena closely, all shiny black hair and round face—she’s more cherubic now that she’s right there in front of you, full-bodied and not as slight as you’d previously thought she was.

She waves at you, cute nails glimmering pale pink in the dappled shade.

“Hi,” she’s smiling, a little giddy, honeyed kick to her voice, “I’m Silena. Luke told me a lot about you.”

( Now you kind of get why Charles and half the guys and girls at school have a crush on her. )

You try to play it cool. “Really? I didn’t know he talked about me.”

She nods, and her dark hair sways mesmerizing with the movement. Castellan looks away, embarrassment creeping up his neck. You elbow Charles in the ribs when he stays silent for too long.

He speaks, although the words are punched-out and tremoring. “I’m Charles Beckendorf.”

Silena smiles politely, lips pink and glossy, eyes a bit too wide. “I know.”

Charles is a big, tall guy. Most people who don’t know better would think he did football and go about their lives not knowing that he used to be four feet zero and played piccolo since sixth grade.

So when the cheerleader of his dreams smiles at him, you can quite literally feel his body temperature rise, the skin of your arm prickling even though he’s standing half a foot away.

“I think,” Castellan pipes up, strained, his eye twitching, “I actually have to go take some pictures for yearbook.”

He’s really fucking bad at this matchmaking shit.

“Yea—” and your voice comes out in a near squeak too “—uh, Charles, you can go with Silena. I need stuff for Heralds too.”

Okay, you’re just as bad as Castellan.

Charles shifts, confused. “You sure? We could just all go together and hang out while you do your thing.”

You and Castellan—and Silena too?—nearly shout in protest. The cheerleader laughs it off and stiffly walks over to Charles, taking his wrist gently and tiptoeing to whisper to him. The rate at which the air around your fellow drum major heats up could be considered exponential.

Charles chuckles awkwardly and steps back, wrapping his hand around Silena’s in return. “Yea, right. We’ll meet back at sunset?”

“Sure,” Castellan says, putting up a hand, arm too stiff to wave. “See you.”

Silena skips away with Charles behind her. You breathe a sigh of relief in unison and drop down onto the grass, legs splaying over the green blades.

Castellan joins you on the ground, pinching his shirt and flapping it in an attempt to cool off.

“That was fucking painful.”

“No shit, major.”

You huff, prickles creeping up your neck. The shade barely does anything against the heat now, a stiff breeze blowing hot air through the fibers of your loose shirt. Castellan looks as worse for wear as you do, nose crinkled and hair gone wild.

A puff of air makes its way out of his lips. “So what now?”

You groan and stagger up, standing on weak legs. “We should follow them just in case.”

Castellan squints up at you, dappled shadows burnishing his face, curls bouncing leisurely in the wind. He groans and holds up his hand, jello-limbed and sloth-like. You take him by the wrist and heave until he’s standing.

“The first thing Charles does when he gets set loose in a carnival,” you tell Castellan—he’s chasing your steps doggedly, blushed from the heat, “is buy cotton candy.”

“So what do you do?” he asks, a hand shielding his eyes from the unforgiving sunlight.

“I’m gonna pay the stall operator to make an extra large one so they can share.”

“No, I mean what do you normally do at a carnival?”

You slow down momentarily, nearly tripping over yourself. “Uh…I kinda skip the festival most years. It’s too hot most of the time.”

“Oh,” he says, a little dumb with the way his mouth hangs open by a smidge. “I normally get tickets for the games first.”

“Cool,” you tell him absently, searching for the volunteer-run food stalls, “we can try that next year.”

He’s weirdly silent, the blunt of the sudden quiet unnerving you.

( You do not realize your mistake until after the festival ends. )

Percy and Annabeth are operating the cotton candy stall, perspiration beading at their hairlines and ridiculous aprons hung over their white tees. It seems that everyone in band decided to forgo the ugly-ass jacket, and for good reason.

You sneak around the back, Castellan not far off, pulling two five dollar bills from your pocket.

Hissing, “Percy, Annabeth.”

The girl turns, braids swinging in the air. They nearly hit Percy across the eyes.

“What are you doing here?” Annabeth asks in a high-pitched whisper. She does a double-take at Castellan. “What are you doing here?”

Percy looks over Annabeth’s shoulder curiously. “Is that money for me?”

“No time to explain—if Silena and Charles order two cotton candies, I need you to lie and just give them a super huge one, okay?”

A grin splits Percy’s face wide, eyes gleaming devilishly. You think that the time the Stolls spend bothering him is starting to influence his behavior.

“Is this what I think it is?” he asks, fixating on the bill, completely ignoring the customers waiting for their sweets. “Charles getting the girl of his dreams?”

You groan and hold out the money vehemently. “Just take the fucking bribe and act normal!”

The speed at which Percy snatches the two fives could be considered non-human. Yea, the Stolls are definitely rubbing off on him, but he splits the bills, gives half to Annabeth; she often says that she doesn’t care about money, but her eyes sparkle nonetheless.

Huh, interesting.

Castellan pulls you away to hide behind a thick tree trunk. You hold your camera up to your eyes, zooming in on the couple as they converse with Annabeth at the register. Her customer-service smile is strained, eyes wide, a little nervous.

You were right—Charles and Silena hand over their money separately.

Percy gives them a huge cloud of wispy pink sugar—it’s nearly thrice the size of his own head and—makes some lame excuse, probably that they ran out of cotton candy sticks because he’s literally hiding the paper cones behind his back.

Silena asks Charles something and he gives her a nod of agreement. She holds the candy between them—they’re walking shoulder to shoulder now, Charles picking off small clumps and Silena almost skipping with how peppy her steps are.

Mission one accomplished.

You tail them for some time, occasionally snapping pictures of kids playing rigged games and couples holding hands. When you hold up your camera, Castellan does too, and you stand back to back sometimes, taking in every angle of the carnival.

“Wait,” Castellan speaks, putting a hand on your shoulder and pointing the other towards your friends, “they’re walking out of the park.”

You frown. “It’s not even sunset yet.”

He hums—right next to your ear. “I think she’s taking him to that boba shop she likes. It’s close by.”

“So that’s good, right?”

“Yea.”

“So mission accomplished, I can go home?”

Castellan chuckles, sliding his hand cautiously from your shoulder to your wrist. His touch is light, barely a feather’s weight.

“Nuh-uh,” he grins, shit-eating. “We’re playing the games.”

You protest but don’t make any move to break away, “They’re rigged, dumbass. It’s a waste of money.”

“We need to pass the time somehow. Remember we’re meeting back at sunset to watch the fireworks?”

“Ah, fuck you.”

He leads you all the way to the ticket booths, fingers sending tingles burning up your arm when he secures a wristband around your wrist. Castellan tugs you along by the wristband thereafter, flitting between rubber duck and ping pong ball and dart games.

He wins some, loses some. You win none and lose a lot. It’s mainly him catching prizes, and you have to cross the street to get a bag at a nearby grocery store to hold all the cheap stuffed animals.

You pass by the boba shop, brightly lit and colorful, and Charles waves at you from inside. Silena makes an enthusiastic heart with her hands and Castellan blushes, looping his fingers under your wristband and darting away.

♫ Sonic Youth ・Sunday

[ IMAGE: Two pairs of beaten sneakers facing each other on a well-tended stretch of grass. Luke’s scuffed Air Forces are easily recognizable with a small Spiderman doodle at the toe. His middle and index fingers extend in a peace sign at the top of the frame, meeting the points of yours at the bottom in a diamond shape. ]

Liked by lukestellans and 255 others

majmajmaj sunday comes n sunday goes

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perciusjakcsn CHAT R U SEEING THIS 🫢

↳ naka.ethan git saw them holdin hands n walking round the fest 🤢 ↳ conmanstole sm1 ask annie if we can disown a drum major or smth

travstole sarge connor says he was joking n to pls unblock him 🙏

FROM: becky d

(18:32) so silenas kinda tired (18:32) gna walk her home

TO: becky d

(18:34) oh? 😏 (18:34) wait no ur gna miss the fireworks (19:00) BECKY ANSWER ME WHAT ABT THE FIREWORKS (19:01) fake friend bc now m stuck w castellan until fireworks 😭

FROM: becky d

(19:45) yk u dont hafta stay right… (19:45) cant even take good pics in the dark w out lookin goofy in flash

Charles had texted you halfway through sunset, the sky beginning to pinken along with broad, orange brushstrokes of sunlight—yet you still hang around between the apple trees and the carnival stalls. It’s well into the night, temperature dropping steeply, and the once stiff breeze has you suppressing a shudder.

Castellan must be feeling the change too, because he stands so impossibly close that each time the space between you two decreases by some increment, sparks begin to unspools from your nerves and smart along your skin.

“Fireworks in a few,” remarks Castellan, pocketing his phone. “D’you know Phaestus does them?”

You pick absently at the skin beside your nail. “Like the woodworking teacher?”

“Yea.”

“Cool.” It’s stilted, stiff and brittle. Now that you know for sure that Charles has left you for the wolves, you don’t see much reason in staying longer. The only problem is getting out without feeling guilty for ditching Castellan—not that you’d feel bad for him. “I dunno if I can stay, though.”

The boy furrows his brow, a little line forming on his forehead. “Why not? It’s barely eight.”

How do you tell Castellan that you want to be far, far away from him? That at the same time, you want to press yourself into and through his skin and twine around his bones?

“Uh…I need to finish my apps.”

“College apps got submitted like, a month ago.”

Fuck, shit, fuck again. You desperately need to take a masterclass in lying your way out of situations. Castellan slides his warm fingers under your flimsy wristband, tugs on it lightly.

It barely makes a mark in your skin despite the fact that he’s been pulling on it for practically half the day. The cheap material scrapes against your wrist when he tugs it again, something skating too quick to place up your spine.

He smiles, small with undisguised encouragement. “Let’s try the Ferris wheel.”

“No way.”

Castellan laughs and wraps his fingers gently around your wrist, thumb pressed to your pulse point. “Look, we haven’t gone on any rides, and honestly, the Ferris wheel’s a lot better than that.”

He tilts his head towards the Kamikaze ride: two hammer-shaped structures swinging around in 360 degree arcs like a pendulum. You can hear someone wailing faintly, cries fading in and out in time with each rotation. You aren’t too sure, but it sounds vaguely like that one sophomore trombone kid…Grover Underwood?

( At least, that’s what you think his name is. It’s hard to keep track of who’s who when the Stolls’ stupid and distracting antics preoccupy a majority of your attention during practice. )

You rub the strap of your camera between your thumb and index finger, weighing your options.

“Fine.”

Castellan cheers, pumping his fist and pulling you towards the empty line. People begin to race to the queue as the time for fireworks begins to near, but you and Castellan beat them all to it.

He slides onto the bench and you take the one opposite of him, placing the bag of cheap stuffed animals next to you. You take one—a squishy black cat—and squeeze it, watching the plush expand between your fingers.

Castellan’s got an angry-looking dog in his lap, playing with its soft polyester ears. You see him backlit by artificial light, all carnival colors and little house windows. From a distance, a rocket gets set off, a faint boom echoing sputters of red.

Without thinking, you raise your camera up and snap a picture of the firework’s colors splattering over his frame. A snap of the shutter and then you find he’s looking right at you, eyes gleaming, face softened by the night.

You’re then distracted by a flurry of pops, a bright, phosphorescent shower sparkling on the horizon. Your head feels hazy, cloudy, too stuffed with sugar like a half-developed photograph of what’s happened today.

A shutter, a snap. Castellan holding his camera up to his eyes. You both lean together, foreheads magnetic, pulling up the pictures you just took. The fireworks continue to sound off, faint and forgotten.

In his photo of you: your shoulders are relaxed, lips in a shallow part. The black cat plush is squished under your forearm, camera half-held by your loose fingers and all-hanging from the strap looped over your neck. Everything’s backlit blue and green and white like an aquarium, sea foam threaded in the phosphorescent fireworks.

In your photo of him: he’s painted a pale red, carnival lights splashing anywhere else they can. You can’t even tell what the color of his shirt really is like this. Castellan’s hair has the image of it being freshly mussed, like he’s been running his hands through it. The angry dog lays lopsided in his grip, expression warped under his fingers.

You’re about to open your dry, dry mouth when the wheel comes to a stop and a worker yanks open the door roughly. You hurry out with Castellan not far behind.

“I gotta go,” you say, jutting your thumb towards the end of the street. You’re really telling the truth this time; it’s nearly nine and you have a stats test on Monday. Or, tomorrow. You can’t really think straight when Castellan’s right next to you.

He touches your shoulder, fingers careful. “Send me that picture, ‘kay? See you tomorrow in math.”

Castellan’s hand peels away when he begins to step backward slowly, waiting for you to say something before he leaves. You wet your lips quickly, molars teething at the inside of your cheek.

“Yea, I’ll see you. Good luck on the test.”

His lips quirk, smile lines arrowing in his skin. He waves, and you wave back. Like two ships passing in the night.

[ IMAGE: a blurry, unprofessional, iPhone camera photo angled towards the sky and extra-zoomed in on two unidentifiable teens sitting on opposite sides of a Ferris wheel car. Their outlines are lit in neon carnival lights and soft fireworks, heads bent together. ]

Liked by anniebethc and 214 others

perciusjakcsn why r the rides diabolical af 😭

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tankadreww waittt whos in the ferris 😮

groovewood FUCK kamikaze all my homies HATE kamikaze i almost saw god three times

↳ anniebethc Can confirm, the Kamikaze was terrible.

majmajmaj werent the fireworks past ur bedtime percival,,,

↳ perciusjakcsn NO AND FYI ITS PERSEUS JUST LIKE HOW UR MAJOR NOT SERGEANT ↳ majmajmaj THEN WHY DONT U CALL ME MAJOR U FUCKING DUMBASS

p.s. ★ nearly finished w this, we have two more chapters left!! might take a small break next week until finals season and journalism summer work is done obliterating me

sharing is caring, so pls rb and also lmk ur thoughts ₍⑅ᐢ..ᐢ₎ ᡣ𐭩

luke tags (closed); @melllinaa @amortencjja @arsonnaire @m00ng4z3r @saltair-and-palemoonlight @witch-lemon @ahh-chickens @spiderbeam @jennapancake @traumatrios @omg--bluexx @dangelnleif @apolloscastellan @hiraethavis @lukecastellandefender @bookshelfminstrel @cherr-y-eji @solangelotus @liviessun @thaliagracesgf @ddarling-ddearest-ddead

© klineinie 2024 — do not plagiarize, translate, or use ANY works to train ai

Tonight’s setlist! Inhaler’s new songs are called Your House and Eddie in the Darkness!

📸 HEWSONLUVR via Twitter

In front of the United States whitehouse there is a poster board with this written on it: "A message from Gaza: We do not just want your eyes on Rafah. We want your foot on "Israel's" neck. Organize and escalate."

Source image re-posted on X post by: @/mxyaslytherin with the caption "a reminder" [May 30th, 2024.]

masterlist: manifestation methods☆*:

Robotic Affirming

The Easiest manifestation Method

The Manifestation Box Method

The Two Cup Method

The Pillow Method

The Shower Method

The Water Method

The Whisper Method

What I've manifested so far

masterlist: affirmation posts☆*:

abundance

beauty

clear skin

confidence

courage

glow-up

good grades I

good grades II

good luck

manifestation

millionaire

money

motivation

self love

self worth

success

wealth and riches

777.

ln x fem!reader

in which lando has a wild week in vegas

on a bit of a roll whoops! had to write something slutty for vegas week/lando’s birthday so here it is! enjoy my loves and please please pleeeeease tell me what you think! 🎲💘 have literally been thinking about this since vegas was announced and i couldn’t stop listening to silk sonic lol

posting this with the @lavenderlando seal of approval 🫡🤍

inspired loosely by 777 by silk sonic

warnings: 18+ minors dni i am so serious!! listen it’s smut. it’s a lot lot lot of smut. alcohol, swearing, fuckboy!lando, one night stand vibes, choking, unprotected sex, general sex acts, some kinky shit, fluff, minor angst bc lando is a moody little shit

5k words

lando had gotten used to the taste of champagne.

the golden bubbles had grown on him over the course of the season, they tasted like success. so, he didn’t protest when several magnums showed up at the round table, some ridiculous happy birthday remix being blasted over the casino speakers.

it was the night of his 24th birthday, and the drinks hadn’t stopped flowing. he was surrounded by his friends, max and ash joining him, as well as the drivers that had arrived in vegas. the crisp white sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows by now, midnight fast approaching, the material half unbuttoned.

they’d started the night in a bar, drowning in a river of alcohol, and now they were in a casino, one of many on the strip. it was all a bit predictable, kitschy decor everywhere he looked since he’d arrived in las vegas, but that’s what made it iconic. the tackiness seemed to mesh well with the old money vibe, and lando knew this would be a birthday to remember. 


everything was mahogany, gold or red. nothing didn’t twinkle in the lights. his suit jacket was slung over his shoulder, curls messy already from the light breeze of november in the desert. his cheeks were champagne rosy, the alcohol going straight to his head and he felt so fucking good.

everyone toasted to the birthday boy, slot machines rattling in the background. lando didn’t usually enjoy this sort of environment, but he was too drunk to care, deciding to embrace the insanity of his life and live on the edge for one night.

he found himself hunched over a gaming table, fingers drumming against the green felt. his eyes scanned the embroidery, taking in the game that was being played. blackjack, he assumed. this really wasn’t his type of place.

by then, as if by some sort of divine intervention, it was.

a flash of red. a swish of hair. manicured nails on a martini glass.

suddenly blackjack seemed like the best fucking game in the world.

lando couldn’t look away from you.

you were stood right opposite him, drink in hand, red satin draping over every curve of your frame. the dress seemed to cover everything, and nothing at all, perfect for the environment you were in. it was daring, enticing, and lando sure liked being enticed.

from the very second he laid eyes on you, he was picturing what you’d look like against a clean, white bedspread, how his name would sound rolling off your tongue in the form of a desperate whimper. it was a crude thought, but he’d become a crude man.

things had changed a lot since his last breakup. he was messy, leaving a trail of clothes and kisses across every country he stepped foot in. he didn’t get off on the number of people he’d slept with, he got off on the rush of someone new, and he knew before he’d even touched down in vegas, a week earlier than he needed to, that this would probably be the messiest week of his life.

but then he saw you, and it felt weird. he didn’t just want to learn your name and bend you over the nearest surface, gone from your bed before the sun was even in the sky. he was addicted at first sight; he had to take you home, at the very least.

his fixation on you was broken by the dealers voice; it seemed like you were up to play next and you needed at least another player. lando’s eyes flitted back to you, wondering if he even knew how to play blackjack before he offered himself up to you on a glaring shiny platter. you took the decision away from him, because this time, you were staring right back at him.

internally, he was choking on air. externally, he was mentally undressing you with a filthy smirk on his face.

“wanna play, birthday boy?” you smiled coyly, an eyebrow quirked seductively. he could have fallen right to his knees at just the sound of your voice. sweet and spicy.

lando realised that you’d seen the embarrassing display the boys had put on for him. maybe you even knew who he was. he definitely wanted to know who you were, and that’s why he decided to give in to your electric stare.

“you’re on.”

he lost.

every. single. game.

numbers were never lando’s thing.

it was hard to care, though, when he had you sprawled out on the desk of his hotel room, his lips all over your neck.

the walk from the casino up to his room had been short, a bottle of champagne in his left hand and the curve of your ass in his right. there’d been very little small talk, very little convincing needed to seduce you, not with the way you’d been eye-fucking from opposite sides of the table, cards laid bare before you both.

he’d kissed you in the elevator, sloppy and desperate, pressed you against the door to his suite, and quickly pinned you to the other side of it once you were finally inside. you tasted like fruit liquor and cigarettes, your dress slowly bunching at your hips as his hands roamed the silky material. lando was restless, craving everything you had to offer, so he picked you up effortlessly, spreading his palms across the back of your thighs.

it had been a short walk to the desk from the door, and he placed you down carefully. lando slid the dress up your thighs, his finger grazing your calf as he did. you were arching into him, pushing his jacket off his frame and frantically tugging at the buttons of his dress shirt until it was hanging undone off his shoulders.

the look in your eyes sent his blood rushing, frenzied and desperate for him as much as he was for you. taking your jaw in his hand, he tilted your chin towards him until you were looking up at him through your lashes. lando tucked your hair behind your ear, continuing to graze down your neck until he reached the flimsy strap of your dress.

“are you gonna let me have you?” his grip on your jaw tightened and he studied your face.

he gulped when your lips twisted into a smile, conniving, dangerous, red lipstick smudged deliciously. you hadn’t caved into his touch, fallen into submission, and suddenly lando was swimming way out of his depth.

it seemed he’d finally met his match.

you pushed him away, giggling as he stumbled backwards towards the bed, and stood from your place on the desk. slowly, you made your way towards him, until you’d backed him up all the way to the foot of the bed, at which point he collapsed. he scrambled up onto his elbows, smirking up at you.

your eyes raked over his frame, swollen lip caught between your teeth. he looked disheveled in the best way, shirt framing lean sun kissed skin.

slowly, you unzipped your dress, letting it fall off your frame. the material pooled at your feet and you stepped out of it carefully, kicking it away. lando had moved up the bed so that he was sitting against the headboard, watching you hungrily. you were left bare, aside from a lacy thong and red stilettos. lando could have cried tears of joy.

happy fucking birthday.

lando’s eyes lit up like 777 had spun onto a slot machine. he may have lost at blackjack but he’d definitely hit the jackpot.

you crawled onto the bed towards him, not stopping until you were sat on his lap. his hands scaled your thighs, stroking up and down the soft skin. you rolled your hips, experimenting, toying with him, and he groaned, low and loud.

“does this answer your your question?” you whispered, leaning into him so that you could loop your arms around his neck.

lando kissed you, slow and sloppy, sitting up even further just to feel you closer. he could feel your nipples brushing against his bare chest, low whines breaking through the kiss your shared every time you felt too sensitive. your bodies were rolling together in unison, friction building nicely between your legs.

he was growing impatient, itching to get rid of the remaining barriers between you. lando held you still, tight, flipping you both over so that he was hovering over you. his lips worked your neck, hickeys littered down your neck and over your collarbone, while his hands moved down your body. he toyed with the band of your thong, snapping the material against your waist.

lando left you there, keening for his touch, while he peeled his shirt off. his trousers went next, along with his boxers, and then he was right back where he’d left off. your panties disappeared in a flash, his kisses punctuated by a splotchy purple mark sucked below your left breast.

and then he was buried between your legs, licking stripes into you like he was starving. he moaned into your pussy when he felt the first pull on his hair, spurring him on. he applied more pressure, taking it slow, revelling in the way you tugged harder and harder with every swipe. lando slid two fingers through your folds, coating them in your slick.

when he slid the digits inside of you, his mouth latched onto your clit, flicking against it relentlessly. he found the perfect rhythm, balance, everything he was doing made you see stars behind your eyelids. you were thrashing, helpless, and he was getting off on it.

you jaw went slack when you raised yourself onto your elbows just to find him grinding against the mattress, groaning into your cunt at the sensation, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. you couldn’t even hold yourself up then, dropping into the mattress as you fell apart beneath him.

lando resurfaced a few moments later, a glint in his eyes, his mouth glistening in the dim light. your vision was hazy, body shattered, but you ached for more of him. the feeling only intensified, your legs tightening around his waist, when he raised his coated fingers to his lips, lapping up every last drop of you. his tongue swirled around his digits lewdly, and you shuddered.

lando didn’t mind at all when you pushed him onto his back, clambering on top of him. you looked wild, animalistic even, as you guided the tip of his cock through your folds, and he folded his arms behind his head to enjoy the view. once you’d slicked him up, not that he really needed it, you sunk down on him.

fingerprints stained your hips; his grip on you increased tenfold as you adjusted around him, your walls throbbing around his swollen cock. lando sucked in a harsh breath through his teeth, holding you down on him. your movements were stuttering, trying to hold yourself together and ignore the way he fit inside you so damn perfectly. you tested the waters, rolling your hips a few times, and his eyes rolled back in his skull.

you felt heavenly, like velvet and butterflies.

he lost all sense of control, every fibre keeping him from wrecking you. his grip didn’t loosen when he fucked up into you, bending his knees for any extra leverage he could get. your nails scraped down his chest, his abs, dripping at the way he tensed under your touch. you tried your best to keep up with him, to meet his thrusts, holding your own for longer than you thought you would.

and then you were folding, melting into his chest, one of his hands pulling both of your behind your back, holding you down as he fucked you into your orgasm. your whines were panted right into his ear, sending him hurtling towards his own high.

lando couldn’t help himself, spilling into you, your body pressed helplessly into his. you were exhausted, wrecked, grinning lazily against the thrumming of his heartbeat.

with your hands held behind your back, you couldn’t stop him from planting you on your back, snaking down your body, burying his tongue deep inside you. the room was filled with the sound of sex, his tongue dragging over you like you were the last meal on earth and he was ravenous. he cleaned up the mess he’d made quickly, sounds that would make the population of sin city blush bouncing off the walls.

your vision was white, maybe your were screaming, it was hard to know what was going on when he had you about ready to ascend. when you fell over the edge, you were boneless, at one with the bed. you watched as he licked his lips, flopping onto the bed beside you.

he stroked your hair and you hummed, content and satiated.

lando didn’t dare look away from you while you came down.

apparently, it was rare to wake up after a wild night in vegas and remember the events of the night before.

lando remembered everything.

the exact shade of your eyes, the feel of red satin and black lace, the way you tasted.

your lips on his skin, hips in his hands, the way you moulded pliantly to his touch.

the way you gave as good as you got.

he was smiling before he’d even opened his eyes, reaching blinding across the bed, ready to propose round… four? five? lando had lost count.

warm hands met cold sheets and suddenly he was wide awake.

lando sat up dead straight, searching for a sign of life in the room. there was none. no shoes on the floor, no dress to match, no thong hanging from the door handle. a pit formed in his stomach.

is this how he made people feel?

waking up alone after the best sex of his life and no trace of the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on was quite miserable.

he thudded back into the mattress, hands shielding his eyes from the burn of daylight. he felt like shit, that was undeniable. when he’d fallen asleep, naked and with you nestled into his side, he couldn’t wait to wake up, perhaps arrogantly thinking that you’d be waking up with him. what was that saying, again?

hope breeds eternal misery.

his brain was wracked with the image of you and him, champagne flowing right before he’d taken you again, bent over the desk. and then again in the shower, a harmless attempt to clean yourselves up ending up with you on your knees before your cheek was pressed against the shower screen.

lando tried to fathom why you’d leave after the night you’d shared. there was something about it, something more intimate in the desperation you’d shared, that left him senseless as to why you were gone before the sun was in the sky.

just like he usually was.

it dawned on him, quite quickly, that the habits he’d made of quick fucks and fast getaways was not good form. it was reckless and casually cruel, and he felt guilt for the first time since his string of one night stands had begun. perspective was a crazy thing.

when he sluggishly made his way out of bed, he felt even worse.

-

“where’d you get to last night? we lost you after that terrible game of blackjack.” max teased, sipping his coffee.

lando found himself at the breakfast table, head rested on his hand and hoodie pulled tight. he wasn’t in the mood to talk, but max was like a dog with a bone; there was no avoiding this conversation.

“met a girl.” lando mumbled, aimlessly stirring the tea he knew he wasn’t going to drink.

“ah, understood.” max said, grinning knowingly. but then, as if lando’s bad mood finally clicked, he continued. “wait, why are you in a mood then?”

“tired.” lando replied, monotonously. he wasn’t quite sure how to unpack this one.

“bullshit.”

“woke up alone.”

“oh.”

“she was- i don’t know. just thought it would be different, that’s all.” lando couldn’t disguise the deflated tone of his voice.

“don’t tell me you caught feelings from a shag.” max rolled his eyes, chomping away at his toast. lando could barely stomach the sight of food.

“shut up, i’m not saying i fell in love. just liked something about her.”

“well, anything can happen in vegas. you never know, mate. she might find her way back to you.”

lando was getting ready for the netflix cup before he knew it. he’d managed to shake off max, escaping to the darkness of his room, the curtains drawn and the lights off.

he pretended it was the hangover that had him laying face down on his bed.

the last thing he wanted was to go and play corporate circus on the golfing green, but he figured some fresh air wouldn’t hurt. and so, he was in the backseat of a car well on his way to the tournament.

carlos couldn’t distract him, neither could alex or pierre. rickie fowler was much less interesting that he hoped, or maybe he wasn’t and lando just wasn’t interested enough. not even zak’s mclaren printed trousers could cheer him up.

lando was leaning into his golf club, starting mindlessly into the crowd, waiting for this garish event to begin when he caught a glimpse of someone he recognised. in a sea of influencers and obnoxious businessmen, there you were.

there you fucking were, in your knee high boots and a mini skirt, sunglasses perched on your nose, skintight top under an oversized blazer and hair shining under the warm sunlight. he lost his balance, the golf club slipping from underneath him, and the only thing that kept him upright was the burning urge to keep his eyes on you.

just who were you?

lando didn’t need to clarify whether or not you were looking at him, too. no, you made it abundantly clear by the way you winked at him, before pushing your sunglasses back up the bridge of your nose.

you fucking winked.

he took a step in your direction, shaky legs ready to carry him all the way over to you. he only had your first name and he craved your second, your phone number, anything really. he’d just take the small talk, to be completely honest.

but then the klaxon screeched, knocking him out of his trance and he whipped round to discover that they were ready to tee off. lando cursed under his breath, rapidly turning to search for your face but you were nowhere to be seen.

had he imagined you? had he imagined all of it?

every golf ball hit was hit with frustrated vengeance.

the week disappeared in a bittersweet blur.

lando had achieved multiple hangovers and about zero dollars in winnings, but he’d successfully managed to take his mind off of you.

okay, so that was a bare faced lie, but if lando didn’t lie to himself, he wouldn’t be able to lie to anyone else.

he wouldn’t be able to lie to max that he was no longer moping. he wouldn’t be able to lie to the media when they asked him if he was oh so excited about the race. he wouldn’t be able to lie to his team when they asked him if he was still suffering the consequences of his week long hangover.

lando had been rushing around all day, after a solid p4 in qualifying the night before. the entire day had been horrendous, sequins and bright lights being shone in his eyes. all he wanted to do was hide, get in the car and then go to bed.

fate had other plans.

lando was rushing to the front of the grid for the national anthem, certain that whatever display that was about to occur would make him nauseous. he was derailed on his journey, caught by rachel brookes in the pitlane, and then accosted by martin brundle once he’d made his was onto the grid.

“good qualifying yesterday and good luck today!” martin called to lando, turning to wrestle another insufferable celebrity.

as lando was making his getaway, ready to jog through the masses of people to his place at the front, he went barrelling into another body, putting his hands out to steady himself and the poor person that had become his collateral damage. as he regained his balance, he must have looked like a cartoon character, eyes bulging out of his head.

“are you stalking me?” was all he could choke out when his eyes met yours.

what the actual fuck were you doing here?

lando had given up on the possibility of ever seeing you again, and yet, here you were, stood under the bright floodlights on the grid, his office. this was the last place he’d expected you to show up, paddock pass swinging from your neck. again, what the actual fuck were you doing here?

“might as well be, at this point.” you teased. “hopefully you’ll do better today than you did at golf on tuesday.” you smiled coyly up at him, tucking your hair behind your ear.

lando was on quite the time crunch, glancing at the time on the clock at the front of the grid. he had a minute to spare, if he was lucky, but he had to talk to you, before you inevitably disappeared again.

“thought i’d get at least your phone number before you left.”

“from what i hear, you don’t usually stick around long enough for those.” you smirked.

well, his reputation certainly proceeded him. he couldn’t really argue with that.

“maybe i’m trying to change that.” lando attempted to flirt but really, he sounded desperate. you didn’t seem to mind.

“i’ll make you a deal,” you proposed, leaning in just a little bit closer. lando’s breath hitched in his throat. “get on that podium, and i’ll be waiting in your hotel lobby.”

“and if i don’t?” lando’s mouth was dry.

“maybe i’ll see you next year.”

lando watched you walk away, your hips swaying tantalisingly, wondering if the hefty fine he would be bollocked with would be worth it if he didn’t move his ass for the national anthem.

this would be the drive of his fucking life.

lando couldn’t recall a time he’d left a track faster in his life.

media duties were rushed, so was the shower he had before he fled. it was lucky he was already on the strip, so the walk to his hotel was blissfully short.

he entered the lobby with a shit eating grin and a comically large bottle of champagne in hand.

a string of second places had gotten rather frustrating, but this one felt particularly good. a podium was a podium, fair and square, and assuming you’d kept to your end of the bargain, he was in for the best celebration of his life.

sitting pretty at the bar that stretched through the lobby, you were waiting for him, heels swinging from the stool you rested on. denim clung to your hips, a dark corset style top moulding to your curves. he wondered if love at first sight was real; lust at first sight certainly was.

lando’s eyes beckoned to towards him, and you slipped inconspicuously into the elevator together, not wanting to draw too much attention to your rendezvous. it was a futile attempt, frankly, because he had you backed into the mirror before the doors had even fully shut.

kisses on your neck had your eyes fluttering closed, one of his knees slotting comfortably between your thighs. one of his hands was clasped tight around the neck of the neck of the bottle, giving lando the fantastic idea to find your neck with his free one. he held you firmly, forcing you to look at him.

“i’m gonna make you wish you never left.”

-

hours on the mattress pulling countless orgasms from one another left you both weak, exhausted, a little bit clingy.

lando felt electric. no other person had ever left him so feral, so euphoric.

he’d had you first against the door, pulling your jeans off and pinning you against it, your thighs in his firm grasp as he fucked you into the wooden panel. then, he’d taken you to bed, your knuckles turning white from your brutal grip on the headboard when he’d planted you down on his mouth. two orgasms later, you were face down in the sheets, ass in the air for him while he slammed into you like his life depended on it, pulling you into his chest by your hair when you reached your climaxes.

all that hard work called for a bath, where you both found yourselves now. it had started off quite innocently, sat at opposite ends of the extravagantly large bathtub amongst the bubbles. but then you’d given him those eyes, and then your back was pressed against his chest, your body draped over his. his head was nestled into the crook of your neck, one arm slung over your waist. his other hand brought the bottle of champagne to his lips, the liquid going down smoothly. lando pressed the bottle to your pursed lips too, trading backwards and forwards while your bodies relaxed into the hot water.

lando’s hand on your waist was getting restless, fingers drumming over your abdomen, up, up, up, until he found your breast. he circled your nipple with his finger, not quite touching the bud yet, but he could feel it hardening from his scarce touch. your hips rolled backwards into his, feeling him hardening once again against your lower back. lando cupped your breast, massaging it in his hands before he switched, flitting between your tits.

you slumped somehow even further into him, not a millimetre of space between your bodies. he was winding you up beautifully, heat burning between your legs once more. you didn’t know how you did it, how you could be so ready for each other after the eventful evening you’d already shared.

lando was flicking your nipples between his finger, switching back and fourth until you were moaning quietly. you took charge, the sensitivity building too quickly, and so you rolled over in his arms, clambering into his lap.

the bath water splashed around you, moving in small waves across the tub as you situated yourself on top of him, grinding down on him until he was buried deep within your walls. he found that spot, rolling your hips against his, and then you were rocking up and down on him, nice and slow. he touched parts of you that never had been before, the pace and the angle intensifying every little sensation. your head was thrown back, hands clawing at his shoulders for something to hold onto, just for the feel of him.

lando reached over the edge of the bathtub, blindly searching for the bottle he’d discarded while you’d been switching positions. he felt the green glass grazing his fingertips and brought it back to his lips, eyes trailing over your body in sheer awe.

he couldn’t help himself, taking a sip before tilting it towards you, pouring the golden bubbles over your clavicle, jaw tightening - just like your cunt did at the sensation - as he watched the sticky alcohol drip down over the curve of your bouncing breasts.

you quivered when you felt his tongue lap over your nipple, then the other, dragging over your sodden flesh until he reached the junction between your neck and your shoulder. he bit down, hard, eyes rolling back at the taste in his mouth and the way you clamped down around him, whimpering out between breathless pants.

lando felt you let go, stuttering on his cock and sinking down on top of him, the water - now lukewarm - soothing your tired limbs. he held you close, basking in the intimacy of the moment, his hearing honing in on the dull hum of ecstasy you expelled.

the bath grew colder and colder as you sat there, comfortable silence filling the air along with the quiet rush of water that came with any movements made. when the time came, lando held you up as you got off of him and stepped onto the plush rug, quickly following suit. you were eyeing the shower when he turned to hand you a towel.

“i think i need a shower, as much as i enjoyed the bath.” you spoke, opening the screen and stepping in to adjust the knobs.

lando weighed up his options, agonising over joining you or doing his back in. he couldn’t exactly tell his trainer that his back gave out from too much sex.

“am i invited?” lando asked, stepping in behind you, hands on your waist.

“seems like you’ve already invited yourself.” you teased, looking at him over your shoulder.

“no funny business, you.” lando rested his head on your shoulder.

“from me? you’re just as bad.” you quipped, letting the hot warm stream all over your flushed bodies.

lando stayed as he was for a second, but then you turned your head again, looking at him from the corner of your eye and he needed to kiss you. he couldn’t help but, and so he twisted you round to face him and leaned in. you were more than receptive, fingers raking through his wet curls.

the hot water rained down on you while you stood there, holding each other close. lando couldn’t put his finger on it, why he didn’t want to let you go. he couldn’t even begin to process the idea of having anyone else in his arms like this. it was absurd, really, but he was too caught up in the moment to care.

when you were both clean and dry, you laid down in bed, gazing mindlessly at one another. his eyes followed the lines of your face, the curve of your lips. he learned a lot about you, a formula 1 fan with who ran her own business and took herself on holiday to vegas. the conversation flowed like the champagne had and you were laughing at all his stupid jokes. in turn he grinned like a fool at your quick wit, the sound of your laughter.

“so what are you doing next? back to work?” lando asked, an idea forming in his mind like a tornado.

“nope,” you popped the p. “giving myself some well deserved time off.”

“have you ever been to abu dhabi?” lando asked, lips quirking mischievously.

-

inbox me your thoughts bc aaaaaaaa 😨😨

-

taglist

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Vetted Palestine Fundraisers

here is a masterpost of all the accounts that have contacted me. I want to share all of their gofundme's. please please donate if you can and reblog!!!

As of August 14th the donation counts are:

@heba-baker: GoFundMe link - 3,130/60,000 vetted by 90-ghost

@ahmeadhilles: GoFundMe link - 5,324/80,000 - vetted by 90-ghost

@asmaayyad: GoFundMe link - 7,200/45,000 - vetted by 90-ghost

@lenarafat15: GoFundMe link - 3,795/30,000 - vetted by 90-ghost

@wafaaresh: GoFundMe link - 26,032/100,000 - vetted by 90-ghost

@ahmedhamda12: GoFundMe link - 14,200/50,000 - vetted on nabulsi and el-shab-hussein's spreadsheet

@mohammadayyad: GoFundMe link - 14,775/35,000 - vetted by 90-ghost

@helpfamily: GoFundMe link - 5,105/50,000 - vetted by 90-ghost

@lina-gaza: GoFundMe link - 32,848/45,000 - vetted here

@rehamjawad33: GoFundMe link - 18,978/70,000 - vetted #125 on nabulsi and el-shab-hussein's spreadsheet

@mahmoud0hilles: GoFundMe link - 9,486/50,000 - vetted #198 on nabulsi and el-shab-hussein's spreadsheet

@karemandohan1999: GoFundMe link - 4,561/50,000 - vetted by 90-ghost

@farahmoo: GoFundMe link - 1,941/50,000 - vetted by 90-ghost

@safaayassersposts: GoFundMe link - 135/50,000 - vetted by el-shab-hussein

@eslamfamily: GoFundMe link - 1,185/50,000 - vetted as #175 on the B&W spreadsheet list

@abdelmutei: GoFundMe link - 9,648/25,000 - vetted by 90-ghost

F1 bingo 2025

feel free to steal for yourself xx

oscar reaction to norris blaming max lmao.

there's laundry to do and a genocide to stop by vinay krishnan