#sanctified

In many circles of modern Christianity, there is a prevailing sentiment that God is essentially “on call,” always attending to the immediate needs and welfare of the believer as if He owes them or as if, through His love, He is expected to provide constant earthly comfort. Believers today often expect instant miracles or immediate answers to prayer because they figure that since they are…

Pairing: Jenson/Lando

Rating: E

Tags: Alternate universe- 1950s, Jenson and Lando are driving in the inaugural season of the formula 1 world championship, Explicit Sexual Content, Teasing as a Love Language, Barebacking, Possessive Sex, essentially porn without plot

This fic belongs to the same universe as "Sanctified" and delves into a scene from Lando's pov

Lando's exhausted from being On all day and needs to pass out for a solid ten hours. Unfortunately, the universe has other plans for him because when he pushes into the small space, Jenson's fucking sitting at the edge of the bed, leaning on his palms propped up behind him. For as often as this has happened, Lando fails to suppress a jump. He hadn’t even realized the lights were on behind the drawn curtains. "Fuck." Or: Lando comes home from the pub with Carlos and finds Jenson waiting for him.

Sanctified

Pairing: Carlos/Lando

Rating: E

Tags: Background and alluded to Jendo; One main in-your-face scene towards the end, This is very much a Carlando fic though, Explicit Sexual Content, Alternate Universe: 1950s Formula 1 Drivers, In which Lando and Carlos are both Formula 1 drivers in the early days of F1, Getting Together, Mild Jealousy, Mild Voyeurism, Carlando Endgame

Carlos is in the middle of pulling his racing gloves on when he turns to see the driver starting next to him. The guy— practically a kid— is the youngest person on the grid in a racing suit by a mile. He’s a bit shorter than himself, bright eyes and curls that are parted off to the side so that they’ll sit properly under the racing cap. He’s striking, to say the least, and Carlos has a moment of awe-stopping wonderment. He glances down at the guy’s waist and sees the name Norris embroidered on his hip. Or: The year is 1950, and Carlos and Lando are driving in the first official season of the FIA Formula One World Championship.

Tumblr this is BRAND NEW go hype up this band it’s giving Sky Ferreria meets Lana Del Rey it’s genuinely so good. Perfect emo love song. Twilight vibes. Like MCR meets Paramore.

rebel!ellie x preachers!daughter!reader

✞ summary : you, the preacher’s daughter, falls for the school’s rebellious out lesbian. shame, faith, and first love collide in a slow-burning secret romance that threatens to ruin everything - unless you’re brave enough to choose it.

your body is a prayer

✞ cw : smut, oral r!receiving, strap on sex r!receiving, fem!reader, religious trauma, internalised homophobia, emotional abuse, emotional breakdown.

✞ wk : 9,500

✞ 1 > 2 > 3

it’s been three months.

three months since your back hit the altar and ellie williams knelt between your thighs in the chapel.

three months since you stopped asking god to fix you and started asking him to understand you. since you started sleeping with your cross still around your neck, but not for the same reasons.

no one knows.

no one dares to know. not about you. you’re the preacher’s daughter. the vessel of all things pure. the example.

but your body hums with disobedience. quiet and constant. like the sound of a bell that’s been ringing in your chest since you were old enough to be afraid of your own reflection.

and ellie? ellie is gasoline to that flame.

you still pretend not to look at her when she lights joints behind the gym and blows smoke toward the heavens. when she skips communion and leans back in her desk chair during morning worship, mouthing lyrics to you like a joke. when she walks the halls with her hoodie pulled up, biting her nails, looking at you like she already knows how this ends.

you keep your hands to yourself.

most of the time.

but sometimes… sometimes your fingertips graze hers when you pass her in the hallway. sometimes you find notes in your textbooks - little drawings of your lips, your hands, the slope of your neck. sometimes you open your phone in the dark and see nothing but her name, typed and unsent.

and sometimes - like tonight - you crawl out of your dorm window, walk barefoot across damp grass, and let her fuck you breathless in the art studio while the saints weep from the stained glass.

the studio: 11:03pm

it’s raining.

not hard. not loud. but steady, like a breath held against your skin.

you slip inside quietly. the studio smells like paint thinner and pencil shavings. you love it. you hate that you love it.

ellie’s sitting on the floor. hoodie sleeves pushed to her elbows, a smudge of graphite on her jaw, sketchbook in her lap. she doesn’t look up when you close the door.

“took you long enough.”

you roll your eyes, toe off your shoes. “i had to sneak out past sister maria. she was doing a room check.”

ellie hums. “you could’ve told her you were going to confess your sins.”

you walk past her, letting your fingers drag across her shoulder. “i do that every time i’m with you.”

that gets her attention.

ellie looks up.

and for a second, the smirk fades. her mouth parts. her eyes go soft.

you see it then - the crack in her, the wound she won’t name. she’s been quieter lately. drawing more, talking less. touching you like it’s the last time, every time.

you sit beside her.

silence.

then:

“you still think it’s wrong?” she asks, not looking at you.

you stare at your hands.

“i think…” you swallow. “i think it’s wrong that i was taught to believe you’re the devil.”

ellie blinks.

then she laughs, but it’s not cruel. just tired. “hot devil, though.”

you smile despite yourself.

and that’s when she kisses you.

slow. familiar. gentle.

but underneath, always - the heat, the ache, the thing neither of you can name out loud.

hours later you’re lying on the floor, tangled up in each other. ellie’s sketchbook is open beside you. there’s a drawing of you asleep, mouth parted, hand curled near your chest.

it’s so intimate you almost can’t look at it.

ellie’s fingers trace your hip bone, slow and absent.

“you gonna tell your dad?”

the words hit like a slap.

you close your eyes. “no.”

ellie says nothing.

then, quietly:

“he’s gonna find out anyway.”

you nod.

because you know.

and because you don’t know what you’ll do when he does.

the moment you see the photo, the room spins.

the chapel’s holy quiet is shattered by the harsh glow of your phone screen, ellie’s face pressed against yours, your skirt riding high, your fingers tangled in her hair. and beneath the image, the cruel words: “preacher’s daughter getting saved by the dyke. how poetic.”

your breath catches. your hands shake so hard you nearly drop the phone.

you don’t remember rising. you don’t remember running. only the pounding of your heart against your ribs, the bitter taste of panic and shame flooding your mouth.

ellie finds you behind the rectory, where the shadows crowd close and no one can see. she’s already there, waiting, her eyes flickering with the same fear you feel.

“they saw us,” you whisper, voice barely a breath.

her jaw tightens. “who?”

“i don’t know. someone from school.” you shake your head, the cold sinking deep. “they sent it to my father.”

ellie’s body stills like you slapped her. the fierceness drains from her posture, replaced by a fragile quiet.

“i’m sorry,” you say, voice cracking. “i didn’t mean for this to happen.”

she looks at you, eyes raw with something fierce and sad. “it’s not your fault.”

but you know it is.

you know the fire is coming. and you don’t know if you’re ready to burn.

when your father storms onto campus two days later, the sky is swollen with gray clouds, and the air tastes of rain and thunder.

he doesn’t wait for permission. his voice cuts through the quiet corridors, sharp and accusing, as he leads you to the headmistress’s office.

ellie follows behind you, defiant but careful.

the principal’s office is a cage. windows shut tight, the walls lined with faded diplomas and a crucifix that seems to mock the moment.

your father’s eyes burn into you. “you’ve disgraced yourself. disgraced me.”

you stare at the polished floor.

ellie’s hand finds yours beneath the table, warm and steady.

your father doesn’t even glance at her.

“you were meant to be a beacon,” he says, voice low but icy. “a vessel of god’s grace.”

“she’s a person,” ellie interrupts, voice firm. “not your property.”

your father snaps his gaze to her, lips curling in disgust.

“she’s an abomination,” he spits. “you’ve led her astray.”

ellie’s jaw tightens. “she was already lost. i just showed her she wasn’t alone.”

you swallow the lump in your throat. you want to speak. to fight. but the shame is a weight too heavy.

later, when the storm has moved on and the world feels hollow and distant, you sit on your bed in the dim light of your dorm room.

ellie is beside you, close enough to touch, but you feel miles away.

“i don’t know if i can do this,” you confess, voice barely a whisper. “i still hear his words in my head. like I’m dirty. like i’m broken.”

ellie’s fingers brush a stray strand of hair from your face. “you’re not broken. you’re just scared.”

you bite your lip, tears threatening. “i’m scared of what i want. scared that god hates me for it. scared that i’m hurting you just by being me.”

her eyes soften, fierce and tender all at once.

“you’re not hurting me,” she says. “you’re hurting yourself by holding it in.”

you lean into her touch, the first real comfort you’ve felt in weeks.

ellie pulls you close, arms wrapping around your trembling shoulders. “i love you,” she murmurs. “every part of you. even the scared parts.”

you let the tears fall, burying your face in her neck. for once, you don’t fight the broken pieces inside you. instead, you let her hold them, help carry the weight.

the next day is hard.

but it’s also the day you decide.

you walk into the chapel, head held high, despite the whispers.

you catch ellie’s eye across the room, her silent anchor.

when your father appears in the doorway, eyes blazing with fury, you don’t flinch.

he strides over, voice low and dangerous. “you will come home with me. you will end this.”

you take a breath, steady as you can.

“no,” you say, voice strong. “i’m not ashamed of who i love.”

ellie steps forward, protective and fierce.

“touch her,” she warns, “and you’ll regret it.”

your father hesitates, then storms out without another word.

you turn to ellie, breathless, heart pounding.

she pulls you into a rough, desperate kiss, as if sealing the vow you just made.

“i love you,” you whisper against her lips.

ellie smiles - a real, vulnerable smile - and replies, “i love you too. always.”

the storm has passed.

but something still trembles inside you, raw and aching in the quiet aftermath of everything that’s been said, everything that’s been broken and chosen.

ellie’s room is dim, lit only by the golden spill of her desk lamp. her bed is unmade, her sketchbook open beside a half-finished drawing of your mouth.

you sit at the edge of her mattress, heart racing, still tasting the sharp ghost of your father’s voice in your ears. the shame is quieter now, but not gone.

ellie stands across the room, watching you carefully. like she doesn’t know what you need. like she’s afraid of giving you too much or not enough.

“i’m not going to ask if you’re okay,” she says finally, voice low.

“i’m not,” you admit.

she nods once. “but you’re still here.”

you look at her then - really look.

she’s so much more than her reputation. more than the weed and the fights and the rumors. ellie is hands that shake when she’s scared. ellie is softness wrapped in armor. ellie is a girl who loves you like she doesn’t believe she should be allowed to.

“i love you,” you say again, quieter this time. more like a truth than a declaration.

ellie crosses the room without speaking.

she kneels in front of you, gently parts your legs, and places her hands on your thighs like she’s asking permission to breathe.

“i need you to know something,” she says, looking up at you, eyes wide and scared. “if you tell me to stop, i will. if you need to slow down, or back out, or fall apart, i’ll be here for all of it. i just need you to know that.”

you nod, your throat tight.

“i don’t want you to stop,” you whisper.

ellie’s hands move slow, like every inch of you is sacred.

she starts by kissing your thighs. one, then the other. her mouth lingers over your skin, open and reverent. she looks up at you with blown pupils and shaky breath, like she can’t believe she gets to do this.

she slides your skirt up, slowly. pauses. waits for your nod before hooking her fingers in the waistband of your underwear and pulling them down your legs, so slowly it hurts.

when she presses a kiss just above your clit, your entire body shudders.

“you’re shaking,” she murmurs.

“i want you.”

that’s all it takes.

ellie groans softly and lowers her mouth to you; tongue warm, slow, purposeful. she licks a long stripe up your center before flattening her tongue and pressing it firm against your clit.

you cry out.

her hands grip your thighs, anchoring you as she moves, each motion practiced, gentle, devastating. she licks you with intention, with care. she doesn’t rush. she doesn’t tease.

she worships.

“fuck,” you whisper, eyes fluttering shut. “ellie…”

she hums against you, and the vibration sends another wave through your stomach.

“you taste so good,” she says, voice hoarse. “you’re so wet for me, baby.”

you cover your mouth with one hand to keep from moaning too loud. the other twists into her hair, grounding yourself as your hips buck up into her face.

ellie groans when you do that, like she loves how desperate you are. she licks you harder, faster, her nose brushing your pelvis, her tongue flicking just right.

you come with a soft cry, trembling under her mouth, legs locked around her shoulders as everything inside you breaks and burns and finally, finally lets go.

but she doesn’t stop.

not yet.

she kisses up your stomach, your ribs, your chest, pulling your blouse open, unbutton by unbutton, until you’re bare and gasping beneath her.

ellie lies on top of you, warm skin pressed to yours.

you feel her breath on your neck.

“i want to fuck you,” she whispers. “can i?”

you nod without thinking. “yes. please.”

she reaches into her nightstand, pulls out the strap - black, familiar, worn at the edges.

you watch her put it on, hands shaking a little, eyes never leaving yours. she climbs between your thighs again, guides the tip through your slick folds, rubbing gently against your clit until you’re squirming beneath her.

“look at me,” she says softly.

you do.

and when she pushes in - slow, careful, steady - you swear the air leaves your lungs.

your back arches. her name slips from your lips like a prayer.

she groans low in her throat, hips sinking deeper.

“you feel so fucking good,” she whispers. “so tight for me. you were made for this. for me.”

she starts to move, slow thrusts, deep and deliberate. each push hits something inside you that makes your toes curl, your breath catch.

ellie leans down, pressing her forehead to yours. her hand finds yours, fingers interlacing.

you’re both gasping now.

her voice cracks. “i love you.”

you cry when she says it. because it’s too much. because it’s everything.

you squeeze her hand.

“i love you too,” you whisper. “i think i always have.”

ellie fucks you deeper, slower, like she’s trying to make the words real with her body. like she’s afraid she’ll never get another chance.

your legs wrap around her waist, anchoring her to you. you’re close again - burning, shaking, unraveling.

“come for me, baby,” she breathes. “i want to feel you. want to see what i do to you.”

you fall apart in her arms.

and this time, when you cry, it isn’t out of shame.

it’s because - for once - you feel whole.