a never ending midnight sun!

summer isn't over yet !!

[lovesickgrlsrh0t]

(🌺) she/her. -`♡´-

eliana. °‧ ⋆☀︎. occasional writer. chronic yapper. 18+.

lover girl. black. bisexual. 🍉. theater dork. yearner.

music + media connoisseur. challengers enthusiast. jack abbot whore. ladygirl.

socials : ʚ✩ɞ tiktok pinterest | talk to me whenever.ᐟ.ᐟ

[fiourandfiower]

Something that I think we need to call out more in fandoms is the blatant racism towards black female characters, especially when they are love interests. I feel that everytime there is a black female love interest, the fandom completely neglects her and rushes to ship the MC with another character that is most of the time white. And then racist fans try to hide behind “oh well I just don’t ship them!” and it’s pathetic. Adding onto this I think that a lot of ppl in fandoms try to deny/ignore that female black characters can be feminine. People try to default being black as an inherently masculine thing when not only is it not true but it is just downright racist. Let black characters be fun and feminine and let them be loved!!!

[yourlonelypoet]

fuck. june 25. fuck.

[lovesickgrlsrh0t]

The Daily Grind (Of Pushing Your Buttons)

NOTES: what is up guys !! finally i've been released from the shackles of life to have enough time to post 4 u all. i hope u enjoy patrick n honey's first meeting as much as i do; there's a LOT more where this came from!

Patrick Zweig stared at the industrial espresso machine like it had personally insulted him. He hated the chrome. He hated the cheap canvas apron tied around his waist. Most of all, he hated his mother.

If he closed his eyes, he could still hear Eleanor’s Zweig’s icy, disappointed voice echoing through their high-ceilinged dining room two weeks ago. “Somehow, you’ve managed to crash a seventy-thousand-dollar Mercedes into a fire hydrant because you couldn’t be bothered to look at the road, Patrick. Your father and I are no longer going to be bothered to put a roof over your head; consider yourself cut off. I suggest you start filling out applications.”

So here he was. Stripped of his allowance, working a grueling 6:00 AM shift at The Daily Grind to pay off a stupid bill for a stupid car. He was furious, trapped in a cage of his own incompetence, and fully prepared to project that misery onto every single person who crossed his path.

Then, there was her.

“Hi, I’m Y/N!” She had chirped three hours ago, her voice way too alert for the current hour.

She was a self-admitted walking disaster of unhinged energy. Her eyes were bloodshot from what she remarked was a late-night doomscrolling spiral, and she was currently shotgunning a Red Bull like her life depended on it. Yet, despite clearly running on three percent battery, she had spent the entire morning being sickeningly, agonizingly nice to him.

She had offered him her favorite pastel markers to label the milk pitchers. She had pointed out her sticker labels on the flavor syrups, a grin stretching across her cheeks. She’d even tried to start a conversation about some film currently in theaters.

Her genuine kindness made Patrick feel like even more of an asshole, which only fueled his irritation. He didn’t want to be welcomed. He was here to serve mediocre coffee, fit every customer’s perfect ‘hot barista’ fantasy, and wallow in his own self pity. He couldn’t handle her warmth, the way she genuinely wanted to help when was entirely coated in bitter resentment.

So he put up his armor.

Patrick channeled every ounce of pompous arrogance, masking his miserable mood behind a flawless, hyper-competent facade. He moved behind the bar with effortless precision, pulling perfect shots and throwing out flirty smiles just to prove he was too good for this place. Every time she tried to help, he shut her down with a cool, patronizing pat on the shoulder. “Thanks, sunshine. I think I’ve got it handled.”

By 10 AM, the rush had died down into a comfortable trickle of customers. Patrick stood by the register, wiping down his steam wand with sharp strokes. His chest felt tight. He felt guilty for freezing her out, but his pride refused to let him back down.

Y/N was leaning on the counter next to him, taking a sip of matcha as she stared blankly ahead. Patrick leaned his elbows on the counter, invading her personal space. If he was going to survive working with this aggressively jolly woman, he needed to establish some boundaries. He needed her to stop being so damn nice to him. He forced a lazy smirk on his face.

“So, sunshine. I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. I’m Patrick.” He extended a hand, the offer wrapped in a layer of smooth, unearned confidence.

She blinked her eyes at him. The sarcastic nickname seemed to bounce right off her sleep-deprived brain, and she simply nodded. Then, she paused. “Wait,” Y/N murmured, “I thought we were cool.”

Patrick cleared his throat, leaning in a fraction closer to mask his amusement, his voic dropping into a practiced drawl. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, keeping his hand out. “Let’s just stick to the names.”

“Y/N. But you know that already.” She shook it briefly, her calloused palm a sharp contrast to his smooth one. Her grip was surprisingly firm for someone running entirely on Red Bull and a bad sleep schedule.

Patrick’s brow furrowed. He looked down at her, his defense mechanisms instantly scanning for a weak point. He wanted to rattle her, just enough to make her stop looking at him with that hopeful, friendly expectation. He repeated her name again, deliberately flattening the vowels into a ridiculous, butchered mess.

“Y/N,” she corrected instantly, her spine straightening as her voice got a bit firmer.

A sudden, sharp spark of interest flared in Patrick’s chest. The reaction was immediate. He waved his hand casually in the air, dismissing her words with an engineered shrug. He didn’t actually care about her name right now—he just saw the exact button he needed to press to get under her skin. If he could turn her into an enemy, he wouldn’t have to feel guilty about being a jerk.

He leaned in a fraction closer, his eyes locking onto hers, his voice dropping into a slow, deliberate purr. “Yeah, that’s a lot of work for a morning shift. Tell you what, I’m just gonna call you, Honey.” 

Y/N’s jaw clenched. The flirty nickname hit its target perfectly. Her eyes narrowed into a truly deadly glare that would have terrified a lesser man. Her knuckles turned white against her plastic cup.

“My name is not, Honey,” she muttered.

Patrick’s smirk widened, a genuine wave of amusement washing over him for the first time all day. Her sudden, intense fury completely melted away his resentment about the car, his mother, and the stupid job. She was a firecracker, and he had just lit the fuse. He knew he was being terrible, but looking at the bright, angry spark in her eyes, he realized didn’t care.

“Whatever you say, Honey,” he replied simply, giving her a slow wink before turning back to the espresso machine to steam a fresh pitcher of milk. 

Behind his back, he could hear her furiously murmuring under her breath, her shoes squeaking as she moved around. Patrick smiled into the steam wand, his heart beating a little faster against his ribs. For the first time in two weeks, he was actually glad his mother had forced him into this shop.

A/N: i hope u enjoyed my lovelies, thank u for reading <333

[lovesickgrlsrh0t]

barista!patrick x fem!reader

"watcha doin, pretty girl?" "plotting your murder."

featured appearances:

The Daily Grind (Of Pushing Your Buttons)

[lovesickgrlsrh0t]

The Daily Grind (Of Pushing Your Buttons)

NOTES: what is up guys !! finally i've been released from the shackles of life to have enough time to post 4 u all. i hope u enjoy patrick n honey's first meeting as much as i do; there's a LOT more where this came from!

Patrick Zweig stared at the industrial espresso machine like it had personally insulted him. He hated the chrome. He hated the cheap canvas apron tied around his waist. Most of all, he hated his mother.

If he closed his eyes, he could still hear Eleanor’s Zweig’s icy, disappointed voice echoing through their high-ceilinged dining room two weeks ago. “Somehow, you’ve managed to crash a seventy-thousand-dollar Mercedes into a fire hydrant because you couldn’t be bothered to look at the road, Patrick. Your father and I are no longer going to be bothered to put a roof over your head; consider yourself cut off. I suggest you start filling out applications.”

So here he was. Stripped of his allowance, working a grueling 6:00 AM shift at The Daily Grind to pay off a stupid bill for a stupid car. He was furious, trapped in a cage of his own incompetence, and fully prepared to project that misery onto every single person who crossed his path.

Then, there was her.

“Hi, I’m Y/N!” She had chirped three hours ago, her voice way too alert for the current hour.

She was a self-admitted walking disaster of unhinged energy. Her eyes were bloodshot from what she remarked was a late-night doomscrolling spiral, and she was currently shotgunning a Red Bull like her life depended on it. Yet, despite clearly running on three percent battery, she had spent the entire morning being sickeningly, agonizingly nice to him.

She had offered him her favorite pastel markers to label the milk pitchers. She had pointed out her sticker labels on the flavor syrups, a grin stretching across her cheeks. She’d even tried to start a conversation about some film currently in theaters.

Her genuine kindness made Patrick feel like even more of an asshole, which only fueled his irritation. He didn’t want to be welcomed. He was here to serve mediocre coffee, fit every customer’s perfect ‘hot barista’ fantasy, and wallow in his own self pity. He couldn’t handle her warmth, the way she genuinely wanted to help when was entirely coated in bitter resentment.

So he put up his armor.

Patrick channeled every ounce of pompous arrogance, masking his miserable mood behind a flawless, hyper-competent facade. He moved behind the bar with effortless precision, pulling perfect shots and throwing out flirty smiles just to prove he was too good for this place. Every time she tried to help, he shut her down with a cool, patronizing pat on the shoulder. “Thanks, sunshine. I think I’ve got it handled.”

By 10 AM, the rush had died down into a comfortable trickle of customers. Patrick stood by the register, wiping down his steam wand with sharp strokes. His chest felt tight. He felt guilty for freezing her out, but his pride refused to let him back down.

Y/N was leaning on the counter next to him, taking a sip of matcha as she stared blankly ahead. Patrick leaned his elbows on the counter, invading her personal space. If he was going to survive working with this aggressively jolly woman, he needed to establish some boundaries. He needed her to stop being so damn nice to him. He forced a lazy smirk on his face.

“So, sunshine. I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. I’m Patrick.” He extended a hand, the offer wrapped in a layer of smooth, unearned confidence.

She blinked her eyes at him. The sarcastic nickname seemed to bounce right off her sleep-deprived brain, and she simply nodded. Then, she paused. “Wait,” Y/N murmured, “I thought we were cool.”

Patrick cleared his throat, leaning in a fraction closer to mask his amusement, his voic dropping into a practiced drawl. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, keeping his hand out. “Let’s just stick to the names.”

“Y/N. But you know that already.” She shook it briefly, her calloused palm a sharp contrast to his smooth one. Her grip was surprisingly firm for someone running entirely on Red Bull and a bad sleep schedule.

Patrick’s brow furrowed. He looked down at her, his defense mechanisms instantly scanning for a weak point. He wanted to rattle her, just enough to make her stop looking at him with that hopeful, friendly expectation. He repeated her name again, deliberately flattening the vowels into a ridiculous, butchered mess.

“Y/N,” she corrected instantly, her spine straightening as her voice got a bit firmer.

A sudden, sharp spark of interest flared in Patrick’s chest. The reaction was immediate. He waved his hand casually in the air, dismissing her words with an engineered shrug. He didn’t actually care about her name right now—he just saw the exact button he needed to press to get under her skin. If he could turn her into an enemy, he wouldn’t have to feel guilty about being a jerk.

He leaned in a fraction closer, his eyes locking onto hers, his voice dropping into a slow, deliberate purr. “Yeah, that’s a lot of work for a morning shift. Tell you what, I’m just gonna call you, Honey.” 

Y/N’s jaw clenched. The flirty nickname hit its target perfectly. Her eyes narrowed into a truly deadly glare that would have terrified a lesser man. Her knuckles turned white against her plastic cup.

“My name is not, Honey,” she muttered.

Patrick’s smirk widened, a genuine wave of amusement washing over him for the first time all day. Her sudden, intense fury completely melted away his resentment about the car, his mother, and the stupid job. She was a firecracker, and he had just lit the fuse. He knew he was being terrible, but looking at the bright, angry spark in her eyes, he realized didn’t care.

“Whatever you say, Honey,” he replied simply, giving her a slow wink before turning back to the espresso machine to steam a fresh pitcher of milk. 

Behind his back, he could hear her furiously murmuring under her breath, her shoes squeaking as she moved around. Patrick smiled into the steam wand, his heart beating a little faster against his ribs. For the first time in two weeks, he was actually glad his mother had forced him into this shop.

A/N: i hope u enjoyed my lovelies, thank u for reading <333

[lovesickgrlsrh0t]

fic dropping tomorrow let's get hype :D

[angelbabymikaa]

“potentially mature content” yeah that’s my pervert friend i hope it’s mature content that’s what i followed them for

[bbuuunnyyy]

i’m relapsing …

[voidsuites]

WAX AND WANE: spy!tashi duncan x spy!reader. 1.5k. sfw. fem!reader.

MAKING THE CHOICE to leave was not one you made lightly. it wasn’t a whim— a fleeting thought that would disappear just as easily as it had formed in the first place— and it wasn’t made in haste. you’ve been stewing on this idea for years; you were getting out of that hellhole, one way or another.

★ … NO, DECIDING TO leave was something you’d thought about for weeks, months, years… but if you were honest with yourself, you’d admit that you’ve thought of leaving your agency from the moment you’d been sentient enough to know that what they had you do wasn’t normal. little girls grew up playing with dolls, not weapons. little girls learned the lyrics to their favorite songs, not the same words in different languages in case they were stranded in enemy territory.

little girls didn’t have enemies; however, the people that raised them did, and you were expected to do whatever necessary to ensure those enemies did not get in the way.

so when you sabotage your most recent mission— infiltrating an underground tennis betting ring to eliminate your agency’s target— your spy agency deploys the only person they know who can retrieve you and still be in one piece afterwards. sure, you’d expected the inevitable fallout and subsequent chase, but not that the girl you love would leading the hunt for your head.

“YOU GOT A HEAD START. MAKE THE MOST OF IT.”

so much for tashi letting you go. years of training together for this assignment alone, gone— not to mention the girl you thought would have your back after everything. maybe you were stupid to assume that every moment you two spent working to compete at the professional level for tennis was more than a job… but what did you know? if those american romance films you and tashi watched taught you anything, it was that love endured even through hardships and problems larger than the two of you combined.

but how much hardship was too much for even love to overcome? you didn’t know, and you weren’t going to stick around long enough to find out.

★ … THE MOMENT AFTER your text sends on your burner, it’s already in the bottom of flushing creek along with the tracker you dug out of your arm. the more distance between those and you, the better. with that settled, you run.

every bit of survival training that’s been taught, beaten, and engrained into you since you could walk comes out in full force; you take advantage of the night and its natural shadows to cover as much ground as possible all while traversing uneven concrete and asphalt in one-size-too-small sneakers. luckily, you’ve traveled under worse conditions— improper footwear paled in comparison to skimpy clothing in the snow— and you couldn’t risk the clothes you’d left in the budget hotel having trackers. anna mueller wouldn’t really miss her brand-deal trainers. adidas could send her another pair within the hour, and they would if anna’s team wanted her to have any chance against tashi in the final now that you were m.i.a. (she wouldn’t, but she could try).

you don’t stop aside for the mandatory bathroom and rest breaks, but even those are limited. every second you’re not moving is one more stretch of ground that tashi and the rest of your agency covers while try to recover you. luckily, the night passes by uneventfully, but that only leaves you with a more challenging day.

the sun, for one, poses the biggest issue, but day also means more eyes and people around you– especially in a place like new york– that could very well be sleeper agents waiting for the opportunity to yank you off the streets. if someone even stares at you for too long, you cross the street. taking the subway briefly crosses your mind, but the idea of being cornered on the train or in a station quickly changes your perspective. not worth the risk.

ideally, leaving new york is your best bet of throwing the agency off your trail. maybe you head down through pennsylvania and towards ohio to potentially find somewhere to go from there, or maybe you head up towards canada and leave the u.s. entirely. whatever option can get you away from the city faster and for cheaper is your best bet at fleeing tashi.

you just should’ve assumed that she’d already been scoping out the same outlets you were; you two always did think share the same way of thinking. but unlike you, tashi wasn’t naive enough to think she could escape. that’s why she was always the better of the two of you, always the favorite. she’d accepted the lifestyle from childhood while you still dreamt of freedom. that had always been your achilles’ heel: thinking you could get away and live to tell the tale. 

★ … “THEY’D STOP THROWING you in solitary if you just listened,” she chided one evening, the rest of the girls around you asleep on the pitiful cots you all had since childhood. it’d been right before you and tashi left for the u.s., though your supervisors were nearly set on sending another girl in your place since you’d mouthed off at dinner. while tashi had been able to convince them of keeping you for the mission, you’d still ended up spending three full days in the 6x9 solitary cell.

tashi had continued with her brief examination of you, making sure there were no noticeable injuries that would not heal before flying to the states. “you’re making it seem like you want them to do more than just hurt you,” she muttered, practicing the american accent they’d wanted you to perfect by the time you both touched down in new york in a week. “i had to vouch for you– say i’d keep you in line. you can’t keep acting like this.”

“like what?” you’d snapped back, “like a child? like i’m ungrateful– ungrateful for the mistreatment and awful things they have us do, in exchange for food and a bed?”

“like you want them to kill you,” she clarified, those sharp eyes of hers boring into yours. “you keep this up, they will. let go of whatever dream’s living in your head and wake up, глупая девчонка.”

you’d wilted under her use of “stupid girl,” but she’d kissed that pout of yours away shortly after. but nonetheless, she’d been right.

by the time the sun sets after being on the run for 24 hours, tashi’s already found you. you’re in line to board a greyhound bound for toronto with a cap slung low over your eyes, the exhaustion of being on the move all day sinking deep into your bones as you shift on your feet.

“i had to skip the afterparty for you, you know,” a voice hums from behind you, and immediately you feel your blood run cold. “adidas was throwing a whole party for the winners… we could’ve been having cake, or sneaking a beer right now before we went to find the target later tonight.”

tashi pushes closer, and you feel the distinguishable press of metal to your side. shit.

“at least if i beat you in the final, it would’ve been something worthwhile to see. anna kept up the best she could, but it wasn’t fun. not really.” 

you let tashi sidestep the both of you out of line, and your stomach sinks when the bus driver does his final boarding call. “how’d you find me–”

“don’t play dumb,” tashi sighs turning you to face her as her brow raises. “you were smart enough to toss the phone and the arm tracker, but you do know they implanted two in each of us right?”

you didn’t know, and it clearly shows on your face with the way tashi smile sharpens. “глупая девчонка,” she mutters before moving you back towards the greyhound station with a yank of your arm. “if it weren’t for the pretty face and skill when you do follow orders, you’d be in a ditch back home. now, you’ll be lucky to still be in one piece after all this.”

it finally sets in for you that this won’t be something you can walk away from– not if you’re betting on tashi and everyone else to play fair. so you won’t. 

an unmarked sedan pulls up to the curb beside you two, and tashi nudges you in and climbs in once the guard inside has a hold on you. for all you know, your agency will still have you and tashi finish out your intended mission before dealing its punishment, but there’s no time for guessing when the gps plug-in says the next destination 90 minutes away.

you’ve got an hour and a half to get out of this mess and get away; you’ve worked with worse odds. so when the backseat door of the sedan shuts behind tashi, you do the one thing you’ve never been good at doing: you listen, because someone is going to mention where that other tracker is at some point during the drive, and that’s when you’ll have your chance to get away.

and if they don’t? that’s just not an option— you have to hope they will.

do we like how i formatted this? is it cool? made the bottom two gifs myself are we gagged lol. anyways this has been in the drafts for a while… decided to shorten it a bit to put less pressure on myself lol buuuuuut if there is interest i can/will continue! there would def be more action in that. feeling mehhh about everything and the world rn but Whatever i love u guys 💗

taglist! @jclolz22 @luckygold13 @scariffs @nozhdyved @elliesmagic8 @floristicgrave @dumbbandpoetic @coochiemama3000 @gelotime @thecontrash @over-caffeinated-after-midnight @pedaltothepetal @moondrunksiren @chrattvibe @222col @sleepyrps @sinnamongirls click here to be added!

[wiinterz]

𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐌𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐌 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒.

I genuinely can not stand when there’s a black character in a TV show, especially if it’s a black woman character and she’s shipped with a well-known (male) character that’s beloved by the fandom, but the fandom treats her horribly.

I’ve seen this with every fandom I have been in, and each time it aggressively gets worse. For example, Damon and Bonnie from The Vampire Diaries. I have not read the books, but I have been told they did get together in them, and if I am not mistaken, I believe Ian was at least interested in the idea of Bonnie and Damon being together. When watching the show, you can see the chemistry; it just rubs off on each other. Yes, everyone knows Damon is a problematic character, but when he cares, he cares hard, and that especially goes for Bonnie. I wish the writers (Julie Plec) weren’t cowards and allowed us as an audience to see that side of their relationship blossom.

Then, with Mel and Jay from Arcane, the disgusting things I have seen this fandom do, the lengths that they go to treat Mel as an abuser in the relationship? To treat Mel as trash and not a character with complex qualities, just like everyone else in the show. Which is why I will forever side-eye any and every JayVik shipper. I do not care if you’re not the one perpetuating the stereotypes on Mel, but you being a shipper and seeing fellow shippers be distasteful; the least you can do is call them out on their behavior and make sure you’re not a safe space for them. Some fanfic writers have the nerve to write her as some aggressive black woman, and even Jay as aggressive sometimes, and Victor as the docile, could never hurt a fly character. Which is wrong, it’s disturbing, and it is racism.

Many fandom spaces are full of misogynoir and people who do not care to unpack their ignorance, even pick up a book and see why that is. Two authors I could easily recommend to people would be Bell Hooks and Toni Morrison. You have to do the work on unlearning racist and misogynistic behaviors because it is so deeply rooted in fandoms and other communities.

Whenever a black person decides to ship a black character and a non-black character together, I have seen many non-black people try to correct them, saying, “Oh, they’re just friends, he/she wouldn’t date them.” Are you the writer of the show? No, so what makes it right for you to police that person?

This goes with The Bear fandom and how people treat sydcarmy shippers. Why is it so shocking to you that people ship those two characters together? I personally haven't seen the show fully, but from the many clips I've seen of those two, I can see why people ship them, and even if I couldn’t, it's still not my place to police a person if it’s not doing any harm to anyone, or even the characters.

A lot of people love to humble black shippers and characters and force us into a box of some sort. While their counterparts get a safe space to be themselves.

With the Bridgerton fandom and their mistreatment of Michaela Stirling. It’s not just lesbianphobia, it’s racism, it’s misogyny. I see a lot of white lesbians and non-black lesbians in general forget to mention that racism plays a big role in why people want Michael Stirling and not Michaela Stirling. There are people in this fandom who will use AI and turn Michaela back into a man, but only a white man. As if the Kilmartin and Stirling families aren’t full of black people. I’m not interested in excuses either because more racism will go dismissed.

A lot of people don’t care to realize that if these problems do not get called out in fandoms, then we’ll have a situation like the Percy Jackson fandom and The Flash. As someone who grew up with both of those things, I am extremely tired of seeing the mistreatment of the actors and their characters. You don’t care about black women, you don’t even care about the character, you just want to insert yourself in these situations because of another character you love. A lot of white people have that problem, and we see it a lot in BookTok. I have seen it all my life.

[hailneaux]

[artdonaldsonhoe]

inspired by the josh o’connor ratatouille incident(s)

[texasbama]

It’s protect and love black women until it’s time for a Chr*s Br*wn concert. Yall make me sick.

[lovergirlcinema]

what gets me is the women saying “that was so long ago, get over it.” Like are we not remember the MULTIPLE instances of this man putting his hands on women and men? I really need the black community, especially black women to get better when it comes to holding abusers accountable🤦🏽‍♀️

[lovesickgrlsrh0t]

(🌺) she/her. -`♡´-

eliana. °‧ ⋆☀︎. occasional writer. chronic yapper. 18+.

lover girl. black. bisexual. 🍉. theater dork. yearner.

music + media connoisseur. challengers enthusiast. jack abbot whore. ladygirl.

socials : ʚ✩ɞ tiktok pinterest | talk to me whenever.ᐟ.ᐟ

[angryschnauzer]

Happy April 25th Everyone. Remember your light jacket.

[popularcultures]

MANON ☆ Via you.studiola/IG