#neb qna

[leftneb]

neb

they're being gay on main again and I feel like I jsut came home after two months of exile

[leftneb]

also speaking on rpf locking on ao3, this also applies to tumblr!! you can hide your account from people without a tumblr account and discourage external searching by search engines (stop googling bringing up your blog if someone searches rpf). also always make sure you have the anti third party sharing toggle on to stop your posts being fed to ai :)

a Very important addition to rpf safety actually thank u!!!!

[leftneb]

anon I've ip blocked you so you're definitely not seeing this (unless you had someone else open my profile in which scenario know that I am laughing at you.) but I want to publically say this anyway: I'm extremely sorry you hate fun joy and whimsy but also if you could navigate all the way to my tumblr And find my ask button surely you could've just found the block button on ao3 instead...?

[leftneb]

please update subtler temptations……. please…….. the world needs it…….we need it……..

you see dear anon, I've been sitting of a WIP of chapter 4 for uh... I don't dare check actually but Months now.... and since you're asking so nicely... here's a snippet that I remember enjoying while writing it <3

[subtler temptations]

Vision blurry, Lando's fingers unfurl around the glass vial like a flower opening its petals, the centre pink and lively, decorated with greasy marks in shapes like the whorls of skin on the tips of his fingers and the inside of his palm. 

He swallows around a tremor, walks back over to the couch and plops himself down into the warm seat of his own leftover body heat. 

He’s never painted his nails before but, well, there’s no time like the present. 

He screws open the bottle, wrapping two fingers around the cap and twisting, pinching it tighter until he can feel the pressure of hard plastic against his bones. It comes loose with a horrible pop and wet-dry groan, like stepping on a snail shell and feeling your heart squeeze impossibly small. The knuckle of his pointer finger feels bruised. He’ll be able to feel that in the cockpit tomorrow, he thinks, apathetic. 

Lando’s not stupid enough to drip nail polish all over the couch and carpet, so he wipes the excess pinkness on the inside of the vial’s mouth, watches it flow down into the deep below. He leans forward, shrimp like, into a pose nearly heart attack inducing if you’re Jon Malvern, and sets the bottle down onto the coffee table where it belongs, the clink of glass-on-glass a mocking toast to what is probably one of the stupidest decisions of Lando’s young life. 

The first layer of sticky pink that hits Lando’s nail feels like a cold balm, a strangely soothing alien feeling, like the beginnings of an itch you can’t scratch. He has a staredown with the rosy droplet for a few moments, like it might be able to telepathise something from Oscar if he just squints his eyes at it sternly enough. The droplet smooths out in slow-motion, dispersing over the surface of Lando’s abused-looking nail, flowing down the edge and onto his skin, spreading like blood from a fresh wound, impossibly bright against the backdrop of his skin. 

He quickly daps at the spill with the synthetic tip of the tiny brush, just before some of it can drip onto the couch or his clothes. The excess liquid he uses to paint the rest of his nail in careful strokes, imagining it’s Oscar’s nail under his care again in a desperate bid to regain some control over his shaking hands. If this were Oscar’s hand he wouldn’t have let it drip down like that, he would’ve been more careful not to. He would’ve anticipated what the nail polish was thinking before it could so much as blink.

Satisfied with the soft cotton-candy gloss on his finger, Lando jabs the cap back into place so he can use the bitten-down nail of his other thumb to wipe away the excess liquid. It hurts when he digs his nail into the cuticle, the edge like the sharp side of a bread knife, the skin too sensitive. He grits his teeth and pulls all of the pink off from where it doesn’t belong.

The couch feels like it’s trying to swallow him whole when he leans back into it. His lower back hurts, fed up with his guilt-induced hallucinatory session already. 

Lando lifts his nail close to his face and admires his work. He wouldn’t call himself an expert, the most preparation he did for Oscar’s nail salon adventure was watch a youtube tutorial, but he thinks he did quite a good job back then, and he clearly hasn’t forgotten the craft by now either. The nail polish itself is still quite nice, he thinks. Slightly translucent, with a thinner film forming in the middle, the edges shining the pinkest, framing the shape of the nail with a cutesy little ombre. The light from the obnoxiously bright chandelier in this stupidly fancy hotel room makes tiny pinpricks of white light dance around on the surface, stars in a bright pink night. 

He kind of gets the fuss now, he thinks. It’s nice to feel even such a tiny part of you feel special like this – appreciated. The thought of being pretty swims around between the folds of Lando’s brain before sinking down and out of his body, headed for the very core of the earth, a heavy piece of lead. 

He’s not pretty. Lando likes that he’s small, that the muscles he’s worked so hard for have remained tightly packed, not intimidating until he wants them to be. He likes that he can pout his lips and flutter his eyelashes and most men will give him what he wants. Someone like Oscar is pretty, with his smooth curves and lingering baby fat. But Lando’s not pretty

Despite the brewing squeaziness in his stomach, Lando bends back down and takes the brushed cap of the nail polish back in his hand, going through the motions of wiping the excess pink off and bringing it to his next nail now almost on autopilot. He repeats the same process for every nail, his mind blacking out and conjuring up a new fantasy for every layer he sullies his clean hands with – first it’s just a vision of what he’ll look like with all ten of his fingernails painted, then it’s a view of his own palm pressed against the sultry soft skin on the inside of his thighs, the pink tint almost glowing in comparison, on the next slide a pair of thigh-high socks and a garter belt materialises out of nowhere, overlaying themselves onto the previous image like something out of a badly photoshopped porn magazine.

All of it makes Lando’s stomach draw into a tighter and tighter knot. He feels too seen– no, viewed in his own mind. He feels disgusting, like a pervert, a sick fucking freak. 

Right under the nausea in his stomach, his cock throbs like a livewire, on the rhythm of his shivering heart, the cold of the still-drying nail polish like a collection of conduits. Nine of them – then ten.

When he’s done he takes a second to focus only on screwing the cap back on, getting a good grip on the vial without smearing any of what’s on his hands, lifting the fragile thing up without letting it shake out of his grasp. 

Once he’s sure no excess pink will smear or spill anywhere he puts the bottle down with a tinny knock. He straightens out his spine, flattens himself to the now cold back of the couch, and spreads his hands out in front of himself, starfish-like, palms facing the air and all ten pink nails facing himself. 

The sight is alien, barely more than a trick of his own delirious mind. 

But when he brings his hands back down, folds them carefully against each other and runs a gentle fingertip along a bright pink spot– it’s cold. Smooth. Surreally so, not the natural cellulose smoothness like usual. 

It’s undeniably real.

It makes him wonder why this is the first time he’s feeling it. Why he hasn’t touched Oscar enough to know the feeling of nail polish under the sensitive tips of his fingers.

[leftneb]

https://www.tumblr.com/leftneb/779809926451167232

tags, lando actually said “unlucky mate”

well, you see, when I listen with my headphones in he does say unlucky, mate. but when I listened with just my ability to hear and understand speech as given to me by mother nature earlier, he was saying I love you, mate. so basically, I think we all know which one is the correct version and which one is a propaganda fed to us by big F1.

landoscar dap-up collection by terra that you all should look at btw

[leftneb]

in a way it was kind of funny seeing mclaren haters manifesting a papaya incident in turn 1 only for the whole manslaughter to take place *behind* them 😭

sooo true. not to reveal my evil slimy backbone or anything but I was genuinely cheering the entire time the Max fiasco was going on like..... the more people manifest a repeat of brazil 2016 the more of that diabolical luck gets redirected onto Max appearantly. my gayboys have like a forcefield around them, they're untouchable

[leftneb]

WHO THE HELL ARE YOU AND WHAT DID YOU DO TO NEBBE

kil

[leftneb]

for the wip ask game! 🌩

🌩 Share something funny/cracky from your WIP. from this ask game

from The Hands Fic WIP! heads up there is one (1) brief mention of explicit content in here!

“D’you remember the lie detector? Thought that thing was gonna cut my fingers off.” Lando rambles on, not realising how much closer he just put Oscar to tripping over his own feet in front of what might as well be their entire team.

In lieu of an appropriate reaction Oscar lets his face just do what it wants. He feels, helpless, as his eyebrows raise and his eyes widen, staring staunchly at the floor because as long as he doesn’t look Lando in the eye he can still plausibly deny having had any sort of reaction to d’you remember the lie detector of all fucking things. 

Oh, does he remember the lie detector? Fucking hell. Of course he remembers the fucking lie detector. Could he ever not.

“Hmm,” he says, trying to school his voice into something that doesn’t sound suspiciously like yeah I remember how you giggled and blushed and hid your face into the crook of your elbow, I watched every single moment of it or the somehow catastrophically worse yes I’ve been jacking off to the knowledge of you having to re-buckle the straps because your monster-sized fingers wouldn’t fit into the space mine were perfectly fucking snug in, so thanks yeah I reckon I remember the lie detector.

Instead, he says, in an unfortunately conspiratorial tone, “I don’t recall it was that tight for me.” Which is somehow worse, and more revealing, than just the truth. If he’s lucky Lando won’t make the connection between Oscar remembering the lie detector and being able to fucking, compare their hand girth like an actual stalker.

“Heh, right,” Lando huffs. “You and your dainty princess hands. I’m jealous, Osc, mine are like, fucking monstrous,” he teases, mischief in his voice like he’s not just flipped Oscar’s world upside down. 

Lando shimmies both his hands out of his pockets and lifts them chest-level, demonstrating his point to Oscar. 

Inexplicably, some primal part of his brain decides that he should be listening to his mirror neurons instead of basic etiquette. He lifts his hands to match. “Yeah,” he says. 

“See? Tiny.” Lando says for emphasis, taking his other hand and craning it all the way over just to poke Oscar’s frozen-still limb. If Oscar wasn’t already used to Lando’s complete disregard of personal space, he’d think it was weird. Well he’d probably think it was weird if he could think at all right now. 

“Yeah,” he says again, pleasantly surprised that his tone is still bored levels of flat. Fucking hell. 

“Well, you know what they say about a guy’s hands…” Lando jests. He turns – to Oscar’s utter horror – to look him dead in the eye, anticipating something; Oscar’s reaction, maybe even a response. 

Oscar opens his mouth, says, voice mortifyingly rough, “right,” realises that there’s no way that’ll be enough to save either of them from social oblivion, and continues. “Big hands, big-” he fails to think rationally, “ego?”

And Lando- Lando laughs. Not a big outburst, just a cackle, of sorts. It brings the crinkle back to the corner of his eyes and snaps the tension from his shoulders. 

“Big hands, big ego!” He says. Bright like the sun, a happy little tremor in his voice. Like he’s relieved Oscar’s joke was funny.