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lovelytsunoda · 1 year

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shut up and drive // lando norris ( street racing au!)

summary: headcanons i wrote after watching the fast and the furious movies . . . enough said. lando is infatuated with the woman in the pink mustang who kicks his ass in a bristol street race.

pairing: street racer!lando norris x street racer! reader

the bristol street racing scene is intense

its run by a young blonde american using daddy's money to have a little bit of extra fun

and as far as everybody is concerned, the quadrant street racing team own the circuit, they're the undisputed champions

max fewtrell, ria bish and lando norris.

lando has been the reigning champion for three years running

he’s made over a billion british pounds via street racing

until y/n y/l/n appears on the scene

beating pierre gasly in her rookie race and winning five grand

and lando is intrigued, like any man would be

her hot pink mustang meanders into the clearing, bright spot lights shining down as she stops next to max fewtrells lime green maserati

“is that her?” lando asks quietly, watching the drivers side door creep open

she steps out, wearing white cowboy boots and skin-tight blue jeans, a shirt emblazoned in an old print of a chevy corvette tied up to show off her stomach, a small diamond glittering in her navel

heart shaped sunglasses over her eyes that she pushes up on to her forehead as she pulls a wad of cash from the pocket of her leather jacket

“oi sargeant, it’s not too late to cut a girl in, is it?”

logan grins, counting the cash she handed him as entry payment. “cutoff is in ten minutes, you made it just in time.”

"good. now, which of your boys wants to get his ass kicked next?"

pierre throws his hands up in surrender when logan shoots him a joking look.

"she wiped the floor with me last week, mate. i took one for the team."

"any takers?" logan proclaims, moving to stand on the roof of his mercedes

lando and max exchange a look before ria hits them both in the back of the head

"don't be stupid. either of you. if you get far enough tonight, you'll be racing for pinks." she scolds

"its not about the cars, ria. it's about the chase." lando grins, patting the hood of his mclaren before moving into the wider, open space near where y/n was standing

"i'll do it! i'll race you. what's the pot at, sargeant?"

logan grins. "let's see, you're a seasoned veteran, and she wiped the floor with gasly. how does seven grand sound?"

y/n grins, twirling her car keys in one hand. "what do you say, norris? american muscle up against whatever the fuck that euro-car you're driving is?"

"it's a good couple hundred horsepower, sweetheart. are you sure your poor old ford can handle it?"

"bring it on, toy boy."

they get behind the wheels of their cars, revving engines and showboating as lando's mclaren and her mustang draw side by side

"enough with the women dropping their bras to start a race, it's archaic!" y/n shouts, tapping her manicured nails against her glittery gear shift. 'give me a toy boy dropping his shirt to the ground, once i see some abs, that will really get this car moving!"

"give the lady what she wants!" ria shouts, clapping her hands together as max rolls his eyes

with a laugh and a grin, george russell steps out into the middle of the interlock road, fingers deftly unbuttoning his linen shirt

"now we're talking!" y/n shouts with a laugh and a grin, shooting lando a look out the corner of her eye

there was something sexy about what they were about to do

the cat and mouse game of a street race worth as much as this one was

and lando norris would be the first to admit that he was incredibly turned on by the idea of woman who drove a car as magnificent as the one parked next to him

a woman who spoke his language

"ready!" george shouts, shirt almost fully undone as women begin to cheer and whistle

"ready to lose, princess?" lando smirks, revving his engine as he grins at the driver next to him.

"ready to kick your ass, you mean." she grins back, toeing her boot-clad foot against the accelerator

"set!" the shirt his off george's body now, his arm raised in the air as he waves the white fabric in the air, toying with the minds of the two drivers in front of them

it was just a reflex game now

"go!" george shouts, throwing his shirt to the ground

the drivers are off in a flash, their fluorescent cars flying off into the night

her wrist moves deftly with the gearshift, shifting gears as she watched the speedometer sail over 100kmph as she takes the corner, shifting gears and yanking at the handbrake

she sails around the corner a fraction of a second faster than lando, winking at him as their windows line up, eyes meeting for a fraction of a second

and that's when lando knows that he's in love

righting their cars, lando less than half a second behind her but still not fast enough

they're neck and neck approaching the finish line, right across from where they started

she's watching his every movement carefully

biding her time until it's time to open that little canister of nos

she knows lando's too smart to use it too soon, so she just needs to hope that she presses that little red button faster than he can

she presses it quickly, both hands gripping the wheel as the speed throws her head against the headrest, hair whipping around her face

there's a gap of zero point four five seconds as she sails across the chalk-drawn finish line, yanking the handbrake and swerving to a stop

sitting with her body half out of the window, her ass resting where the wound-down window his

cheering as she drums her hands against the roof

lando comes to a much slower stop next to her

he's not even mad about losing

a glow in his eyes as he steps out of the mclaren

hands in jeans pockets as he ambles towards her

"impressive drive, sweetheart."

"yeah, it earned me seven grand." she grins, clambering out of the car. "your loss."

"seven grand is nothing. all i ask for in exchange is dinner."

y/n grins, reaching to shake his hand. "and if i say no?"

"then i'll have to get a rematch next week. and the week after until you say yes."

"i wouldn't be a very good rival if i ended up in your bed."

"well, you know what they say." lando grins seductively. "keep your friends close and your enemies closer."

she runs her tongue over her lips, eyebrows raised as she starts backing away towards everyone who's cheering her on,

"i'll see you next week, norris. we'll meet in the winner's bed."

and lando has never been so turned on in his life

he's also never looked forward to losing a race more.

#lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando norris headcanons #f1 x reader #formula one x reader #f1 headcanons #f1 imagine

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nikethestatue · 6 months

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A Match Baked In Heaven

Part 1 Here

Part 2

Tighten Up

Azriel completely underestimated the length of time it would take him to get from the gym to Russell Square.

He rode the Tube, his act of a ‘regular guy’ perfected over the years. Once in a while he caught confused glances of recognition, but because he knew how to act so disinterested, those who actually recognised him eventually averted their eyes, convinced that they were wrong and that he was not the Azriel Night.

After receiving a good deal of bollocking from Cassian last night, Azriel had signed the contract, and it was now sitting in his backpack. Cassian had made a fuss over Azriel’s ‘marriage proposal’ to the prissy Miss Duchess, calling him, among other things: unprofessional, dumb, a tosser, a wanker, and a caveman. Yeah, Azriel recognised that the ‘proposal’ was a stupid move on his part, but what was done was done. At least he spiced things up a bit for her. That was probably the one and only proposal she’d receive in her life anyway, considering her attitude.

In the end, he assured Cassian that he was going to be on his best behaviour and that he won’t tease her or argue with her. Cassian was doubtful, wanting to come along with Azriel to the meeting, but thankfully, he had other meetings scheduled and therefore, Azriel made the trip alone.

Because two could play that game, he hit up good ol’ Google last night, searching for info on Miss Priss.

Elain Marie Paige Archeron, daughter of Sir Charles Archeron and his late wife Cressida. Middle child, with sisters Nesta and Feyre. He didn’t think she was much over 22, but apparently, she was 27. Graduated from the University of Bristol. Marigold seemed to have been her great-grandmother’s name, hence the name of the agency. There wasn’t much about Elain out there. A few photos of her with some pale redhead with an aristocratic face, whom Azriel immediately disliked. The bloke had the kind of expression like he was smelling a pile of shite at all times, or as if Pinky…no, Piglet, took a dump on his shoe. Azriel knew the type–proud, haughty, old-money, inherited everything, probably played polo with Prince William, and cards with Old Etonians. Azriel wasn’t sure if Elain was dating this wanker, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if she did. Well, with her granddaddy the Duke and all…

He sighed and X-ed out of the search. It was too depressing. He didn’t even like Elain, and yet it annoyed him that that pale-faced prick could just expect a girl like her to be his. He didn’t even have to try. It was all set in stone for them from before they were born.

It was only 11:15 am and he was exiting the station. He was seriously early.

Well, maybe she was in the office already and he could just get it over with earlier than planned. That would be nice. Once they were done with today, he hoped that he wouldn’t need to see her ever again. Or at least not for a while.

Damn it was cold. It wasn’t pouring like it did yesterday, but it was damp and bone-chilling and grossly dreary.

Why couldn’t he have signed with Barcelona or Real Madrid or even Juventus or something? Spending a decade or two in the sun, by the sea, drinking Aperol Spritzers or Sangria. What’s bad about that life?

He sighed. A nice dream, but deep down he knew that he was forever a London boy. Born and raised, and he’d die here one day, in this damp and chill. He loved the fucking place. An East-sider through and through. Loved the grandeur and the poverty, the history and every freakin’ building in this city. He loved how it changed and grew and expanded, the old mixing with the new, all the extremes of its everyday life. The bustle, the hustle, the quiet, the refined. He loved the stately homes and the fugly estates which were little but cinder blocks. Loved the parks and the mighty river, the roar of football crowds and the anonymity of a pub. He loved it. And he wasn’t going anywhere.

And now, this weird girl Elain was here, and she was going to find him a wife, and she was going to bind him even further to this city.

As he passed by the side of the Firtzroy, he saw a blue plaque that stated:

Emmeline Pankhurst, a political activist and leader of the suffrage movement and her daughters Sylvia, Christbel and Adela lived here

And now, he felt a strange connection to this blue plaque, to this quaint neighbourhood, because Elain lived here, and she was organically tied to this place. She was able to trace her presence here for multiple generations. She was tied to London just like he was.

He went straight to Elain’s office and rang the bell. There was no response. He even peeked into the window, and saw that it was dark in there. Well that sucked because he had almost two hours to kill now. Great…

Shivering within his jacket, he stuck his hands as deeply in his pockets as he could and walked down the residential street. Yesterday, he noticed a few cafes and restaurants and shops around the British Museum and he decided to head that way. He wasn’t hungry yet, but he had time, so he’d have lunch.

Six minutes later, that plan went to shite, because he passed by a bakery and everything looked delicious. He had a pretty bad case of sweet tooth everyday, though he tried to keep himself in check during training and the playing season. But the golden meat pies in the display case whispered his name. He couldn’t resist. And it wasn’t like he was eating sugar. 10 minutes later, he was exiting the bakery with three pies in the bag. One, he devoured like an animal, before he even spotted a cafe to get a cup of tea. He didn’t like to share food, or wait to eat–his childhood programmed him to be stingy about it, and he couldn’t kick the habit even now, even with all his millions in the bank.

He walked further, trying to stave off the cold, when he suddenly saw a familiar creature–a three legged pug. Pinky…no, Piglet–was trotting proudly, wearing a puffer vest and a stylish polka dot scarf. Some girl was walking him, and people stopped to admire him, some even snapping photos on their phone. That made Azriel smile. The dog walker was a slender tallish girl who wore Adidas skater shoes, slightly flared faded jeans, a plain jacket and a beanie, while being wrapped in a thick, long scarf.

Somehow, Pinky recognised or sensed Azriel’s presence and took off towards him, his three short legs pumping comically. The girl barely held onto the lead, and ran behind the dog.

“What are you doing here?” she exclaimed, once Pinky…no, Piglet...began sniffing Azriel’s shoes and then craned its thick neck up, demanding loves and rubs with his sad buggy eyes.

To Azriel’s utter shock, the girl in the faded pair of jeans and a thick scarf was no other than Elain Archeron.

“What the fuck?” Azriel gasped.

She ignored the language and stared at him in confusion,

“What are you…why are you here?”

Why was he here?

The last thing he wanted her to think was that he was impatient to see her and came early.

Somewhat aggressively, he turned it on her ‘weren’t we meeting at 11? It’s half past now!”

“No, one. We were meeting at one,” she argued.

“I don’t think so,” he waved his hand.

“Well, you would be wrong,” she contradicted him.

Pinky finally lost his patience and tugged on Azriel’s pant with his teeth.

“Piglet!” Elain tried to pull him back, but Azriel squatted and finally scratched the back of the dog’s neck.

“I guess I got my times mixed up,” Azriel finally conceded.

“Where is Cassian?” Elain asked curiously, looking for his brother.

At that, Azriel bristled and snapped, “I thought I was the client? Why do you need Cassian here?”

Elain shrugged and answered placidly, “I am just surprised that he isn’t standing behind you with a cattle prod, trying to push you into the office.”

At that, Azriel couldn’t help himself, and chuckled.

“Nah…” he shrugged, and smiled, and then shivered from the damn cold. “I am all yours to have your way with me. Brought the contract and all.”

She blushed a bit at his words, as she looked up at him and whispered, “You are weird.”

“Yeah well…”

Suddenly, she pulled off her massive scarf and then slowly draped it over his neck, wrapping it carefully around him and tying it off.

It was warm from her body, smelled faintly of jasmine and maybe vanilla and was soft as butter on his skin.

“What’s this for?” he finally asked stupidly, after a long, awkward, confused pause. She was confounding him.

“I dunno,” she answered, seemingly just as surprised by her own action as he was. “You seem cold.”

“Thank you?” he said at last.

The pug was going wild at his feet, bucking and pulling on the lead, and Azriel finally said, “come on, Pinky. Let’s go.”

“It’s Piglet,” Elain corrected him.

“It’s a terrible name for a dog.”

“You’d think so,” Elain shrugged her shoulder.

“I just wouldn’t name a dog Piglet. Pinky is better.”

“Well, I am not renaming my dog.”

“Well, I am naming the children,” Azriel decided, taking the lead from her without asking.

Elain gave him a side glance, and thrust her hands in her pockets. What children?

“And what are you naming them?” she queried. As everything with him, it was a strange conversation.

“Darius,” he said immediately. “Definitely Darius.”

“Hmmm, I like Darius,” she agreed.

“Yeah?”

“I do. What else?”

“I like Dahlia, Isabelle and Rose for girls.”

Elain considered for a moment and then nodded,

“These are all good names.”

He was surprised and asked, “Really?”

“Yes, I actually like them all. Something I should mention to the prospective matches then?”

At that, Azriel frowned and nestled his chin deeper into the scarf. Then, abruptly as ever, he asked, “What happened to Pinky’s leg?”

“It’s Piglet. And I don’t really know,” Elain admitted. “I think he was run over by a cyclist. The leg was crushed and had to be amputated. And the family that had him didn’t want to keep him. Didn’t want to deal with a three legged dog, or with the care that he required. They were going to put him down, but a friend of mine who volunteered at the shelter rang me up and told me that if I wanted him, I could have him. So I went that night and picked him up. And here we are. He has more energy than I do,”

Azriel chuckled and nodded, “I can see that”.

They walked in silence for a while, the dog bouncing between them, his round head swinging from one to the other, looking at their reactions.

“Do you want a meat pie?”

That came out of nowhere, as usual. Azriel lifted a paper bag, his offer hanging in the air.

“Yeah. Okay,” Elain agreed.

Defensively, he added, “you know, I am not pressuring you. If you don’t want it, you don’t have to have it.”

He sounded almost angry, like he couldn’t believe that she’d eat with him. Or accept food from him.

“Why can’t I just want a meat pie?” Elain asked.

“Posh lasses like you don’t eat stuff like this,”

“You have the strangest notions, you know,” she shook her head. “As if you have any idea who I am or what I like. Give me the damn pie, I’ll buy us some tea and you’ll help me with a project,” she demanded impatiently.

“What fucking project?” he mumbled.

Elain didn’t bother answering, as she stepped inside a cafe, leaving him and Pinky outside. Azriel stood there, meeting people’s curious gazes, though Pinky, being so extra with his scarf and puffer coat, seemed a lot more interesting to most passersby. While waiting, he pondered what the hell kind of a project Elain had for him. He didn’t expect to meet her like that, on the street, but now he was sort of glad that he did. If nothing else, Elain was mesmerizingly beautiful so it wasn’t exactly a hardship to walk with her. And when she wasn’t decked out in pearls and silk, she seemed kind of normal. A little funny. Irreverent. And she liked all the baby names that he had planned–which was a mad thing, because he sure didn’t plan on sharing that with her. With anyone! What normal man talks baby names with some girl he’d just met. But he also didn’t want her to share those names with any matches that she was going to set him up with. No. No. These were his names. And Elain was the only person in the world that he told them to, so now it was their names. He felt weirdly protective over the names, over this thing that now untied him and her. Gah. She was messing with his head. It was frustrating.

“Don’t tell the baby names to anyone!” he snapped at her the moment she came out of the cafe holding two cups.

She gave him a look, judgy and disdainful, he was sure of it, but then simply said, ‘okay. I won’t.’

“I am not joking,” he warned, eyeing her suspiciously.

“I got it. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Alright then,” he sighed. He tugged on the lead and Pinky finally moved his butt off the pavement. “Thanks for the tea,” Azriel said.

“You really need to work on your manners,” Elain told him bluntly.

He had to agree. He did.

“Probably. Sorry I was short with you.”

They headed towards her house and when they stood in front of it, Azriel noticed another blue plaque. It stated: Elain Archeron, a pioneer in women’s education and one of the leaders of the suffragette movement lived in this house.

“How would the feminist granny Archeron feel about you working as a matchmaker?” Azriel wondered out loud, while Elain unlocked the door to the coach house.

Pinky rushed inside, like he owned the place–which, Azriel, supposed he did. Elain removed her jacket and then waited for Azriel to do the same. She took it from him and hung it in the closet, and it didn’t escape him how her eyes skimmed over him.

He wore jeans and a simple grey henley today, but now that he thought about it, he figured that it probably accentuated his physique pretty well. He was very tall, wide-shouldered, with a lean, muscular torso, obviously extraordinarily fit, his legs long and clad in lean sinewy muscle which he developed after years of running.

It’s not like he cared that she checked him out, but he wasn’t hating it either. Without thinking, he rolled up his sleeves, and the widening of Elain’s eyes and her pink tongue licking her lips was not something he could miss. There was no mistaking it this time. She was definitely checking him out.

He folded his arms on his chest–did he flex a bit? Maybe–and then asked,

“What’s this project that you need done?”

She stared at him, at his forearms, the tattoos that covered them, the scars that marred his hands.

“Uhh…what?”

She was cute like this. Frazzled like. Not all proper and snobby, but all twitchy and red. He wanted to laugh.

“The project?” he repeated, staring at her.

“Oh, yeah,” she seemed to have remembered what she wanted from him, but when she turned around, she walked straight into the wall. Bounced back off of it and yelped ‘ow!’

“You okay there, matchmaker?” he teased, though he caught himself worried that she’d hurt her nose, because she was rubbing it aggressively.

“I am okay,” she said at last. “Come with me.”

He followed her silently, down a long corridor. Her office and the reception area were on the other side of the corridor, and he was kind of surprised when they ended up in a cosy little kitchen–guess that explained where she got the tea and the biscuits yesterday–and a tidy lounge. Though the only one lounging presently was Pinky, who was sprawled on his back, short little legs in the air, stretched upon a comfy looking pouffe. There was also a sofa and an armchair, and a wall mounted TV in the lounge. Elain clicked the remote and on came videos of dogs running around. The pug growled with approval, fully immersed in the programme, while Elain went to take off all his clothes.

“He is a little fucking lord, isn’t he?” Azriel commented, watching her fuss over the dog.

“Mr. Night,” she told him primly, “you must cut down on the cursing! It’s rather unseemly,”

He scowled and reminded her,

“I am a fucking footballer, baby. How do you think we talk? Also, maybe you should cut down on Mr. Night, yeah? I think we are past that.”

She straightened and glared at him, her soft little face full of stormy fury.

“Mr. Night. I am not your ‘baby’. Never forget that. You are my client. As such, you will be known as Mr. Night and you will give me the respect of calling me Ms. Archeron. Are we clear?”

He bit the inside of his cheek, struggling to maintain his composure. But at last, he snapped, ‘crystal’.

“Wonderful,” “But Cassian is Cassian, right?” he couldn’t help but challenge her.

She huffed to herself, head shaking, her curls bouncing up and down her shoulders.

“Cassian is not my client.”

“And if I weren’t, you’d call me Azriel then?”

“No, I wouldn’t. I simply don’t see under what circumstances we’d be acquainted…and what we’d have in common to ever cross paths…”

That actually fucking hurt.

Her words. The implication that he wasn’t good enough to be spending time in her company outside of this business arrangement. He wasn’t up to par to be in her circles, to even have as a friend.

“Yeah, you wouldn’t,” he muttered icily. “Because I am just some trashy footballer. As you said yesterday, I was sold by one team to another. That’s what footballers are–a commodity to be bought and sold, until they reach their expiration date. Wouldn’t think someone like you had any use for me. Where would we meet other than here, right?”

Her mouth popped open, while he sighed heavily.

He was feeling…dejected. Burdened. Like she tossed him aside, much like most people in his life did, and he didn't matter. But she was right, of course, he was her client. Nothing else.

And he wasn’t going to give her his meat pie anymore. Forget it.

“I don’t know if this is going to work,” he decided. “I think that this is a mistake.”

Elain chewed on her lips, her big brown eyes watching him intently, like she was trying to read what’s on his mind and get inside his head.

“What I think is that you need to get out of your head,” she stated harshly.

He snorted, yet again amazed by the balls on his girl. She was certifiable.

“You have horrible self-esteem, which doesn’t bode well for anyone, especially for you and a future wife. You keep thinking that you are somehow defective. That you shouldn’t be here because…what? You don’t deserve happiness? Don’t deserve a good woman? Yeah, I gathered you had a shitty childhood, well, now you are a superstar. Put your big boy knickers on and act like it! You aren’t some little boy lost–you are Azriel Night, Arsenal’s Captain.

“And don’t you dare dump your issues on me!” she finished. “Don’t construct some scenarios in your head like I am so posh, and you are so not, and as if there is some fantastic chasm of misunderstanding and cultural differences between us.

And finally, if you don’t have any sense of self-worth, then maybe you should be taken advantage of by some slag who’ll take you for everything you’ve got. Is that what you want?”

“Fuck you,” he tossed angrily.

“No. Fuck you!” she tossed right back.

“I am leaving!”

He turned around, while Pinky forgot about his entertainment and relaxation time, and now growled threateningly, because he raised his voice at his mum.

Azriel stomped down the corridor, fuming.

What a bitch. If she were a bloke, he’d beat the crap out of her. Her big mouth, her fucking attitude, her acting like she knew anything about him. Yeah, well. Maybe she was correct about most of what she said, but it wasn’t her business. He wasn’t her business. She couldn't even bring herself to call him by his damn name. Maybe he wanted to hear it on her lips, but she wouldn’t even give him that simple satisfaction.

“You are not leaving,” he suddenly heard her behind him. Little claws clucked on the hardwood floor, and before he could stop, Pinky was throwing himself between him and the door, not allowing him to leave.

“You are not leaving,” she repeated sternly.

“What are you going to do? Stop me?” he chuckled bitterly, getting his jacket from the closet.

“No, but you’ll turn around, and you’ll help me with my project. And I will find you a wife, even if it kills me. Even if I know that it’s going to be painful and torturous. Even if I know that you’ll be fighting me every step of the way.”

“Why the hell do you want to do this?” he demanded, turning to face her.

“Because I don’t give up, Mr. Night. Think of me as a fanged beast–once I sink my claws into you, I don’t let go. And maybe,” she paused, almost panting, her cheeks flushed, her eyes blazing wildly, “maybe I believe in love!”

“What?” he stared at her, processing her stupid words, and failing to understand them.

“Yeah, maybe I want to see your happy end. Maybe I want to find you someone who is going to love you for who you are–despite your nasty cantankerous attitude, your potty mouth, you…your…” she was gasping with a mixture of anger and some unholy excitement.

“My what?”

“I don’t know. You! Just you!” she cried out. “You are impossible and unpleasant, and you can’t communicate.”

“Of yeah, you are such a prize,”

“Be quiet! I’ve known you for two days and I am already exhausted. But I will bring this to its natural conclusion, and you will be walking down the aisle in six months! That I promise. And you will be in love.”

“God you make no sense,” he moaned.

“Maybe. But you will be in love. And you will be loved. And that is my vow.”

He rubbed his face, shaking his head, while she stood in front of him, so much smaller than he, but packing so much rage and heat and passion…

He momentarily had a crazy thought of how much he’d want to feel that passion and heat. In bed, between the sheets. The two of them tangled together, sweaty, biting and scratching and…

Also, she looked really pretty when she was angry.

Aaaannnddd…he needed to stop this train of thought stat.

“Also, you are giving my dog whiplash!!” she growled at him.

He glanced at Pinky, who was positioned against the door like a giant loaf of bread. Apparently in an attempt to not let him leave the house.

“What?”

“Yeah, he doesn’t know if he should hate you or love you!” she even stomped her foot. “You are confusing him with your behaviour. And if you will continue doing that, he is going to bite you,”

“Yeah, I am not all that scared of a three-legged pug,” Azriel rolled his eyes.

She still fumed, muttering,

“You would be singing a different song if he bites you in the dick!”

“Whoa, he,”

“Yes!” she yelled. “That’s what he does. Once, this bloke got real handsy with me in the park, and Piglet jumped up and latched onto the bloke’s junk. And wouldn’t let go.”

Azriel suddenly burst into hysterical laughter.

“Yes, yeah, keep laughing, until he bites you!”

“He bit some bloke’s junk?!” Azriel laughed like a maniac, snorting and huffing.

She crossed her arms on her chest.

“He did. And he wouldn’t let go. He just hung there, between the guy’s legs, holding his cock hostage in his teeth. Don’t think he wouldn’t do it to you if you keep being an arsehole and pissing me off!”

“Pinky, don’t you be biting my junk!” Azriel warned, shaking his finger at the dog. “We are mates!”

“And his name is not Pinky!!! And you aren’t mates.”

“We so are.”

Mutely, Azriel hung the jacket back in the closet and then asked,

“What do you need done, you matchmaker-from-hell?!”

She pursed her lips, and then turned on her heels and ordered, “Follow me!”

Oh how he wished he could spank this attitude out of her until her arse was nice and red. Instead, he asked, “who is the bloke who got handsy with you?”

She didn’t turn, but only shrugged.

“I don’t know. I was walking Piglet, and the bloke just wouldn’t leave me alone. It was a little scary.”

Azriel frowned at that.

He didn’t like it.

Didn’t like it one bit.

That some cunt was getting handsy with this impossible contrary girl didn’t sit right with him.

“Do you have CCTV in the house?” he asked sternly.

“Yes, and here too. But that was in the park,”

“I know. But I want to know that your house is secure. Do you have an alarm?”

“Why do you care?”

“Just answer the goddamn question!”

“Yeah, I have an alarm.”

“I still don’t like it.”

“Not like what?” she finally glanced at him over her shoulder, as they made their way into the cellar.

“That you are here alone, with a three-legged pug as your only guard. And you have all kinds of shady characters coming and going from this place. How well do you even vet them?”

She gave him a very clear ‘pot/kettle’ look, but he ignored it. Of course she would.

“I vet them well enough. I have a taser too! And pepper spray.”

“Yeah, bring some pepper spray to a gun fight,” he grunted.

“This is not America,” she reminded him. “I don’t think anyone is bringing a gun here.”

Azriel stopped in the middle of the cellar and gasped, “what is all this crap?”

“It’s pumpkins.”

No shit. She had four large cardboard boxes filled with various sized pumpkins. All kinds of decorations and lanterns and other Halloweeen-themed stuff in a bunch more boxes.

“I need help with this,” she said softly, batting her eyelashes at him and biting her lower lip.

“Yeah, sweetheart, this shite don’t work on me,” he waved his hand dismissively at her. “I’ll help you with this, but not because you think your ridiculous, artless flirting is making any difference here.”

Her mouth dropped in a shocked O.

He smirked.

That’s right. Two can play this game.

#elriel #azriel and elain #elriel fanfic #my writing #my fanfiction #elain archeron #elain x azriel #pro elriel #azriel #elain #A Match Baked In Heaven #Modern AU #elriel fanfiction #acotar fanfiction

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colleendoran · 2 years

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Hi do you do your own painting as well

Yes.

The art below is painted by hand in watercolor with touches of ink on Strathmore 500 Multimedia board. The gold areas were painted on the board using 18K gold ink. The lettering is also by hand directly on the board.

The lettering on our names below is by hand, but this was done on a separate board and dropped in via Photoshop. I did it that way in case the editor changed his mind later.

When I work on some comics, sometimes I work with a colorist, but more often than not these days, I do all the art myself as well, including the color.

This is a page from Neil Gaiman's Norse Mythology. I drew the original art in ink by hand on Bristol board. P. Craig Russell did the adaptation.

The final color was done by me on computer in Photoshop.

A lot of people think if you work in mainstream comics, your job is easier because you have a team of people working on each comic. But that's not necessarily so. I rarely work with other artists now, have not worked with an inker in nearly 20 years, and do my own color as often as possible. It's more efficient to color your own work than it is to do a lot of tight drawing and rendering in pencil, then pass the art on to an inker, then pass it on to a colorist.

When I color my own work, I know what I can leave to the coloring process and skip in the ink rendering process. As you can see, my inked line art in the above image is very simple. And, of course, for speed's sake, in a deadline pinch I can use the paint bucket tool to quickly fill in large areas of black, which is a tedious process to do by hand on original art.

However, when working in black and white ink alone, I do a lot of rendering in the ink stage. The below image is by hand using a paste on tone sheet for the effect.

This is from my space opera graphic novel series A Distant Soil. Drawing like this, with all those little lines, is actually more time intensive than doing the same page in full color, because there are a lot of things I can do in Photoshop more quickly than I can do in ink. I would not have done all those little lines to define the form of the horses had I gone straight to color.

Also, doing tones by hand is incredibly tedious work. When I complete A Distant Soil, I will never use them again.

I would rather do fewer books where I have more control over the final art than do many books where I work with a team of people. I like having final say in how my finished art looks.

Thank you for your question.

#comics #process #coloring #chivalry #neil gaiman #a distant soil #dark horse comics

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amethystamanda · 5 months

Text

New save time

Yeah, I can't stick with a save. Aliens aren't being deleted, I'll go back to them sometime (I think), but the others I don't know about.

Anyway:

Meet Philip Blackmore, a 54-year-old fisherman from Bristol, England in the 1600s. He's travelled back and forth to Newfoundland every year for several years now. He has a house he lives in while he's there (assuming it's left standing when he arrives in the spring), and in the fall he returns home to his wife and family.

When he returned home in the fall of 1629, it was to find that his wife had recently died, leaving him with their one remaining unmarried child, Hannah, 18.

He decided to travel to Newfoundland permanently with her and officially become a planter (one who owns and runs a fishing plantation). Over the winter, he decided on a fitting young man, strong and willing and a hard worker from a solid background, to bring with him as his fishing servant. His plan, if all goes well, is to marry this young man, William Russell, to his daughter, and have him as his heir in the New Founde Land, as none of his sons want any part of it.

Of course, he hasn't told them that. No point in borrowing trouble if things work out, or in rushing things if they do.

This is a 4-days-per-year decades, not a 1-heir-per-decade decades. I made the days complicated, because I'm terrible at sticking to 4 day years, but now they're too complicated for if I want to switch to 3 day years, which I'm a bit better at.

CC is a bit weird. A bit of medieval, a bit of 1800s (because fashion is cyclical and trends come back around). Some things, I just can't use, because Newfoundland was an isolated island across the ocean from where it was. I'm using blowtorch by @simverses and so far I like it, except for using TOOL to fill in the giant hole left by the lighthouse on the island in Brindleton, where they're going to live for a while.

Rules doc in progress: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1P1fTdY0rX1WQxvIXp7FgRHDP4LRLlTvr5uyi4PrUCIM/edit?usp=sharing

Spreadsheet: https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1Yh2Il_OsJtQm89ZMg9LUiAQRApLO_dnpFbIoeiBx9jk/edit?usp=sharing

#newfoundland decades #sims 4 decades challenge #sims 4 historical #1600s #1630s #sims 4 legacy #gen 0 #1 #gameplay

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blorbocedes · 1 year

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cannot believe you have me searching for george russell videos but here we are my beloved. i need people to understand that gr is not a natural born tory, not in the way that alex and lando are. alex and lando were born to rich, bougie families. they both went to private school (lando actually went to the same school as the king of thailand, and his father is one of the uk's wealthiest people, that's how rich his family are) and it is clear in the way that they speak.

the uk is absolutely preoccupied with accent and class and the intersection of the two. the most 'acceptable' accent to have is received pronunciation, which is generally thought of as being the southern accent, but is more precisely the accent of wealthier, middle to upper class people from the home counties (the counties surrounding London), particularly the wealthier parts of London, Oxford, and Cambridge. think judi dench, vanessa kirby, stephen fry, joanna lumley, helen mirren for an accent reference.

neither alex nor lando are from these areas, lando is from Bristol and alex is from Suffolk, both of which have distinct accents of their own, but they both speak with a fairly RP accent because of their wealth, class, and education. alex's accent is 'better', it's more crisp, and captures the phonetic rhythm more accurately. it's also slightly more nasal at times than lando's form, but lando's so much whinier that his accent is always more snobbish than alex's.

george, on the other hand, is actually from the general RP area. he was raised in Wisbeach, in Cambridgeshire, so the pattern of his speech and the general way in which he forms sounds matches that of the RP accent. but if you listen to this, an interview taken when he was fourteen (his speaking starts at around the 40 second mark) you'll notice a big difference in the way that he talks to the way in which alex and lando speak. this is the point at which class comes in. now, while i'm pretty sure that george and his family are middle class, george's accent is 'common' enough to suggest that they're certainly not an upper middle class family (yes, there are layers upon layers to the british class system, yes it's stupid and terrible) and likely only lower middle class. this is also supported by the fact that george went to grammar school (a state funded school, but one that is selective and requires you to pass a test to get in) rather than a private school (there are many private schools in the area that george grew up in, and in general private schools care less if you miss lots of school for competitions etc because you're paying).

because accent is linked so much to class, and therefore access to education because the british school system is broken, having a RP accent is an instinctive indicator of wealth and intelligence. it's clear that george has put effort into his accent and ensuring that it is crisper, shortening some vowels and ensuring that he enunciates his consonants, but even so, if you listen to him here, you can still tell that he was raised and educated amidst the 'common people'. similarly, he's evidently put a lot of effort into dressing in a certain way to give the impression of wealth and sophistication. the accent, the clothes, the hobbies (see this photo of him playing croquet, this photo of him cycling in the ponciest way possible, and this photo of him cosplaying shooting at balmoral) are all carefully curated to give the impression of a man who is rich and well-educated from the upper echelons of british society. he's trying to seem like the motorsports version of hugh grant, but the accent betrays him ever so slightly.

this doesn't mean that he's not still a tory of course. he's obscenely wealthy, definitely a queen fucker, and has an almost baffling lack of charm that goes hand in hand with the belief that capitalism is a good thing and that liz truss is an acceptable choice to lead the country (we're definitely not a global laughing stock), but he's definitely not the same kind of tory as lando, though like you i don't think lando has ever voted in his life whereas george definitely had an orgasm the moment that he dropped his Conservative vote into the ballot box (we do still use actual bits of paper that you draw on with a pencil, isn't british democracy wonderful).

anon you are so out of this world in levels of scholarship. i felt like I was reading an academic paper I was nodding along, I was going why of course, yes, as if I have Any idea what differentiates a posh British accent from a common pleb 😭

this is truly... wow. you've convinced me I now believe GR is Not a trueborn posh boy silver spoon of Mayfair but is desperately trying to fit in by being the Most tory of all... something about George Trying intentionally to sound more upper class is so... George...and having a chip on his shoulder cause his peers are so effortlessly belonging to said class, like you Know lando has never thought about pronunciation once in his lifetime, he doesn't even know what the word means! or how Alex is so perfectly pleasant and well bred and his Friend but also everything that doesn't come to him with ease, that he has to carefully think about and project... I just know he saw David Beckham queuing 13 hours for the queen's ash box and if it lands him a knighthood George is gonna 🔫 Charles (prince not leclerc) himself so he can stand in line for 20 hours !!!

it feels only fitting to post this now that wet lettuce has outlived Liz Truss 🥬 lmaoooo but you're right... GR absolutely got a hard-on voting for the Conservative party... he has a little pin that says for queen and country... cheers 🥂🥂🍾

i actually love anons like this cause wow you know what You're talking about and I'm just here to make hehe joke . this is where I develop a parasocial relationship with my anons and wish you were my friend so I could spam about GR larping as a posh boy despite Being a millionaire in your dms (this is an open invite to slide) but thank you for this essay, I truly enjoyed reading it ahaha <3

#George Russell #it's about sociolinguistics it's about class it's about desperately wanting to be an extra on The Crown #George Russell's suspiciously middle class accent? 🤨📸#everyone look at the Size of this thing #adapted into my world view etc etc #once again forming a parasocial relationship with my anons #blorbocedes ask

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