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writer

[cashmeremars]

𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐠

.𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ mars. twenty-three. she/her. poc. writer. cabin 8.⊹₊⟡⋆

current obsessions: films, music, peter parker, marvel, f1, robert pattinson, challengers, zendaya, clark kent, yellowjackets 

₊˚⊹ ᰔ  masterlist  ₊˚⊹ ᰔ  fic recs  ₊˚⊹ ᰔ  request rules   ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

💌 → requests are currently closed. inbox is open. ──★ ˙🍓 ̟ !!

updated 10.13.2025 

divider from @uzmacchiato​.

[hisfavoriteweepingangel]

1.0k~ art donaldson x black!fem reader. a sweet little post for one of my favs @scariffs . college fling, simple crushes. it's nice to know tennis doesnt have to be the basis of a happy relationship. partially reread.

the summer sun flows in through the window. its rays dancing with the singing cicadas. the same cicadas that tend to keep you up during poorly timed naps and break your intense focus while trying to study. your tan lines are prominent this time of the year thanks to the sun peaking at 2pm and setting after 8pm. you don't really mind. sometimes they serve as the perfect accessory to a cute look.

the soft air of the fan touches your skin. it's too hot for it to blow anywhere else even with its close proximity. your fingers rest at the nape of his neck. your pointed nails gingerly grazing his skin, combing through his blonde curls as his head rests on your shoulder. it's too hot for the two of you to be so close. your nearly "too long" braids were pulled back into a relaxed pony at first, though eventually to keep the hair off of your neck you reached for a sturdy claw clip.

a few weeks ago you couldn't seem to shake him. at first it was just on the court. you'd see him occasionally before matches. stretching. warming up. practicing. the muscles in his arms flexing with every movement as if trying to impress you. on campus. in the cafeteria. in the library. laughing a little louder than necessary, smiling a little wider. stopping to hold the door open for you. and suddenly he began appearing off campus too. maybe it's because you were looking for him. maybe that's why he as everywhere you were. maybe you had a lot in common.

all you knew now was that you didn't want to shake him.

he hums into the fan thinking back to your match. the one that caught his attention. where you caught his attention.

you'd won a flawless victory. with the back of your hand you wiped sweat off of your forehead. beaming as you accepted your trophy and posed for a quick picture. dark curls seemed to pour out from underneath your visor as you tilted your chin up slightly so the sun could catch your face. you were so proud that you could hardly believe you almost never picked up a racket. after a moment of light contemplation, he said "I think you handled that very well." but he sounded unsure. like maybe he shouldn't be coaching you on know how to compose yourself like any adult should. you kind of smiled. your brows knitting together at the comment. you yourself unsure on whether or not this was another quiet attack. it wasn't.

you confirmed that after his glance fell and he licked his lips.

the girl refused to shake your hand after the match. she was irritated. a sore loser, but you didn't mind because at the end of the day whatever she thought didn't matter.

"oh. thanks. thank you."

he's lost for a moment. his blonde hair caught in the gentle breeze before his gaze flits between yours and the trophy before he settles on the fact that maintaining eye contact is the polite thing to do. "congratulations by the way." he praises thoughtfully, gesturing to the prize in your hands. you offer a polite smile and a small nod. "thank you." you pause for a second. when he doesn't step off you continue. "Atticus, right?" tilting your head and squinting your eyes trying to recall the boys name- swearing you've heard it around campus before. and you have and you know it, but you don't mind double checking. he cringes. the light catching his blonde hair nicely as he makes a face, his freckles shifting as he scrunches his nose and chuckles softly. "Art. Art's fine."

he caught you one night, late, in a quiet corner of one of the common areas. your braids tied back with a scarf and your laptop on your thighs with a notebook, a text book and several papers scattered about as you tried focusing. and most would've left you to it. but he didn't. instead he offered you some food and kept you company for a while.

he sat on the floor, just a bit away from you. you later would learn his distance was due to hearing you complain about the smell of cigarettes once while with your friends. and the smell clung to him. it clung to the breath and the fabric of his hoodie in the chilled dorm buildings. it clung to him and right now you didn't mind. right now it wasn't as important as the way his eyes kept drifting over to you.

"i fucking hate this class," you grumbled, rubbing the exhaustion from your eyes. and he nodded. a simple "me too." leaving his lips even though he didn't have it.

art was completely sober when he asked you. because he was driving. the timing was awful, but he knew he'd be hurt if he saw you kiss someone else- especially with how his friend kept staring at you. and when you woke up the next morning you couldn't quite remember what happened. there was coffee, a breakfast sandwich and pain meds on your desk with a note. you figured your roommate ran some early errands but instead of her name the note read 'Art' and for the first time in ages the uneasy ache in your chest faded into soft butterflies in your stomach fluttering for your attention.

"I don't remember ordering housekeeping," you joked

and still he arranges those same things whenever he finds you hungover.

though, it was strange seeing him so serious.

"i don't want to mess up whatever we have. but i really like you"

"okay."

he choked, blinking back his surprise, his blue eyes almost cold as he stared at you. "okay?"

"mhm. okay." you smile. shrugging almsot dismissively. he's a big boy. he can use his words.

it takes him another week and a half to actually say the words "will you be my girlfriend." and you wait very patiently, humoring him whenever he tried to hold your hand.

and now he pressed a kiss to your cheek. his arms wrapping around you and despite the smile on your lips, you groan. feigning disgust as art litters your face with a bothersome amount of kisses and even if it is too hot out you really don't mind.

[deadpoets]

OSCAR PIASTRI Isle of Man TT Race

[foxlaren]

my top 5 oscar piastri expressions

5 - Boyfriend Smile

4 - did not hear what the fuck you just said

3 - 'ehrmmm'

2 - looking up at other men

1 - SMUG

[foxlaren]

the way this post did crazy numbers lmao smug oscar has everyone in a chokehold

[swagmonster63]

"brocedes 2.0!" you must not understand the gravity of the situation that was lewis hamilton and nico rosberg. you must not have heard the tales.

[alexturntable]

[cemeteryseven]

my great-grandmas kitchen window

[moonlightproblems]

Lipstick and Little Paws

Charles Leclerc x Girlfriend!reader

Synopsis: Charles comes home to find his girlfriend kissing their dachshund, Leo, and leaving a bright red lipstick mark on his fur — and instead of protesting, he melts. The tiny kiss becomes their soft little ritual, with Charles secretly loving every mark she leaves on both her boys.

Moonlight Radio: loosely based on the fact that Alex loves kissing little Leo, leaving a red lipstick mark 💋

PATREON: Exclusive Content

ʙᴇ ɴɪᴄᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɪɴᴛᴇʀɴᴇᴛ. ᴛʜᴇ ɪᴍᴘᴀᴄᴛ ɪꜱ ʙɪɢɢᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ♡

Leo is already wiggling his whole sausage‑shaped body before you even step fully into the living room. His tail thumps against the sofa like he’s trying to drum out a victory song, and you barely have time to drop your bag before he launches himself at your legs.

“Hi, bébé,” you coo, scooping him up. “Did you miss me?”

He answers by licking your chin with the enthusiasm of a creature who has never known restraint.

You laugh, kiss the top of his head, and—because you can’t help yourself—press a bright red lipstick kiss right onto the soft fur between his ears. A perfect little mark. Your signature.

Leo looks extremely pleased with himself.

From the kitchen, you hear a dramatic gasp.

“Oh my god,” Charles says, appearing in the doorway like he’s caught you committing a crime. “You did it again.”

You blink at him innocently. “Did what?”

He points at Leo, who is now proudly trotting around the room like a tiny runway model showing off his new accessory. “That. The lipstick. You’ve marked him.”

“He looks cute,” you say, shrugging.

“He looks like he’s been claimed,” Charles mutters, crossing the room to scoop Leo up. “Mon dieu, look at you. You’re ridiculous.”

Leo licks his nose.

Charles kisses the lipstick mark.

You raise a brow. “You’re kissing my lipstick?”

“I’m kissing my dog,” he says, but he’s blushing, and you know exactly what he’s doing. He kisses the mark again, softer this time. “Maybe also the lipstick.”

You laugh, leaning against the back of the sofa. “You’re obsessed.”

He doesn’t deny it. He never does.

Instead, he carries Leo over to you, settling beside you with the dachshund sprawled across both your laps like a warm loaf of bread. Charles’s arm slides around your waist automatically, like muscle memory.

“You know,” he says, brushing a thumb over the lipstick stain, “every time you do this, I feel like you’re marking both of us.”

You tilt your head. “Both?”

He nods, eyes soft. “Him because he’s your baby. And me because… well.” He shrugs, suddenly shy. “Because I like knowing you’re here. With us.”

Your heart melts embarrassingly fast.

You lean in and kiss his cheek—slow, warm, leaving a faint red smudge behind.

Charles freezes.

Then he beams.

“Now we match,” you say.

He immediately pulls out his phone. “We are taking a picture. Right now. I need this.”

You groan, but he’s already opening the camera, angling it so all three of you fit in the frame: Charles with his lipstick smudge, you with your messy hair and soft smile, and Leo proudly displaying his bright red kiss like a medal of honour.

Charles snaps the photo, looks at it, and his whole face softens.

“This is perfect,” he murmurs.

You rest your head on his shoulder. “You’re very sentimental today.”

“I’m always sentimental,” he says, kissing your temple. “You just pretend not to notice.”

Leo barks once, like he’s agreeing.

Charles laughs, rubbing his ears. “See? Even he knows.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “Fine. Maybe I like marking my boys.”

Charles’s eyes flick to yours, warm and a little overwhelmed. “Good,” he says quietly. “Because your boys like being marked.”

You kiss him again—this time on the lips, slow and sweet—and when you pull back, he’s wearing the same red shade you are.

Leo wiggles between you, demanding attention.

Charles scoops him up, kisses the lipstick mark again, and sighs happily.

“Ma vie est parfaite,” he says into Leo’s fur. “My life is perfect.”

ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍʏ ᴏᴡɴ - ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴘʏ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ.

ɪᴛ’ꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀʀᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴋɪɴᴅ, ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴛɪɴɢ.

[babielamb]

soft like honey with a heart full of flowers

[1995-9]

[zendeyas]

Anok Yai wearing GUCCI – 2026 Cruise Show

[shymagnolia]

so I got into grad school today with my shitty 2.8 gpa and the moral of the story is reblog those good luck posts for the love of god

[shymagnolia]

okay so i just got my dream job??? a week after applying to it?? and now i’m thinking….maybe this is the good luck post

[flagellant]

…..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment

likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post

[coffee-or-hot-cocoa]

i need all the help i can get for finals

[finnglas]

Hey so

the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like. 

So you know. 

This might be the real one, y’all.

[avhira]

I could use some luck

[questionableaardvark]

things have been shit,

PLEASE DO SOMETHING GOOD UNIVERSE IM BEGGING AND PLEASING ON MY KNEES PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD HELP ME PLEASE!!!

<3

[hollyyy555]

diego y gael: gooberfication

[anotherbummer]

marvel studios presents the moon boys

[fic-dumpster]

[twentytomidnight]

i have a boyfriend, batman

Bruce Wayne/Reader, 1K

a/n: something based off of an ask my friend @stormy-tenderheart left in my inbox :)

cw: identity concealment, offscreen violence, reader does not know Bruce is Batman, gn!reader (no description of features/clothing)

masterlist ao3 requests

PREVIEW:

Bruce learns about the more difficult aspects of the vigilante double life. Bruce Wayne/Reader

"Oh my god—"—You cycle a broken, clipped breath through the trembling length of your body—"—Thank you."

It's all you can do to look doe-eyed up to the savior of the hour, the titan that seems to be half-absorbed in the stygian shadows that he came from. From whence he emerged, to banish the monsters away.

There's a shadow of a hand. It is gloved and glossy-sleek and slick with blood that darts across the distance, that steadies a hand against the column of your arms. One that keeps you afloat, one that keeps you stable, in the unmoored passage of thought making pinwheeling motion through your mind.

You finally achieve verbality, finally find visual comprehension at the stark figure that looms in your vision—your hero.

"Thank you for saving my life." You assert upwards towards him, who has such comfortable ironclad grip upon you. Who maintains a mobile hold upon you as you sway in the intransigence of the moment. Who zeroes in upon the muddled affairs of your expression. How your eyes have yet to find acuity on anything through the haze.

"Of course." He states, and his voice seems to rumble in deep cadence through you, reinvigorate the stymied rhythm of your heart. "Are you alright?"

His hand grips tighter by greater extent on your arms—not to harm, but to reground. To ensure that you are rooted in the now, rather than the trauma of minutes before.

"Yes—"—This attempt at speech is dazed, so you make secondary attempt to seem better oriented—"—Thank you."

He angles his head, gauging you in brief evaluation. Comprehending nuances that you still remain unaware of.

"Can I help you get home?" He asks. There's a level of concern that breaks through—disbelievingly, you slowly come to conclusion that the Batman is concerned for you.

"No—"—You raise a hand, though his own remain planted upon the length of you—"—I'm alright."

Something warming, more reassuring, bleeds into his voice—more surprises that Gotham's vigilante carries such nuance to himself.

"I wouldn't want you to be left alone." He states.

And perhaps it's the befuddled state that you are in, the manner in which everything has been so uprooted. But you could swear that there is something more than platonic concern for a fellow citizen, layered in undercurrent on his voice. Something more than congenial in the way his hands have supported you—as they have become shoals of heat upon you in harboring clutch.

This is what motivates you to speak, allows your eyes to narrow ever-so-slightly, to direct such bold statement his way.

"It's okay, Batman, sir—"—You later curse yourself for such choice of wording—"—I—I have a partner."

The statement insists upon the two of you with such gravity, affecting the atmosphere between you both tense. Not uncomfortably so—but with something rather implacable. Unreadable.

To your surprise, the Batman's face does not draw indiscernible. Rather, you think that there is a whisper of a smile that drapes over those full lips, sets that strong jaw in such striking exhibition.

"Oh, is that so?" He inquires, and his voice rolls through you with such bass it's a welcome necessity that he holds you.

"Yes—"—You admit, allowing a thick swallow to staunch the flow of breath you so very much need—"—And not that you're not handsome—"

—At this, you swear that you can feel the arch of his brow radiate through the guise of the cowl, but you press on regardless—"—But I love my partner Bruce very much."

You know you're not imagining the touch of humor that is so very deeply ingrained in this next inquiry.

"I know him?" The Batman asks—never let it be said that this vigilante had no sense of humor. His touch relaxes on you. Perhaps he assumes that if you can make ardent declarations of love on behalf of absent third parties, you can make your way home.

Something odd percolates in the swoop of your stomach as you wonder what Bruce would think, were he witness to this development of circumstances.

"I—I sure hope not." You finally settle upon as sufficing answer. "I like his pretty face as is."

And finally, the Batman relinquishes you. Though you are certain that there is something lingering in the way that his fingers slip away, leaving lasting felt impression.

"I won't stop you, then." The Batman makes in unmistakable smile, before he returns to the shadows from whence he came.

It is a situation that has you in delicate undoing for the next morning. Especially as you cuddle your boyfriend who has remained amused spectator to the repeated renditions of the story you have regaled.

"Oh god—"—You feel consumed by an ongoing apopleptic fit of embarrassment—"—I think he was just looking out for me."

You clench your balled fists against your temples as Bruce soothes a calming hand up and down your arm—the very same arm that the Batman held no less than one night previous. How different, yet how oddly similar that they feel in comparison.

Bruce is noble in resisting his charmed smile at your suffering. "I appreciate you standing up for my honor, though."

"Of course—"—You turn and regard him with disbelief, as though you would choose to do otherwise, and groan, slumping back against the back of the couch. Bruce is game to support you through this, rubbing that comforting press of fingers against you.

"But now Batman's never going to save me again." You moan in disdain up to the arched ceiling above you both. And this prevents you from spotting the implicative—albeit fond gaze—that Bruce locates upon the meter of your body.

"I don't know if I would say that," Bruce says, prompting the ascent of your eyes to find his. His free hand makes diligent route up your chin to bid you look up at him.

"In fact, if I were him—I think I'd be looking out for you more often."

"You're just saying that to make me feel better." You turn back grumpily, still flustered with the conclusion of previous events.

"No," Bruce declares as he persuades you closer for a kiss, "I'd venture to say you must have captured his attention, instead."

dividers and banners made by me :)

[fear-is-truth]

notwithstanding several dates together, rodrick heffley remains a novice in the realm of physical intimacy.

aside from the perfunctory cheek smooches of aunt dorothy (which, for his dignity's sake, are omitted from the record) he possesses no repertoire when it comes to this sort of thing. apparently, "indirect kissing" is included in that lack of expertise. now, with his tongue stained a chemical cherry-crimson and his mouth slightly agape, he stares like a deer in headlights as you dip your head to steal a sip from his slushy.

"do i have something on my lip?" you ask, tilting your head with faux-innocence. "huh? no," he stammers, brain stalling from the inhalation of flavoured ice crystals laced with liquid syrup.

"you sure?"

"uh, yeah. yeah." squinting, he leans closer, brows knitting together with a level of concentration that is as hopeless as it is endearing. amused, you decide to end the suspense by smashing your lips firmly against his. a startled mhmph! escapes him, but the shock proves fleeting; instinct soon overrides the confusion, as he begins to melt into the kiss.

later, back at the heffley residence, you poke your head into the den to greet the family. greg looks up from his video game, his expression shifting from genuine warmth at your arrival to visceral annoyance the moment his brother slinks in behind you. the source of his revulsion is clear: as you and rodrick stand hand-in-hand, you both playfully protrude your tongues. they are now a matching, garish shade of purple—the product of rodrick's red slushy mingling with your blue.

[be-like-audrey-hepburn]

Audrey on the set of “Funny Face”