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#is this even anything?

nico-di-genova · 3 days

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Late Night Talks - Strollonso

Written for the prompt: [Lance and Fernando] dead-tired in bed, curled up to each other and they keep making dumb jokes and laughing at them

Warnings: NSFW, not super explicit, but mentioned.

@raapija hopefully this is sort of what you were looking for, I started with answering your prompt and then it just sort of got away from me.

Post Singapore is quickly becoming Lance’s least favorite post-race kind of feel, second only to Qatar which exists in a league of its own. He doesn’t do well in the heat, his body acclimated to colder climates and snow that comes up to his knees. Miami is about the closest he’ll come to acceptable humidity, and only when he can couple it with the lukewarm temperature of the ocean and the salty spray that comes from zipping through the waves on the back of a boat’s tow. But Singapore is the sort of wet heat that clings to you until you can’t breathe around it, it makes driving a car for two hours in on-the-limit conditions near impossible.

“I feel disgusting,” he complains to Fernando, drying the back of his wet hair with a hotel towel and grimacing. He still feels like he has sweat clogging his pores, embedded in his hair follicles, couldn’t seem to get himself clean no matter how hard he scrubbed at his skin.

Fernando, who had taken a shower in his own room because if they had shared it wouldn’t have resulted in attempting to get clean at all, wears a matching expression of discomfort. He’s sprawled across Lance’s bed, in nothing but his boxers and normally that would inspire something in Lance. But sex, especially with Fernando, is a sweaty endeavor and he would like to avoid adding to his already uncomfortable state.

Doesn’t stop him from getting hard anyway, noticeably tenting the towel low on his hips.

Fernando arches an eyebrow, peaks down at Lance through heavy-lidded eyes.

“No, ignore that.”

“Hard to ignore,” Fernando quips, but he’s just as exhausted as Lance and it shows when he doesn’t make an effort to sit up and pull Lance closer. Instead he closes his eyes and readjusts his arm where it’s resting under his head, lets out a sigh that Lance knows is a prelude to quiet snores.

“Don’t fall asleep there,” he complains, shucking off the towel long enough to slide on his own underwear, “You’re taking up the whole bed, asshole.”

He still needs to brush his teeth, probably make an attempt at skincare before the grime of the day sets in and breakouts quickly follow. But standing is beginning to take a lot of effort. It’s like he can feel the weight of the heat bearing down on his shoulders, even though they’re inside, can still feel it pressing on his chest. It’s a good thing they have a late flight tomorrow because Lance’s future plans include nothing more but sleeping until the bone deep exhaustion makes its way out of him.

Fernando hasn’t moved, still lays with his knees hanging off the bed, one arm flung out beside him, legs spread just as wide, like he’s intentionally trying to take up as much space as possible. He nudges Fernando’s knee with his own and it’s the only warning the man gets before Lance is collapsing down beside him, the full weight of him landing on Fernando’s outstretched arm and half on top of his body. They’re laying sideways on the bed, and Lance is too tall for this, immediately finds it uncomfortable. But Fernando smells nice, and he’s warm where Lance presses up against him, so he allows it for the time being. Even if Fernando’s arm is bony and uncomfortable where it’s digging into Lance’s side.

“You are still wet,” Fernando grumbles, still with his eyes closed, still half-asleep, “Off.”

“It’s my bed, old man,”

They share a hotel room most nights now, the separate bookings nothing more than a charade, but they are still technically in Lance’s room. Ignoring Fernando’s griping, he presses closer, throws a leg over the man’s body, finds the crook of Fernando’s neck and nuzzles his nose there, lets his wet hair brush against Fernando’s cheek, until Fernando is wriggling away in discomfort. Annoyance is not a tactic he employs frequently, nor is it one that typically works on Fernando, but it works tonight.

“Like a soggy cat,” Fernando chastises, and then sits up, taking his comforting scent and presence with him.

Lance smiles, satisfied, shifts until he’s right way up on the bed and can let his damp hair soak into the pillows. Fernando lets him get comfortable and then he lays back down, this time with his head resting on Lance’s chest, an area devoid of the moisture from the shower. His breathing evens out pretty quickly, tells Lance he’s quickly drifting back toward unconsciousness. One of his hands splays across Lance’s bare stomach, low enough that his fingers brush along the hair there.

And now it’s his turn to be annoying, because Fernando knows he’s sensitive, uses it to his advantage when he lets his pinkie inch down further.

“This is a dangerous game,” he warns, feels himself grow harder in his underwear.

He can feel when Fernando smiles against him, prickly beard rubbing against the raw skin of his chest with the curl of his lips, “You don’t want to play?”

“Too tired. It would be pretty boring, anyway. I don’t wanna move,” Lance lying flat on his back, Fernando half asleep, both of them pawing at each other’s dicks with flagging interest until the exhaustion won out and the draining adrenaline finally took the last bit of energy they had left. He doubts he could even cum, as tired as he is. And if he did he’d have to trudge back to the shower because no way is he waking up in the morning with cum dried tacky on his stomach alongside the inevitable sweat from being pressed next to Fernando, the human furnace, during the night.

Fernando laughs, quiet, rumbling, “You are a pillow princess anyway.”

“Hey.”

“Is true.”

“It is n-“ he thinks of last night, how Fernando had tried to goad Lance into riding him and he’d made himself more at home on his back. He liked looking up at Fernando, liked burying his head in the crook of his neck and scratching desperately at his back. All things that were pretty hard to do if he was sitting in the air having to dictate the rhythm himself. Lance wasn’t lazy, he just knew what he liked, so sue him.

Fernando knows he’s won when Lance changes the subject. “How do you even know that word?” he’s absentmindedly threading his fingers through Fernando’s hair, the strands mostly dry where Lance’s was still soaking into the pillow. His hair is soft, always well-maintained, soothes something inside Lance because the texture is familiar.

Fernando hums, pleased. Lance tries not to preen at the sound. Pillow princess his ass, he likes to make Fernando feel good too. He can put in the work. If the work is done easily on the comfort of his back.

“I am only forty-two, Lance. Not so old I do not know things.”

“One foot in the grave practically.”

Fernando scoffs, pinches Lance’s stomach in retaliation, “Yes. We go shopping for my headstone tomorrow, pick out flowers.”

Age used to be a thing between them. Back when this started a year ago. When Lance was twenty-four and Fernando still looked at him like he was seeing that kid standing in the Ferrari garage. It had been a thing approximately until the moment Lance took matters into his own hands, took Fernando’s cock in his mouth with practiced ease and any internalized war Fernando was fighting went right out the window. And then it had resurfaced with force the first time Fernando fucked him so hard he was sobbing into the sheets, the sex quickly aborted when Fernando got scared he’d done something wrong, no matter how many times Lance tried to promise it was only that he’d been doing everything right. So they’d had to have a serious discussion, establish boundaries, ensure Lance was in the right headspace to be in a relationship with a man he’d known since he was nine. Now they could joke about it, had put in the work so that the gap in their ages no longer mattered.

“A suit too?” Lance teases, accompanying the press of his words with the pads of his fingers against the base of Fernando’s skull, a pressure he knows helps because of all the times Fernando has done it for him.

Fernando laughs again, more gravely, barely there, “We are planning a funeral or a wedding?”

Lance thinks, stares up at the ceiling and tries to think of a reply that won’t leave him sounding strangled. Wedding. He is startled to find he likes that word, likes it coming from Fernando’s mouth with the concept of Fernando being the person waiting for him at the altar.

“Both. Two birds with one stone,” and then the image of a funeral wedding, both of them standing in a half-dug grave, an arch being replaced with a gravestone, becomes suddenly so funny he can’t stop giggling at the thought of it. “We could leave the reception in a hearse.”

It maybe speaks to his level of exhaustion that he can’t seem to stop laughing at the nonsensical turn in the conversation.

Fernando is still smiling, Lance can still feel it, “You are weird.” He says, and Lance can hear the alternate meaning in the statement, how fond it sounds.

“Been called worse,” Lance jokes, makes sure it stays that, because they both know there’s an element of truth to it. “You almost podium and you are talking about funeral weddings. Strange.”

Oh, yeah, P4. Singapore maybe had taken so much out of him because he’d pushed himself to nearly P3 with nothing but pure spite to fuel him. .3 of a second back from Sergio, chasing the unfamiliar sight of a Red Bull to the finish. He’d felt the desperate need to make up for last year, shut up a certain faction of people that couldn’t seem to keep his name out of their mouths. It wasn’t a podium though, only nearly one, so he still wasn’t particularly satisfied. Fernando had carried most of the excitement for him, praising him in post-race interviews and hugging him as soon as they climbed out of their cars. Lance had already seen pictures of the moment caught from his still active onboard, Fernando’s hand drifting to its natural place at his waist, the other on the back of his helmet. There was of course no sound, so no one had heard the praise Fernando showered him with before they went to be weighed.

‘So proud, cariño. So proud.’

“Almost a podium, Nano. It was P4,” Lance says now, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand, slinking down further into the pillows. Fernando shuffles with the movement, until he’s beside Lance and then they’re both on their sides, parallel to each other. Fernando’s arm wraps around his waist, pulls him closer.

Lance studies the wrinkles forming at the corners of Fernando’s eyes, reaches out to trail the pad of his thumb along them. It is probably one of his favorite features, the mark of years’ worth of laughter. Lance likes to think of Fernando happy, likes when he can make Fernando smile enough that the lines deepen. He doesn’t like when Fernando presses his lips together as he’s doing now, a thin line of dissatisfaction.

“Still a good result.”

Lance concedes, “Yeah, it wasn’t bad.” Could have been better, would have been if he’d been able to manage his tires better on the entry to turn seven like his engineer had requested.

He yawns again, curls closer to Fernando so now he’s the one with his head tucked under Fernando’s chin. If they were still outside, still in their cars, the warmth rolling off Fernando would be unbearable. But the temperature of the hotel has been set to freezing, so his body is beginning to return to a stable level of self-regulation.

“Next time you will get around Perez.”

“He’s in a rocket ship, man. You want me to teleport to P3?” He mumbles against Fernando’s neck, eyes drifting shut, weight of his body sinking further into the mattress.

“Lawrence can hire people. Make that possible. He would invent this for you, I think.”

They both laugh, and then Fernando is rambling something about holding Sergio back next race, letting Lance take P3, and then P2 and then, impossibly, they both know, P1. It’s half in French, half in the bits of Spanish Lance is picking up but is too tired to follow, and then it trails off into nothing because Fernando finally lets the exhaustion win. Lance follows behind not long after.

When they wake in the morning it is to the ringing of Fernando’s phone, to the frantic texts buzzing through on Lance’s. They missed their flight, which means the morning sex isn’t rushed. It means that Lance gets to lay on his back, lazy and selfish, while Fernando teases him but continues to thrust with measured accuracy above him. He lets Fernando mark the skin at the nape of his neck as compensation for doing all the work, lets him suck at the soft skin there until Lance is sure the hickey will take a while to fade.

And maybe Singapore isn’t that bad after all. Despite the heat. Lance thinks he could justify the humidity like he does for Miami, if P4, senseless late night talks, and Fernando’s smile when Lance pants his name are the reward for enduring the climate. It all feels worth it in the end.

#strollonso #strollonso fic #my fic #I once again ask #is this even anything?#at this point I think I write about them just to senselessly ramble #idk if this is even good tbh

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cryptidmak · 1 year

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This is so stupid and badly made, but I couldn't stop thinking about it

#the owl house #post hoot #caleb wittebane #evelyn clawthorne #is this even anything?

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lesbianwithchainsaws · 2 years

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One thought I'm having right now is about just how often the study group calls Abed a robot or a computer. And how he even starts calling himself that. Like I don't think he believes that at all, but when you've heard something be said to you so many times, eventually you're gonna end up repeating it. And maybe even start believing the words to a certain level. Like poor Abed, who has spent his entire life watching movies and TV in an attempt to study people and how they're like, so he can understand what others do and think and feel. So he can talk to them and try to connect with them like everyone else does. Abed who has spent his life trying so hard only for it to never be enough, to the point where he eventually just gave up trying and started being himself despite how many times his friends and family call him not normal or a robot.

And then, when he's himself, there's finally someone who gets him. Maybe not fully, but there's a small group of people that try and there's Troy who actually kinda understands him. And that's got to be the best thing ever. And there's still comments on how different he is, but there's one person who doesn't believe that.

And I fully believe that Abed eventually had enough of all these comments. Remember the episode where the dean calls him special and Abed does this whole scene about bad writing in detective shows and making the main character autistic. He's been called so many things and here it goes again, and so he just says that. He puts this whole speech on being treated differently and then leaves because that's enough already.

Because people are saying he's all these things and he doesn't have empathy, and etc etc. Even though it's so obvious that he cares. It's just not always shown in the same way that the others do. And people call him weird, to the point where he calls himself weird. People say all these things about him that he fully wholeheartedly starts believing when, at the end of the day, all he's ever wanted was to be understood. To be heard and to not have to be alone. After all, is that not the most human thing out there? We all want people who get us. We all want to fit in and not have to face the world alone. He's just as human as everyone else, but he's the only one that doesn't get that same treatment.

#It's almost midnight; I should be going to sleep but I am instead plagued by this #I just started thinking about how he's probably the most relatable character out there to me and this all happened #and I've been compared to non-human things before a lot as well so like him being called these things makes me scream #I'm sorry I'm having so many Abed Nadir thoughts and AAAAAAAAAAAA #is this even anything?#does this even make sense?#am I just writing incoherent bullshit? maybe #I don't know #but here you go #community #Abed Nadir #community nbc

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tdjustess · 2 years

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#total drama #is this even anything?

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anicehomicidaltree · 5 months

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God I fucking hate adhd so fucking much. I’m literally sitting here unable to do a presentation that reasonably wouldn’t even be that hard to make, with a headache from not eating because I guess this shit brain won’t let me eat because I haven’t done the work I need to do. And won’t let me go to sleep either because I already bided(bid?) my time last week where I was meant to hold the presentation and haven’t done it till now either. I hate this shit so much why can’t I do these simple fucking things??? And then my teachers look at me as if it’s my fucking choice to not be able to do the shit that my peers are able to do with ease. As if I’m not so fucking frustrated by my incompetence to achieve the most basic of things. As if I’m not ashamed. They fucking ask me why I didn’t ask for help as if it isn’t humiliating to have to ask for assistance on the most basic tasks in the highest form of education below university in this country. I’m expected to be able to do these things but I fucking can’t. I cheated my way into this shitty school and now I’m feeling the effects. I’m too honest of a fucking person to just slap a shitty handout together and hold a shitty presentation and too much of a fucking liar to own up to not having done my assignment. Adhd is all fun and cute until it’s the middle of the night and you are sitting here paralyzed in fear and indecision about something that, in the grand scheme of your life won’t matter for shit

#i wish I could just fucking be normal #I wouldn’t get rid of my adhd if I could but in moments like these I wish I could just turn that shit off #I hate it I hate it so much #sorry #is this even anything?#vent post #i fucking guess #tree mumblings

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alienjaes · 4 months

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A fabric tote bag that has hobbit houses all over it, rolling fields, bucolic landscape, and at the top of the bag/hill is Bag End

#alienwords #is this even anything?#post-nap me's going off the pot

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nerdindispair · 2 years

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Living with anxiety is like having a pebble in your shoe. Sometimes it disappears into a corner and you forget it was even there, walking happily through life, on sure steps. But then something shifts. It makes itself present again. Pressing uncomfortably, making every little step, the smallest of movements, increasingly painful and harder until you're fearful to move at all

#anxiety #fun little midnight thoughts #is this even anything?#I'm too tired to tell #or care

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captainjonnitkessler · 5 months

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Sometimes I wish we would start calling out the performative radicalism on this site for the poser bullshit it is. "Remember, it's always morally correct to kill a cop!" "Don't forget to firebomb your local government office!" "Wow, it sure would be a shame if these instructions on how to make a molotov cocktail got spread around!"

Okay. But you're not killing cops or firebombing government offices. You are posting on a dying microblogging website to a carefully-curated echo chamber that has radicalized itself into thinking that taking the absolute most extreme position on any subject is praxis but that anyone discussing the most practical way to effect actual change is your sworn enemy. You do not have the street cred OR the activist cred to be talking about killing cops, babe.

#thinking about the person i saw saying that if you're at a protest #and other protesters try to stop you from becoming violent you should just kill them bc 'peace police are still police'#even taken as hyperbole that's simply dumb as shit on every conceivable level #it's also pretty blatantly hypocritical coming from people who are usually self-avowed prison/death penalty abolitionists #like i'm sorry but you don't get to be a death penalty abolitionist and also call for the death of your political enemies online #this isn't a major issue or anything i'm just bored and annoyed

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romanceyourdemons · 9 months

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so much love for characters who are desperately unsure whether they’re a good person, a redeemable person, a person worth saving, but are absolutely certain that they’re a grade a hottie

#‘can i ever really absolve myself of my crimes? do i even want to? am i guilty everything—or of anything at all?#except for the crime of having an ass too fat i’m never beating those allegations’#ryddles

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ardri-na-bpiteog · 2 months

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Also increasingly aware that a LOT of people "manage" getting through the 40+ hour work week by sleeping less than is healthy and relying on stimulants like coffee and energy drinks to keep them going.

For people who are unwilling or unable to do this...work really does just dominate your life. Like we really should not have to rely on unhealthy practices just to have a social life or keep on top of housework or whatever.

I know I post about this a lot but I'm so TIRED all the time and it's just so depressing that this is how we're expected to spend the one life we have.

#i have to get at least 8 hours of sleep a night to even barely function #with sleep #getting ready for work #commute #cooking #and errands #I typically have maybe 2-3 hours to actually do what i want in a day #and I'm usually too tired to actually do the things i want to do #and that's with a very short commute #if i actually had a long commute I'd basically do nothing but work #i see my friends like once every few weeks or months #because we're all so fucking busy with work and have such little time for socialising #and none of us even have kids or anything!!

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