#No actually what the hell are you thinking??

[lacyblades]

౨ৎ number neighbor!satoru who's phone pinged one night.

hii number neighbor wna see my tits – the drunk text swam blearily in satoru's memory. he'd been hammered that night, just as you, but that message had cut through the haze. what the hell had he sent back?

oh, right. what any horny twenty-something loser would: a not-so-unsolicited dick pic. that's the ridiculously messy way your love story actually kicks off.

it snowballed from there. dumb, suggestive texts morphed into something more intense. "was thinking of u td" bled into "i need u so bad baby." he'd send you a shaky video of himself stroking to a nude you'd sent earlier, and you'd fire back a clip of yourself getting off to him getting off. a digital feedback loop of pure lust.

he's practically vibrating with need these days, phone permanently glued to his hand, high on every little thing you give him. satoru wasn't exactly a social butterfly before, but now?

forget it. his friends probably think he's fallen off the face of the earth. it's gotta be unhealthy, the sheer number of times he's jerked himself raw for you, right?

and yet, he couldn't care less. he'll happily lose hours tangled in his sheets, fisting his hard, veiny cock, chasing another desperate orgasm in the dark. the glow of his phone screen reflects in his slipping glasses.

trying to text and touch himself at the same time is his personal brand of hell, but you keep the messages coming anyway, guiding him with your words because you know he's reading every single one.

even though you can't really control what he does, satoru doesn't cum until you tell him to. on the really good days, you'll send a video of yourself completely undone. fingers slick and deep inside, rubbing that swollen little clit in circles, your moans and whimpers a soundtrack in the background.

the cherry on top is when you finally climax, that wet squirt hitting your phone camera. you send it with a casual hope ur happy now im gonna have to clean off my phone :/

his reply is instant: "yk if i were there i cld clean it up"

then, a beat later: "...with my mouth"

and again, just to be crystal clear: "if that wasnt a given"

it would be almost pathetic, how bad he is at flirting, if you didn't find satoru kind of endearing in his desperation. he's just relieved it never kills the mood.

your number neighbor has no idea what you look like, but if your pussy is that pretty, your face has to be something else entirely.

[lov3notts]

bf’s enemy theo who puts you down as his emergency contact to make sure you know when cedric finally breaks and beats him up

a/n: i died laughing when this request came in, because this is something theo would so do.

Navigation; m.list; r.r; bf's enemy!theo au;

The hospital wing doors slammed open as you burst in, nearly tripping over your own feet. Madame Pomfrey barely glanced up before sighing.

“He’s fine,” she said dryly. “Mostly.”

And there he was.

Theodore sitting on one of the hospital bed’s, shirt wrinkled, lip split, knuckles bruised, and a gauze pad pressed lazily to his temple. He looked like he’d just walked off the set of a duel scene and couldn’t be bothered to act surprised.

You stormed up. “Are you kidding me?!”

Theo looked up, gave you a crooked smile. “Oh hey. That was fast.”

“Nott, what the hell—why on earth am I your emergency contact?!”

He didn’t miss a beat. shrugged & said “I knew he’d snap eventually. Just wanted to make sure you’d hear about it when he did.”

And then you noticed Cedric.

In the far corner, facing the wall like a very furious child on time-out, arms crossed tightly over his chest and a deep scowl carved into his face.

You stared at Theo, stunned. “You planned this?”

Theo shrugged with a wince. “I’d say I predicted it.”

You turned to face Cedric. “You actually fought?”

“No,” Cedric snapped without turning around. “I just gently escorted his face into a wall.”

Theo winced dramatically. “He ambushed me.”

Cedric turned. “You told McGonagall I’ve been using a Polyjuice Potion to attend class twice to boost my grades!!”

Theo gave a lazy shrug. “Honestly, it would explain a lot.”

“By telling her I was using Polyjuice?!”

You blinked. “Okay, what is wrong with both of you—”

Cedric narrowed his eyes. "You enchanted my quill to write love letters to Snape!!."

Theo frowned. "And he still hasn't replied. How Tragic."

Cedric's eye twitched. "You put glitter in my bed!!"

Theo shrugged. "Your aura needed cleansing-"

You held up both hands. “Enough!”

Theo flinched slightly when he moved, and you softened despite yourself. “Let me see,” you said, reaching for the gauze. He allowed it, eyes flicking to you briefly like he wasn’t used to being fussed over.

Cedric watched silently, jaw tight, eyes stormy.

You shot him a look. “Did you actually hit him?”

“He deserved it.”

“I always deserve it,” Theo added, “but you’ve never followed through before.”

You sighed, wiping the blood off Theo’s cheek. “And this is why you listed me? To drag me into your dramatics?”

He smiled faintly. “Well, you're here, aren’t you?”

“I showed up to make sure you didn’t drag Cedric into a murder trial.”

His voice dropped just a bit, teasing. “Admit it—you were worried about me.”

From the other side of the room, Cedric groaned. “Can someone please sedate him?”

You looked at both of them—Cedric with his proud, bruised knuckles and wounded ego; Theo with his bloody lip and smug mouth—and felt your blood pressure rising.

“I swear,” you muttered, “if you idiots keep doing this, I’m removing myself from both of your lives and changing my name.”

Theo smiled. “You’d miss me.”

“You put me on your paperwork. That’s not affection. That’s premeditated chaos.”

He winked. “Worked, didn’t it?”

You turned to Cedric. “And you—what were you thinking?”

“I was thinking,” he said through gritted teeth, “that it’s about time someone wiped the smirk off his face.”

Theo grinned. “Spoiler: didn’t work.”

You looked at them both, tired. “Next time you fight, do it without dragging me into it.”

“Can’t,” Theo said, laying back on the bed. “You’re legally involved now.”

ᥫ᭡reblog's & comment's are appreciatedᥫ᭡

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©lov3notts ,do not copy, translate or claim any of my writing or works as your own

[seongminiz]

proving a point (and kind of failing) – p.sh

. . ? sunghoon gets handcuffed (hell yeah) – smut / minors dni ; 828 words

cw handcuffs , afab reader , handjob , orgasm denial , unprotected sex , a lil bit of dumbification

🗯️ yk the drill , this isnt proof read – it wasn't even supposed to be this long but my pretentious ass got poetic n ended up writing more than expected .. n then i got bored n sleepy so it became kind of ass idk honestly .. not proud of this one but i'll live i need to allow myself to be a mediocre writer bc at the end of the day its not that deep

handcuffing sunghoon to the bed's headrest , restraining him n saying for once you are going to be in charge ,, when really , you both know sunghoon is merely granting you the illusion of power , for his own amusement , his eyes following your every action waiting for the moment you'll cave in n admit defeat , letting him take control again .

it's all a game to sunghoon , n maybe to you too – but it's also a matter of proving yourself .

you straddle sunghoon's hips , stubbornly ignoring his sweet , sweet voice as he plays his part , pleading for you to hurry up and touch him already in a whiny tone that feels almost mocking.

'shut up,' you retort as you drag sunghoon's boxers down his legs , leaving them around his knees without much care . sunghoon is right, in a way : you do have to hurry up , not dwell for too long on the details, take what you want without giving it more than half a thought to not let your resolve crumble and let him take control again .

sunghoon bites back a whine as your fingers wrap around his dick. for a second – it feels like an eternity to him – you just stay there , running your fingertips along the circumference of his cock, tracing its details as if you need to map it out, as if your body, your insides haven't already memorized its every single millimeter , to exhaustion.

'i told you to hurry,' sunghoon lifts his hips, searching for more friction that you don't grant him as you retract your hand with a smirk.

'and i,' you actually wrap your hand around sunghoon's cock now, giving it the smallest squeeze before pumping it once. 'told you to shut up.'

you don't know how your voice doesn't shake , how you manage to meet sunghoon's eyes as you start to slowly , painfully drag your hand up and down his length , to hold his gaze when you pick up the pace and he finally – or at least , for a moment – gives in , tilting his head back and letting you take your time with him .

it's not long before sunghoon feels the incipit of an orgasm building up in him . in his defense , he's been rock hard ever since he got in this predicament, if not before you even told him you wanted to take charge for the night . sunghoon just thinks you're the hottest person to ever walk earth, and anything you do could get him bricked up without you even trying to.

just as sunghoon is about to voice just how close he is , your touch disappears again , a satisfied smile creeping on your face when you hear him groan in disappointment.

'you just have to be a little patient,' you reassure him , your nails lightly scraping the inside of his thighs.

you lift your hips slightly and push your panties to the side , you grind down on sunghoon's cock and let your wetness coat it , your legs shaking when his tip bumps into your clit before you finally align it to your entrance and let yourself sink down on him slowly .

so agonizingly slow sunghoon genuinely feels like he's about to go insane . he uselessly pulls at his restraints , the urge to hold you , grab your hips and pull you down onto his cock all at once almost unbearable as he feels you take him centimeter by centimeter , clenching around him .

you hold back your own moans , trying so hard to mantain the dominant role you've taken up , despite how feeling so full , so close to sunghoon is enough to reduce your brain to mush .

'sunghoon' you call out , bracing yourself on his toned stomach so you can lift yourself up just to immediately slam down – it's too fast , and slightly painful , but you need it , immediately missing the fullness when you raise your hips .

'what is it, baby?' there it is . that tone , the condescension that had been barely shining thigh his words earlier , now clear as day even in your fogged up brain .

your frown, grinding your hips as you try to form a coherent thought. 'it's...' you don't manage to finish the sentence, half trailing off , half interrupted by sunghoon bucking his hips up to distract you . this motherfucker .

sunghoon is now shooting you a smug smile , a raised eyebrow as if he's challenging you . he looks back at the handcuffs for a moment. 'whenever you want, baby.' he reminds you , voice softer .

you decide that fuck it , you can't take it anymore. fuck being in charge, fuck your pride and fuck sunghoon – literally and figuratively.

it's not long before you have freed sunghoon from his restraints , leaving sweet , delicate kisses on the marks that have formed on his wrists before his hands find your hips , moving them for you as he holds you close to his chest , his mouth busy licking and kissing along your neck to muffle his moans as he finally gets to fuck you properly.

[suiana]

yandere! bully who is your boss at work and you think he lowkey hates your guts. lowkey? no, he absolutely hates your guts.

he steals from you every single day. your laptop, your pens, even your goddamn coffee cup. he doesn't even give you anything back! like what the flip dude!

oh and it gets even worse.

so get this, not only does he steal from you, he also has the audacity to mess your shit up and act like this is high school! what the actual freak.

of course the whole office knows this and they sympathize with you, they really do! but what can they do when it's their boss that's bullying you? the most they can do is offer words of comfort when he goes cackling away while holding your pens hostage.

"dude i need my laptop to work."

"oh do you? so you can't just conjure up the report? fucking loser."

"bro."

what you didn't expect to find when you ransacked his office the other day though, was a shrine full of stuff he stole. your pens, the multiple coffee cups you got from aliexpress... hey wait, aren't those your underwear? like, specifically the ones you've started losing recently? how the hell did he get those?

"you weren't supposed to see that, why'd you break in here? 𝖞𝖔𝖚'𝖗𝖊 𝖋𝖎𝖗𝖊𝖉."

"dude is that my limited edition minecraft movie middle aged man action figure toy?"

yeah and you're fired. woohoo! what do you do now? well lucky for you your boss or ex-boss has a better idea.

since you want to be so nosy and stick your head in places they don't belong, why don't you explore his house? yeah, he bets that you'll love exploring his big and empty house... that for some reason has even more of your stuff. look, it's even full of pictures he's secretly taken of you!

"wow your house is really big and empty if i ignore the countless pics of me on your walls..."

"don't worry, you'll decorate it, won't you?"

"what? why would i?"

"because you're mine now :3 oh also, here's this collar i have for you, look how pretty it is on your neck! bark for me doggy!"

annnndd he's got you locked up now. oh well, uh, you feel like his dog to be honest. especially with this collar he snapped onto your neck... um... hey, at least he's giving you your stuff back! haha... ah...

you're screwed.

[inbabylontheywept]

Hi there, I love your writing and saw one of your recent answered asks. If you feel like it, could you tell or point us to a story about how you were taught kindness? I worry I have not learned enough kindness.

I actually got out of bed to write this. I saw the ask, and I knew the story, and I knew what I wanted it to be. It's a little fire and brimstone, compared to my other stories, but I think that's an important part. 

My mom was a young woman's leader for our ward and she cared a lot about her charges. One of the girls in her group had parents that were in the middle of a messy divorce, and with the mom reentering the workforce after 15 years, schedules were hectic. So my mom picked up their daughter from school for a while. The daughter only lived a block away from us, so it was a small thing to do for a family going through a very painful change.

Said daughter was fat. She'd been fat since we were all kids and she was deeply ashamed of it. Always trying to fix it. Always reading about and talking about diets. And one day, I was sitting in the back seat, and she was talking with my mom about some documentary she'd seen about the corn industry, and how corn syrup was in everything, and I remember her saying "It's literally poison."

And I just didn't leave it be.  

I said something about if she was sure it was literal, and she said yeah, totally, and I asked her if she knew what literal went, and my mom shot daggers at me through the rear view mirror before changing the topic. They chatted, and my mom told her some stuff about worrying less about food, and I don't remember the details but I know my mom was trying to steer her away from disordered eating. Then we arrived at her house, and she got out, and after that it was just me and my mom in the car. 

And it was awkward. We drove for maybe a half block before my mom said, Babs, what the hell was that, and I said something about how that's not what literally means, and she took me to task for it. 

Who cares what literally means, she said. Her parents are getting divorced. She feels terrible about her body. She feels terrible about everything. And instead of listening to her, you felt the need to point out that you're smarter than her. That you know a word she doesn't. You feel big, putting her down like that? 

I didn't have an answer. We sat there a few moments, silent, before she spoke again. I will never forget how tired she sounded. 

I know she isn't as smart as you, she said. But she's doing the best she can. And you could be doing so much more than this.

There was nothing I could say to that. I saw her face in the rearview a few times on the short ride home, and she wasn't sobbing but there were tears going down her face. I think she sat in the car twenty minutes after pulling in, just trying to get her composure back. I checked on her from the living room window like ten times. I can't remember the last time I felt like that huge of a piece of shit.

My mom is a gentle woman. She cried over worms with me. She hardly ever yelled, and she apologized after she did. That conversation caved my skull in like a cinder block dropped from a skyscraper. And I deserved it. 

I know it's probably not the tumblr way to encourage shame. But I have found it useful anyway. I think it is useful for me, to have a specific moment of knowing what failure looks like and feels like.  Missing the person to pick out the part that would make me look good, missing the big view of their life, missing the idea that what they need is not necessarily to be right. Too may misses.

There are a lot of stupid things that have crawled to the tip of my tongue, only to get stopped by the memory of my mom saying you could be doing so much more than this. 

I will not make her say that a second time.

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Thirty-Five

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, pregnancy, emetophobia warning, domestic fluff.

Notes — We're closing out the 2023 season!! Double update for the day!

2023 (Abu Dhabi)

The filming studio was chaos. Bright lights, Nerf guns, a beanbag chair someone had exploded accidentally, and Max F was in the corner trying to tape a foam sword back together.

Lando stood off to the side, hoodie hood up, sipping a smoothie and pretending to review a script while actually just taking a breather from the all-day mess.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

He fished it out lazily, thumbed it open.

iMessage — 12:03pm

Amelia (Wifey 4 lifey)

My period is 3 weeks late.

—

He stared.

Then blinked. Read the words again.

And stood there frozen in the middle of the mess, smoothie halfway to his mouth.

“…What the f—”

“Bro, you good?” Aarav called from across the room, eyebrow raised.

Lando didn’t answer. He was busy rereading the message for a third time. Then a fourth. Slowly lowering the smoothie.

Missed period.

3 weeks.

Missed period for 3 weeks.

Period 3 weeks missed.

He let out a stunned, breathy laugh. “Oh fucking hell. Of course she’d just message me about it like it’s no big deal. Of course she did.”

The rest of the guys were still messing around in the background, arguing about whether they could build a kart ramp out of beanbags, and Lando just… walked backwards into a couch and sat down before his legs gave up on him.

Well, clearly she wasn’t freaking out. So that meant he wasn’t supposed to freak out. Cool. No problem. Cool, cool, super cool.

Except, he ran a hand through his hair. It was Amelia. If she was freaking out, she still probably wouldn’t say it. She’d just power through it all and not mention anything had even happened and then be like, “Oh yeah, by the way, our kid is three now.”

He shook his head.

iMessage — 12:05pm

Lando (Husband)

Ok. I’m not freaking out. Kind of want to throw up a bit tho. Love u x

He stared at the screen. Chewed the side of his thumb. Sent another.

Lando (Husband)

Did u like… pee on a stick yet????

Also should i come home. Or stay and keep filming the stupid cart bit. Idk what to do bby xxxx

Amelia (Wifey 4 lifey)

No, I have not peed on a stick. No, you do not need to come home. Finish filming. I will just see you when you come home x

—

He barely had time to process it before Max shouted, “Lando! You’re up!”

Lando slowly stood, still blinking, feeling kind of like he was buffering in real time.

“Mate, you look like you just saw a ghost,” Max added. “You alright, bro?”

Lando just looked at him, dazed. “No. I think I’m gonna be someone’s dad.”

Max’s eyes went fucking massive. “Woah, woah. Hold on. What—”

“Later. Can’t explain. Gotta pretend to joust on a kids scooter first.”

And off he went, hoodie flapping, brain somewhere over the Alps, while back in Monaco, his wife was casually engineering a race car and possibly incubating a human life like it was no big deal.

—

Amelia chewed on her bottom lip as she pulled up Pietra’s contact.

The screen blinked to life and there she was, chin propped on her hand, eating a bowl of cereal. Her blonde hair was pulled up in a lopsided bun, and she had one AirPod in, the other probably misplaced somewhere nearby. Her face lit up when she saw Amelia.

“Hello, gorgeous—wait, are you okay?" She asked, narrowing her eyes. “What’s wrong? You look off.”

Amelia didn’t say hello. She just held up her phone so the camera framed her blank expression and said, deadpan, “I am having déjà vu.”

Pietra blinked. Then squinted harder. “Wait… about what?”

“This call.” She said. “I think I’m pregnant.”

Pietra blinked again, cereal halfway to her mouth. “Você tá brincando.”

“I would never joke about this kind of thing.” Amelia said.

“Meu Deus.” Pietra gasped, dropping her spoon into the bowl with a dramatic clatter. “How? I mean—well, how is obvious, but—how do you know?”

Amelia turned her phone around, flashed her calendar at the screen. One day highlighted in red. Three weeks past due. “Calendar told on me.”

Pietra’s eyebrows shot up. “Three weeks? Amelia!”

Amelia sighed. “I know. But I’ve been so preoccupied with Vegas prep, travel, lobby meltdowns.”

“Oh my god.” Pietra was practically whispering now. “But… how likely is it?”

“Very. We haven’t been, like, trying,” Amelia said, voice clipped, efficient. “But we also haven’t been not trying. No protection for the last… few months. Ish.”

Pietra dragged her hand down her face. “Ameliaaaa. You can’t just drop a possible baby on me while I’m eating cornflakes!”

“I can and did.” Amelia adjusted the camera so it faced the ceiling, then sat cross-legged on the couch, phone balanced on her chest. This was their usual routine. She could write strategy notes with Pietra on FaceTime, no problem. Sometimes Pietra filled the air with stories, or whatever drama was happening in one of her many group chats. Sometimes she was just quiet, scrolling TikTok beside her. It was easy. Safe.

“Have you taken a test yet?” Pietra asked, after a beat.

“No.” Amelia’s voice was flat. “I don’t want to look at a little window. The little window makes things real.”

Pietra groaned. “It’s the only way to know!”

“I don’t want to know yet,” Amelia pointed out.

“I don’t trust you not to emotionally suppress this entire event and pretend it never happened.”

“Unfortunately not possible with this,” Amelia returned.

Pietra reached for the cereal again, shaking her head. “Have you told Lando?”

“I texted him. He’s in London filming Quadrant stuff, obviously. He freaked out a bit but, like, he was fine I think.”

Pietra cackled. “What did you even say?”

Amelia lifted her phone and scrolled briefly. “‘My period is three weeks late.’”

“Oh my god,” Pietra said. “You’ve probably given him a heart attack.”

“I’m nothing if not efficient.”

“He’s probably already told my Max, then. Are you telling anyone else?”

“No,” Amelia said, immediately and firmly. “I haven’t even processed it yet. And it might not even be something to process. It’d be like… trying to run a live feed before the camera boots.”

“Got it.” Pietra nodded. “Just us, then.”

“Just us,” Amelia echoed. She returned her focus to the spreadsheet open on her laptop. Sector delta charts glowed on the screen, comfortingly quantifiable.

Pietra softened. “But like—how are you?”

“I’m fine.” Amelia blinked slowly, as if running an internal diagnostic. “Not panicked. Not excited. Just... fine. Although thinking about it, I have been feeling nauseous a lot more frequently lately. I just kept putting it down to nerves you know?”

“Yes, I know. It’s been a long few weeks.” Pietra agreed. Eventually, she asked, “So. Plan?”

Amelia shrugged. “Go to the bakery and the pharmacy. Buy a bunch of pastries and three pregnancy tests.”

“And then?”

“And then I’m waiting for Lando. I’m not testing until he’s back.”

Pietra smiled, biting back something fond. “Of course not.”

They hung up not long after.

Amelia finished annotating a slide for Oscar’s sector exits in medium-speed corners, then shut her laptop with a soft click. She stood, pulled on one of Lando’s oversized hoodies, and grabbed her bag.

As she stepped out into the sunshine, she ran through her mental checklist:

Bakery

Pharmacy

Groceries

Don’t forget oat milk

Do not freak out

Business as usual.

—

The pharmacy was quiet, the sort of quiet that made every footstep sound louder than it should. Fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, and faint French pop music played from an old radio behind the counter.

Amelia moved with purpose, hoodie sleeves pulled halfway over her hands, the corners of her to-do list folded neatly in her pocket. She headed straight for the aisle where the pregnancy tests were shelved, eyes flicking over the boxes clinically. Brands didn’t matter. She just picked three, different ones, out of mild uncertainty more than logic, and turned on her heel toward the checkout.

Behind the counter sat Madame Duval, a tiny, silver-haired woman with thick glasses, a warm smile, and a knit cardigan that didn’t match her blouse but somehow made her look even more maternal.

“Bonjour, Amelia,” she said, her voice like soft wool. “C’est bon de vous voir.”

Amelia blinked. “Hi.”

She placed the boxes down without flinching. Madame Duval looked down, eyebrows twitching faintly. Then she smiled again, smaller this time. “Ah. I see.”

Amelia didn’t say anything. Just offered a shrug and a half-nod. She wasn’t embarrassed, exactly. It just felt… complicated.

“Would you like a bag?” Madame Duval asked gently. “One that is not see-through?”

“Yes please.”

She packed the boxes neatly, moving with the patience of someone who had known Amelia since she had first moved to Monaco. The first time she had come in for antihistamines, she’d asked in English and apologised for not speaking very clear French. Madame Duval had tutted at her gently and waved it off — “You’re young. You learn.”

She hadn’t expected Amelia to remember all of their conversations. But Amelia did. Down to which shelf the chamomile tea had been on that one rainy day when she came in, red-eyed and overstimulated, asking for something that “made bodies quiet.”

Now, only a couple of years later, the girl she’d watched grow into a woman, all sharp focus and clinical precision, stood with three pregnancy tests in her hand and a face like a still pond. Flat on the surface. Rippling just underneath.

Madame Duval placed a single wrapped chocolate on top of the box in the bag. The fancy kind they kept near the till. “For after. Whatever the result.”

Amelia blinked. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t argue,” Madame Duval said simply. “I know you very well, Amelia. You will enjoy your sweet treat.”

She accepted the bag and nodded, a single sharp dip of her head. “Merci.”

Madame Duval smiled again, knowing, warm. “Bonne chance, ma fille.”

Amelia didn’t translate the words in her head. She didn’t need to. They sank into her like the warmth of a blanket after a cold morning walk.

She left the pharmacy with the bag looped tightly around her wrist and walked the short distance back up the hill toward the apartment. The sea was visible between buildings, a thin slice of blue horizon. Everything smelled faintly of croissants and sunshine and exhaust fumes.

She checked her mental list:

Got the tests.

Got the pastries.

Got the groceries.

Back home, she set the bag down on the kitchen counter and grabbed her laptop.

The tests could wait until Lando was back.

For now, it was just another variable. Logged.

Pending analysis.

—

The door clicked softly behind Lando as he stepped into their Monaco apartment, duffle bag forgotten somewhere between the entrance and the bedroom.

The light was low, just the soft stretch of sunrise brushing over the walls, and Amelia was curled up on their bed in one of his hoodies, half-asleep, laptop still warm next to her leg.

She opened one eye when he crouched beside her. “Hi,” she murmured, voice heavy with sleep.

He didn’t answer right away. Just tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and held up a small paper bag like he’d just won a prize. “Get up, baby,” he said, gently.

Amelia blinked. “Seriously?”

He kissed her temple. “Come on. I need to know if my wife is growing a person.”

She groaned, dragging her hand over her face — but didn’t argue. Not really. She let him pull her upright with a sleepy grumble, let him tug her by the hand toward the bathroom, let him press the test into her hand.

They paused there for a second. Fingers brushing. Her gaze flicked up to meet his.

“You okay?” He asked, voice low now, a little more cautious.

“I’m fine,” she said. Then, with a characteristic deadpan mutter, “I’m tired.”

Lando gave her that crooked little grin, the one that always cracked something open in her. “Right. Go pee on it.”

She rolled her eyes and shut the door.

He sat cross-legged outside, back against the wall. Same way he had the first time she’d let him into her quieter corners; back when they were barely even dating and she couldn’t handle knocks on doors, loud voices, or sudden touches. Back when he learned to ask first and sit with her in the silence.

He waited now, quiet, patient, fingers tapping his knee.

The door creaked open.

She didn’t speak at first. Just stood there holding the test, staring at it.

Lando scrambled to his feet. “Amelia?”

She looked up at him. “It’s positive,” she said, voice soft. Like she wasn’t sure the words could be able to come out of her mouth properly.

Silence fell between them — not tense, not panicked. Just heavy.

She looked back down at the test. Then back at him. Her expression was unreadable for a second, and then… it cracked. Not big. Not loud. Just a subtle unraveling. A tremble in her mouth. Her eyes too bright, but dry.

“I thought I’d feel more in control,” she said quietly. “Like it would just slot into the system. Checklist. Contingency. Risk management.” She held up the test, eyes never leaving it. “But it’s not like that. It’s not a flowchart. It’s not a decision tree. It’s just… me. And you. And this. And I can’t logic my way through it.”

Lando took a slow step forward, voice hushed. “Is it a bad feeling?”

She shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “It’s just… big.”

And then it happened — not a meltdown, not a scene, just her body folding into his with no warning. A silent collapse.

Hands clinging to the front of his hoodie, face buried against his chest, a single shuddering breath breaking out of her like she’d been holding it in for hours. No sobbing. No hysteria. Just quiet overwhelm — the kind that sneaks up and knocks the wind out of you.

Lando wrapped his arms around her instantly, no hesitation.

“Whoa, hey,” he murmured, steady as ever, his hand in her hair. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, love. You’re okay. We’re okay. We’re going to be okay.”

She didn’t answer, just breathed — deep and shaky. Her fingers still clutched the test like a lifeline. Her knuckles were white.

“I’m scared,” she said after a long pause. The words were barely there. “What if I mess it up? What if I do something wrong? What if I’m not good enough to do this?”

Lando pulled back, just enough to look at her. His hands stayed on her waist, grounding her. “Hey,” he said gently, brushing his thumb over her cheekbone. “Don’t do that. Don’t start doubting yourself now.”

Her eyes flicked away. “I’m not soft. I’m not warm. I don’t… glow. I forget social niceties, I spiral over things like flight plans and tyre temps and socks that don’t feel right. That’s not the kind of person who’s supposed to—” She swallowed. “I don’t know if I’m made for this.”

“Baby. You’re made for anything,” he said, firm now. “You’re made for me. And if our baby ends up anything like you, blunt, brilliant, weird in the best possible way, they’re going to be so lucky. And so am I.”

She let out a sound that was halfway between a breath and a laugh. Her shoulders sagged just a little. “We don’t even know if I’m actually pregnant yet,” she muttered.

He glanced down at the test still in her hand. “Kinda looks like we do.”

Another breath.

She let him take the test and set it gently on the counter, his touch reverent, like it was something fragile and sacred. Then, without a word, he slid his hand into hers and led her back into the bedroom.

She didn’t resist. Didn’t speak. Just let herself be tugged along like driftwood in a current.

Lando climbed into bed first and pulled her down with him, settling them in the tangle of covers she’d only half-kicked off earlier. His arms came around her automatically, looping over her waist and up across her back. He tucked her in close, chin resting against the top of her head, one leg hooked loosely over hers.

Wrapped around her like a blanket. Safe. Heavy in the best way.

They lay like that for a long time. Breathing in sync. No words needed.

Eventually, Amelia spoke. Her voice was quiet — raw around the edges, like she'd surprised even herself with the crack earlier. “I didn’t think I’d cry,” she murmured.

Lando smiled, lips brushing her temple. “I’m glad you did.”

She blinked against his hoodie. “Why?”

He huffed a soft laugh, barely more than a breath. “Because it made it less pathetic that I was crying for a second too.”

Her head tipped back just enough to look up at him. “You were crying?”

“Only a little bit,” he said, mock-defensive. “Like, blinked-a-lot-and-hoped-you-wouldn’t-notice crying. I’m British. I’m subtle.”

“You’re not subtle,” she said flatly.

“No,” he agreed, grin tugging at his mouth. “But I am dramatic, and I’ve been alone for two days imagining every possible outcome and Googling ‘is surprise pregnancy good news if you’re in love and mostly financially stable.’”

Amelia blinked slowly. “You Googled that exact phrase?”

“Yes.”

She snorted. A small, involuntary noise that made his heart squeeze. “What did it say?”

“That the internet is deeply unhelpful,” he said. “And Reddit is a lawless place.”

There was another long pause.

Then she whispered, “I was scared it wouldn’t feel real. That I’d just… log it as data and move on. Like it was just another variable.”

Lando tightened his arms around her. “But it does feel real?”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “The second I said it out loud.”

He kissed her forehead. “Good. I don’t think I could’ve handled being more emotional than you about this.”

“You’re always more emotional than me.”

“True. I tried at Bake Off the other day.”

“I know,” she said, and even through the haze of anxiety and confusion and quiet overwhelm, she smiled. “That’s why I married you.”

Lando rested his cheek against her hair, and for a few long seconds, the world outside the blanket of their bed ceased to exist.

“Should we sleep a bit more?” She asked eventually, already halfway there.

He nodded against her. “Yeah. Big day of parenting ahead. Gotta start practicing how to Google more useful things.”

She hummed. “Start with ‘how to tell if your wife is actually going to let herself feel things this time.’”

Lando squeezed her a little tighter. “Already figured it out. Just gotta love her loud enough that she forgets to be afraid.”

She didn’t respond.

But she didn’t pull away either.

—

The clinic’s sliding door whispered closed behind them as Amelia and Lando stepped into the small, clinical room. The nurse smiled warmly, gesturing toward the chair.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” she said, setting out the necessary equipment.

Amelia sat down slowly, her fingers lacing in her lap. Lando stood quietly by her side, watching her with closeness.

“You doing alright, baby?” He asked quietly, voice low enough only for her.

She shrugged, eyes steady. “As alright as I can be.”

Lando reached out and took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. She held on tight.

The nurse prepped the needle, talking her through it as she did. Amelia kept her gaze fixed on the ceiling, her jaw clenched just enough to show her focus.

When the needle slid in, Lando’s hand moved up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear.

“There,” he whispered. “Done.”

Amelia exhaled, releasing some of the tension she hadn’t even realised she was holding.

—

Amelia and Lando sat quietly in the small waiting area just outside the testing rooms, the sterile white walls feeling colder than usual. Amelia scrolled absently through her phone while Lando rested his arm around her shoulders, both wrapped in a low hum of nervous energy.

The nurse appeared after what felt like an eternity but was realistically just under an hour. She held a folder in her hand, her expression calm and professional. “Amelia Norris?” She called.

Amelia stood immediately, Lando rising just a half-step behind her, his hand brushing lightly against the small of her back in quiet support.

The nurse, a kind-looking woman in her fifties with kind eyes and soft lines around her mouth, smiled gently as she approached, holding a slim folder in her hands. “Amelia, Lando,” She said warmly. “Your blood test results are back.”

Amelia held herself very still, as if bracing for impact.

The nurse opened the folder and glanced down. “Everything looks healthy, and we did manage to confirm your pregnancy, Amelia.”

For a second, neither of them spoke. Amelia’s breath caught in her throat, her eyes fixed on the nurse but unfocused, as though the words had landed somewhere just behind her.

She blinked once. Twice. “Okay,” she said softly. Just one word, but it sounded like it had taken effort to get it out.

Lando, ever the contrast, let out a breathy laugh; short, quiet, almost disbelieving, and slid his arm around her waist. He gave her a gentle squeeze, grounding them both. “Well,” he murmured, leaning in close, “that’s the official verdict then.”

She didn’t answer right away, just nodded, lips pressing into a line. Her fingers twitched at her side, stimming without even thinking.

The nurse, unfazed by the silence, handed Amelia a printout of the blood-work results. “Everything looks perfectly normal for where you’re at. If you have questions or want to talk about next steps, you’re always welcome to call. We’ll book your first ultrasound soon.”

Amelia’s eyes scanned the paper, already filtering the information into categories in her head — normal levels, nothing flagged, timeline confirmed. Just data. But even with all the logic in the world, she felt the subtle shift in the air. It was real now.

“I can fly to Abu Dhabi?” She asked, sharp and direct.

The nurse nodded. “Yes, you can. You’re still very early. Travel is fine, just make sure you stay hydrated and try to keep your stress levels to a minimum.”

Amelia scoffed out a single breath. “Right. Sure.”

Lando gave the nurse an apologetic smile, stepping in smoothly. “We’ll make sure of it. Water, snacks, earplugs, noise-cancelling headphones, the works.”

The nurse’s smile deepened. “Good man. Just listen to your body, Amelia. That’ll be the trickiest part for you, I think.”

Amelia met her gaze, brows furrowed. “Why? Because I’m autistic?”

“Because you’re used to ignoring and pushing aside your discomfort,” the nurse said kindly. “But yes, that too.”

Amelia blinked, visibly filing that away.

The nurse handed her a card. “Call and make your next appointment as soon as you’re back. That’ll be for your first scan — around gestation week seven. You can ask for me by name if you’d like.”

Amelia took the card, examined the name — “Colette” — and gave the barest nod of approval. “Okay. I will.”

Colette gave them both a final smile. “Take care of each other. And congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Lando said quietly, while Amelia murmured something that might’ve been a “you too” out of sheer social obligation.

As they stepped out of the clinic and into the soft Monaco sunlight, Lando reached over and laced their fingers together. Amelia let him. Didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Just walked beside him, her expression unreadable — but her grip on his hand was firm.

He glanced at her as they waited for the elevator. “So.”

She glanced up.

“You’re gonna have to let me look at that report later,” he said. “Just to double-check you’re not secretly growing twins or something.”

Amelia huffed. “I’d know if I were.”

He grinned. “Sure you would.”

—

The private jet hummed softly beneath them, the kind of quiet that came with luxury and familiarity. Amelia had curled up beside the window, iPad balanced on her lap, headphones hanging loosely around her neck. Next to her, Lando was dozing — hoodie pulled up, mouth slightly open, dead to the world.

Across the aisle, Max sat with a protein bar and a very serious frown as he scrolled through Instagram. For all the years they’d known each other, Amelia had rarely seen him sit still this long.

She, however, was very much not still.

Her finger tapped quickly across her iPad screen, eyes scanning an article titled “What To Expect in Your First Trimester.” She had three tabs open; one medical, one forum-based, and one purely dedicated to nutrition. Her nose wrinkled as she read the phrase “morning sickness may begin as early as week six.” She was almost six weeks, according to the timeline Colette had scribbled down.

“Oh, screw that,” she muttered under her breath.

Max leaned slightly toward the aisle and blinked at her screen. “What’re you reading?”

Amelia startled slightly and tilted the iPad instinctively away from him. “Nothing.”

Max tilted his head. “No, I definitely saw the word ‘placenta’ just now.”

Amelia pursed her lips. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

He blinked. Then his eyes went wide. “You’re pregnant.”

“What? No. Don’t be absurd.” Amelia spluttered.

“Your ears are red!” Max pointed out.

“Lots of people have red ears,” she lied boldly.

“Name two people.”

“Um.” She looked around desperately. “Um.”

Max raised a brow.

“Okay, whatever, fine.” She sighed.

He choked on his protein bar, coughing into his sleeve. “So you are pregnant.”

Amelia groaned, setting the iPad facedown on her lap. “You can’t know! I’m not even supposed to know, I don’t think. Google says no one is allowed to know until the second trimester.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know!” She whispered-shouted, flinging her hands up in frustration. “Apparently there's this whole unwritten rule that you’re meant to keep it secret until like week twelve in case things go wrong but also I can’t stop Googling everything because what the hell is a mucus plug and why is it in my body?”

Max looked vaguely alarmed. “Oh, god. That sounds disgusting.”

“Exactly!”

Lando stirred at the noise, cracked one eye open, and muttered, “Did you tell Max?”

“No,” Amelia said at the exact same time Max said, “Absolutely.”

Lando sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face, clearly too tired to argue.

Amelia shifted slightly in her seat, frowning. “Is it weird I don’t feel different yet? Like I thought I’d… know. That there’d be this, I don’t know, gut feeling. Like how I know when it’s going to rain or when Oscar’s about to spin out of a corner.”

Max softened a bit, leaning over the aisle. “Everyone’s different, I think.”

“Yeah, but I already feel behind.” She nudged her iPad back into her lap. “There are apps and charts and... symbiotic uterine developments. It’s like a project I didn’t plan for. And you know how I feel about unplanned variables.”

Lando reached over sleepily and squeezed her hand. “You’re doing fine.”

Max nodded. “Plus, your kid’s gonna have, like, the two most ridiculous godparents in the paddock.”

She blinked at him. “I never said anything about godparents.”

“You will.”

“I might not.”

“You will.”

She rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at her mouth.

Then, after a pause, she muttered, “The mucus plug thing is still on my mind.”

Max gagged theatrically, Lando groaned, and Amelia opened another article, determined to understand the entire gestational timeline before they landed.

—

The Abu Dhabi sun was already unbearable by the time they stepped onto the tarmac, the heat pressing down like a hand on the back of her neck. Amelia barely blinked at it. She was too busy focusing on not gagging.

It wasn’t morning sickness. It wasn’t anything that dramatic. There’d been no dramatic sprint to a toilet. Just this constant, low-level nausea that clung to her throat like the aftermath of turbulence. Cloying. Lingering. Like the scent of someone else’s perfume in a closed room.

She clutched her water bottle a little tighter as they walked toward the paddock entrance, sunglasses on, headphones around her neck, McLaren lanyard tucked into the front of her shirt. She wasn’t on duty yet — they were just arriving — but already, her brain was buzzing with briefings and timing windows and tyre strategy for FP1.

Lando walked beside her, one hand on the small of her back, close but casual. He wasn’t smothering her, he never did, but his body was attuned to her like a second radar system. When she slowed for a moment, swallowing hard, he adjusted his pace instantly.

“Still feeling off?” He murmured, quiet so no one around them would hear.

She nodded once, not breaking stride. “Feels like... I’ve had warm milk out of a shoe.”

“That’s a disgusting analogy.” He said, nose twitching.

“I feel disgusting.” She moaned.

Lando gave a small, sympathetic laugh and handed her a peppermint from the stash he’d brought specifically for this. “Want to skip the garage for now? Go to hospitality. Sit down.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said quickly, bluntly. “We land, we go to the garage. That’s the routine.”

He didn’t argue, not really. He just looked at her for a beat longer than usual and nodded. “Okay.”

Max had peeled off earlier, some Red Bull meeting already dragging him into another PR vortex, so it was just the two of them when they reached the McLaren motorhome. Amelia paused for a moment outside the hospitality entrance, letting the air-conditioned breeze spill over her as the door opened and closed in waves.

She stared forward, expression flat.

Then, without looking at him, she muttered, “If I throw up in front of Oscar, I’ll lie and say it’s food poisoning.”

Lando grinned. “You’d lie to Oscar?”

“I lie to Oscar all the time. I tell him the car has good rear grip when I know it doesn’t. I tell him his haircut’s not weird.”

“He knows it’s weird.”

“Then I’m not doing my job properly.”

He kissed the side of her head and ushered her inside.

The nausea didn’t leave; it didn’t even lessen. But she filed it away somewhere behind tyre allocation updates and garage temperature readings. Pushed it back. Compartmentalised.

She had a job to do.

Even if her body, her whole world, had quietly started to change.

—

The garage was its usual symphony of motion, tyre blankets, torque wrenches, low chatter on radios. Amelia stood just behind Oscar’s car, one hand resting on the side-pod, her iPad in the other, watching the data scroll. Her other hand was shoved in her pocket, fingers twisting the small piece of fabric — an old tag from one of Lando’s fireproof undershirts. Grounding. Textural. Familiar.

Oscar was climbing out of the cockpit, unzipping his suit halfway and tugging off his gloves. “How’s it looking?” He asked, pushing a hand through his hair.

“Like you are still lifting off too early into Turn 14,” Amelia replied, not looking up.

Oscar squinted at her. “Nice to see you too.”

She handed him the tablet. “Look at the overlays. You’re lifting fractionally earlier than yesterday.”

“I don’t feel like I am.”

“That’s the thing about data,” she said flatly. “It doesn’t care how you feel.”

Oscar made a face but didn’t argue. He took the tablet and perched on the edge of the front wing as he scrolled. Amelia leaned on the pit gantry behind him, eyes tracking the mechanics, her brain juggling three different timelines.

Tyre test. Race sim. Media obligations.

And nausea. Always the nausea. A thin layer of wrongness settled at the base of her throat.

“You look pale,” Oscar said suddenly.

She flicked her eyes up. “Thanks.”

“I mean it. You good?”

“I’m always good.”

He gave her a suspicious side-eye. “You’ve said that to me before. Usually when you’ve gone two days without sleep.”

She took the iPad back from him. “I’m eating. I’ve slept. I’m hydrated. I’ve had breakfast. What more do you want?”

“Some forgiveness if I don’t get the lift right on the next run?”

Amelia’s lip twitched, barely. “Not happening.”

Oscar didn’t push, but he watched her as she turned back toward the screens. She knew it. Felt his gaze linger.

But she didn’t offer anything more. Not yet. Not when the garage was full of people, and cameras, and microphones always somewhere nearby.

She just reached for her earpiece, shoved it into place, and keyed into the radio with a sharp, clean voice. “Oscar’s ready for the next run. Let’s do race trim, full fuel, softs.”

The engineer on the other end acknowledged her. The crew got moving.

And the nausea, ever present, curled a little tighter in her gut.

Still. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t step back.

Amelia Norris stayed exactly where she was — sharp, unfazed, in control.

—

The air conditioning hummed steadily overhead, and Amelia sat cross-legged in one of the lower chairs, stylus tapping as Oscar muttered something about corner exit balance. She wasn’t entirely listening. Or rather — she was, but her body was staging a full-scale rebellion against her.

The nausea had been background static all day, but now it was cresting into a full wave. Her fingers tightened slightly around the stylus. She blinked twice, tried breathing through her nose. No improvement.

She could hear Lando in the corner, chatting with one of the engineers, blissfully unaware that his wife was currently sweating through her team polo in slow motion.

Oscar nudged her shin with the toe of his socked foot. “You’re quiet. Am I saying something stupid?”

Amelia opened her mouth to answer, but—

Her stomach twisted violently. She slapped the tablet onto the low table and stood up in one movement, but it was too fast, too late.

Her hand flew to her mouth, eyes wide.

And then she doubled over and vomited squarely into the only available container-like object at ground level.

Oscar’s race boots.

The room fell silent.

Oscar blinked once. Then looked down. Then back up at her.

“Well,” he said, with a perfectly dry inflection. “That’s one way to critique my driving.”

Amelia groaned, wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her hoodie. “I’m so sorry,” she managed, breathless. “I— I tried to make it.”

Lando was already at her side, hand on her back, concern etching itself into his features. “Jesus, baby—are you okay? You need to sit down?”

Oscar, meanwhile, remained seated, staring down at the shoes like they might attack him. “Those were custom-moulded.”

“Yeah,” Amelia said weakly, dropping back into the chair. “They’re custom-moulded to hold the exact volume of my stomach contents, apparently.”

“I’m never putting my foot in those again.”

“I’ll get you new ones.”

“You’ll buy me a new digestive system, because I’m never forgetting this.” He frowned.

Amelia finally laughed; a little breathy, a little unhinged. “I hate this,” she muttered, head in her hands.

Lando crouched in front of her, gently brushing her hair back from her face. “You’ve done three days of data crunching and garage shifts while apparently fighting the urge to puke in various footwear,” he said quietly. “Come on, let’s go clean you up.”

Oscar stood up finally, crossing to the corner where someone had mercifully placed paper towels and a bin bag. “Can we agree to never tell anyone about this.”

“Yes,” Amelia agreed.

Lando snorted. “Too late. I already texted Max.”

“You what—?”

“I’m kidding,” he grinned. “But I’m tempted. He’d find this absolutely hilarious.”

—

Amelia was curled up on the end of a low sofa, sipping flat Sprite from a paper cup. The AC was finally hitting just right, and she'd gotten through the rest of the afternoon without projectile vomiting on any more personal items. Progress.

Oscar wandered in, a granola bar half-unwrapped in one hand, still in his race suit tied off at the waist.

He flopped into the chair opposite her, stretched his legs out, and with no preamble at all, said, “Happy pregnancy, by the way.”

Amelia blinked. “Oh,” she said flatly. “So it’s obvious, then.”

Oscar shrugged. “To me? Yeah. You’ve been chewing your pen caps like you’re trying to murder them, you haven’t had coffee in three days, and you were sick in my race boots, so.”

She tilted her head. “That’s a lot of observation for someone who thinks toothpaste is spicy.”

He laughed. “I’m very detail-oriented. And still peeved about my boots.”

She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he said, far too magnanimous. “They were hideous anyway.” There was a pause. Then he added, “Honestly, everyone else just assumed it was heat stroke.”

Amelia lifted a brow. “And you didn’t?”

“Nope.” He took a bite of the granola bar. “You go green when you have heat stroke. You went green this time, so I knew it was different.”

She barked a short laugh. “That’s horrifying.”

“And accurate,” he said, chewing. “So… Lando knows, obviously?”

“Yeah. He made me pee on a stick at six in the morning. Then I had to go and get blood drawn to confirm it.”

Oscar winced. “Disgusting. Anyway—congrats, I guess.”

“Thanks. And sorry again about the shoes.”

Oscar leaned back in the chair, arms behind his head like he hadn’t been personally victimised. “Eh. If the kid turns out to be a world champion, I’ll tell this story in the Netflix documentary.”

“Can’t wait,” she deadpanned.

They sat in silence for a moment. Then, with a smirk that was all mischief and no sympathy, Oscar added, “Next time, at least aim for Lando’s sneakers. His fans would pay for them.”

Amelia snorted into her Sprite. “God, you’re vile.”

“I know. And yet you can’t get rid of me,” he said, and stood up, already texting someone; probably Lando.

She groaned again. Loudly.

—

The Yas Marina Circuit always felt like the end of something.

By the time the sun dipped beneath the glowing skyline and the lights snapped on around the track, the paddock was buzzing with the familiar edge of finality. Mechanics moved with that distinct rhythm—half instinct, half exhaustion. Cameras flashed. Engines roared. And on the McLaren pit wall, Amelia sat completely still, headset pressed tight, her eyes fixed on Oscar’s live telemetry.

No one would’ve known she was pregnant. No one would’ve guessed she’d thrown up in her colleague’s race boots less than 24 hours earlier. No one would’ve known that she’d spent the flight to Abu Dhabi Googling “why does pregnancy make you feel like your body is a hostile foreign nation” or that she’d quietly rested her head on Lando’s shoulder for the last twenty minutes of final practice, just to stay upright.

But now? Now she was fine. More than fine. Because when it came to the race, Oscar’s race, she was always prepared to lock in.

Oscar had qualified well. Not perfect, but decent. Enough to put him in the fight.

Lando, meanwhile, had his own race to run, starting P5. Amelia didn’t let herself think about his car in the first ten laps. She’d gotten very good at compartmentalising again. Still, every now and then, she could feel his presence, could hear his voice from earlier:

“One more race. Then we get a break. Then we breathe.”

God, how she wanted to breathe.

The race itself was tense. Ferrari and Mercedes were locked in their Constructors’ battle, chaos unfolding all across the midfield. Amelia kept her voice calm on Oscar’s radio.

“Strat 7, we’re going to offset slightly from Gasly ahead.”

“Understood.”

“Clean exit turn 3. Good traction now. Let’s build.”

He listened. He always listened.

Mid-race, Oscar made an aggressive but beautifully timed overtake, and Amelia let herself smile—just a little.

Lando, a few positions ahead, was holding ground. Quietly, steadily. Nothing dramatic. Amelia could handle steady. Steady felt manageable.

The final laps bled together like watercolour under pressure. Amelia felt her stomach twist, nausea creeping up again. She ignored it. She had work to do.

In the end?

Oscar crossed the line P6.

Lando, P4.

Respectable. Solid. A good end to a hard-fought season.

When Oscar pulled in and killed the engine, Amelia finally took a long breath and peeled off her headset. Her hands were trembling. Whether it was adrenaline, hormones, or just sheer relief, she couldn’t tell.

Lando found her on the pit wall not long after, hair sweaty, fireproofs unzipped halfway.

“Hey,” he said, brushing her shoulder lightly. “You okay?”

She looked at him for a long moment, the smile tugging at her lips slow and almost reluctant.

“I am now.”

He grinned. “We did it.”

She snorted. “You did it. I just puked in Oscar’s boots and managed his brake maps.”

Lando bent down and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “You did both with tremendous style.”

Somewhere nearby, champagne exploded. But for Amelia, the noise faded into the background. The season was over. They were having a baby. They’d finished best of the rest.

And the MCL38-AN was going to be an absolute masterpiece. 

[sincerecinnamon]

Jesus wept. Jesus mourned when His friends died. Jesus had best friends whom He loved. Jesus had brothers and sisters.

Jesus spent a lot of his time with the sick. He also spent time with prostitutes. The church of the day, those who studied the Bible so hard that they knew every word and exactly where it came from, hated those people with a passion. They said that those people or their family must have done something to make God hate them.

This was not true, and, in fact, Jesus lived in direct defiance to the rulers of the church. He constantly went against them and said the opposite of what they said consistently. The discrimination against those people was something that Jesus disagreed with.

This shows that you can memorize the entire Bible and still misrepresent Him if you don't actually have a relationship with Him or actually think past your biases.

And yet, today's church seems to align heavily with the exact people they talk against.

If we took Jesus as an example and actually attempted to have a relationship with Him instead of teaching the Bible through our preexisting perspective instead of unbiasedly, maybe we would be less impatient with minorities and anyone we didn't like.

Even if the Bible was against queer people, should we not treat them how Jesus treated everyone? With respect? With love? With understanding?

After all, those who say they want hell to be empty do not take the measures of actually talking to the people who they expect to go to hell, and by condemning them, they are only driving them further and further from God

History repeats itself, and it is clear that the church's history is too.

I beg any Christian reading this to think before you throw stones. Yes, while you may not agree with some people, that doesn't mean that they don't deserve to know God or that God doesn't deserve to know them. Jesus exemplifies this.

do you guys think jesus, the son of a carpenter, smelt the wood of the cross & temporarily thought of home

[pagesfromthevoid]

"it's so hot when you talk like that" for Mr. Bob Reynolds! ❤️

It's not often that Bob loses his temper. Actually, she can count on one hand him getting angry for whatever reason.

This...this is one of those times.

The mission was supposed to be straightforward. Simple. Get in, take out the target, get out. And it was simple --until Walker decided his plan was the right plan, after they had all agreed it wasn't.

That is when things went south --fast.

Instead of focusing on the exit strategy, he decided he was going to take out the weapons system. Which, okay, yeah --that makes sense, sort of. But only if the rest of the team is on board.

Bob doesn't take part in missions, but he listens on the comms, just to make sure everyone is staying in contact. And to make sure she gets home safely. But when Walker makes his play, and Bob suggests that this isn't a great idea...then Walker shuts the comms off...Well, he doesn't hear from the team until they get back. And he's starting to panic.

So when they return to the tower --more worse for wear than anticipated --Bob is already expecting the worse. She limps off the carrier, holding her side with a look of disdain and pain. A busted lip is the most obvious thing he sees, but her suit is peeled halfway off her torso with makeshift bandages covering a wound on her shoulder.

Bob...kind of starts seeing red at this point.

"Are you out of your fucking mind, Walker?" He demands, practically charging the supersoldier as he exits the carrier.

"You wanna calm down there, Bobby?" Walker snaps back, eyes narrowed as he throws off his helmet.

"You could have gotten them killed," Bob snaps, poking Walker in the chest aggressively. He's not purposely using his strength, but Walker is pushed back just a step. "What the hell are you thinking? You're not in charge, you asshole!"

"Calm down, both of you," Yelena orders, though she's just as bad off.

Bob swallows hard, looking between Yelena and her, and everything is suddenly very loud in his head. Everyone else takes a solid step back from him --except for her. She steps forward, holding up good hand --though it's covered in blood.

"Bob," she insists, "C'mon. It's fine --we already handled him --let's just get to the med bay before I pass out."

He thinks, briefly, that Sentry might make an appearance. That he can feel all that power stirring under his skin, and his hands ball into fists at his sides. "You could have been killed."

"But I wasn't," she reminds him, pushing him back some with her bloody hand on his chest. "Go. Please."

He hesitates, not budging for a moment, before he finally nods and lets her lead the way out.

The walk to the bed bay is silent for the most part, aside from heavy footsteps and even heavier breathing. Before they turn the corner to get there though, she pulls him aside and into a corner out of view of the cameras. They're squeezed together, and Bob has to focus on not grabbing her by habit. She's hurt, and he doesn't want to make it worse.

"What's wrong?"

"Not that I'm encouraging it," she starts, but she has one hand on his stomach and the other on his jaw. "But it's so hot when you talk like that."

"R-really?" He stammers out, and he can feel himself flushing --and the heat dropping below his waist.

She nods with a little smirk on her face. Her hand trails behind his head, tangling her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. He hums in response, biting at his lip to avoid making any sort of sound that would get them caught. Not that it'd be the first time.

"Reminds me that you got a little bite, even if you act like you don't."

His hands finds her waist, and he pulls her flush against him --though he's mindful of her wounds. "Only a little?"

"I'm willing to be convinced otherwise."

He lifts her up suddenly, wrapping her legs around his waist. She winces --and he stops, but she shakes her head, crashing her mouth against his. Bloody lip and all, he doesn't care as he deepens the kiss, tasting the salt and copper on his tongue. Her back presses against the wall as he ruts against her, clothed cock pressing against her core. She moans into his mouth, tugging at his hair.

But then, he drops her and she falls against the wall with a heavy breath. She looks annoyed, flustered and heaving some.

"We should get you cleaned up," he says flippantly, like he wasn't just shoving his tongue down her throat and tasting the blood on her lips.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"You're a fucking tease," she complains as he takes her hand, pulling her out of the corner.

[screamlet]

fic recs: so you survived season 8(b) of 9-1-1

credits rolled on 8×18 and i decided to make myself feel better with some fic recs. these have tons of recency bias since i wanted to focus on stories set primarily during 8b - there have been a lot of good ones on this fucking section of the rollercoaster!!

if you're looking for more recs, check out my 911 fic rec or 911 fic tag (which includes my own stuff). there's also my ao3 bookmarks. fandoms include: 911, hockey rpf, bts, annnnnnnd whatever else i've got in there. (so much check please. what a time that was.) anyway.

--- all bucktommy unless noted otherwise, all complete (no wip's) most of them are locked to ao3 users

You as you were @geddyqueer 10k, rated M, complete notes: yes i know this was posted today but it needs to Be Here

"Evan," Tommy says, and the brittle look on his face makes Buck stop laughing right then and there. "What's going on?" "Oh, you know," Buck says. "I'm being evicted."

---

the only way out is through @ambernotember 10k, rated T, complete notes: yes i know this was posted yesterday but it needs to Be Here

Bobby’s old apartment building. He knew how it would look to the others so he just… hadn’t mentioned it. He met them at their houses or took Jee to neutral places, like the park or the aquarium. No one questioned it. He doubted they’d even noticed.

---

called out from the mouth of oblivion @r-o-s-e-f-i-r-e bucktommy/bathena, 4k, rated E, complete notes: 8×15 au (bobby lives)

It was good, overall, that no one had ever managed to break Buck of his impulsive, hothead ways completely. Bucking the lead, Bobby thinks fondly. It’s the thing that’ll save all of their lives again before the end finally comes, he's sure of it, and one day it'll make Buck the best kind of captain, the kind his team will follow to hell and back.

---

half a page of scribbled lines @liminalmemories21, @cecilyv 25k, rated N/A, complete notes: kid fic aka THE ONE WITH ROBBY!!!!

They get married before they move in together. Tommy's pretty sure that if someone had told him a year ago that he'd be married and finding a place in his garage for the bike he's never seen Evan actually use, and watching Evan survey his — their — kitchen like he’s determining the best position to station his troops, he'd have given them a free ride to the hospital.

flag-bearers @liminalmemories21, @cecilyv tumblr fic, 8×15 coda

The bubble of hope pops abruptly when Evan says, "What are you doing here?" "Your sister called,” a voice he doesn't recognize says. And well, fuck. There's just no way this ends well.

---

wind finding @rcmclachlan 3k, rated T, complete notes: sunset helicopter drama, were we ever so young??

Tommy's in the cockpit of his favorite AW139 with a gun pressed to the base of his skull.

---

if there's solid ground below @stars-inthe-sky 1k, rated G, complete

This summer was shaping up differently.

---

inhale 'til your lungs get sore @apollabarnes 5k, rated T, complete

Bobby Nash dies. Bobby Nash... sticks around.

---

I Never Really Had a Friend @firewasabeast 5k, rated M, complete

Buck is standing in the middle of Eddie’s living room. No. His living room. At least for one more week. It’s almost empty... But it’s in this space, this room filled with memories and ghosts, that Buck decides he’s never really had a friend.

---

what I covet, I keep @firehose118 9k, rated E, complete

Eddie is back for the weekend and Tommy stakes a claim.

---

you take the love, i'll take the fall @postmodernau 4k, rated E, complete

Buck gets more than he bargains for from a Grindr hookup.

---

8×15 codas from @leashybebes

part one

It doesn't matter what they are. What they were in the past. What they might be in the future. Evan is breaking apart on the screen in front of him, and Tommy feels like there's a hook in his gut, hollowing him out even as it pulls him closer.

part two

Evan pushes away from him, sits up, scrubs his hands over his face. His shoulders straighten, his back stiffens, his jaw tightens. He clears his throat and a different person looks at him out of Evan's eyes, made dull by the low light and the things that have happened. They've never knowingly worked a sanctioned scene together before, but he thinks this is what Evan must look like when he takes charge in the field.

---

these episode codas from @alchemistc

favors

Tommy's the kind of asshole who checks his phone at the table in the middle of a first date, now.

ivory limbed and brown-eyed

Buck wakes with the sun streaking across his face and a finger tracing the lines around his eyes, feather light touch and a shadow across his brow like Tommy's tilted his head just to make sure he doesn't take a direct hit from the early morning rays.

---

and there's more every day because yay fandom! we made it!

[rhaenyraeri]

Co-Star Tensions (Part 2) - Jack O’Connell

minors dni, 18+!

Part 1

Pairing: Jack O’Connell x fem!Reader, (technically a little Remmick x fem!Reader too)

Summary: A week has past since that night, but unfortunately nothing said has came true. You got in your head about it, and the awkward tension has now turned into relatively no interactions. Now. a tense scene including Remmick and your character is to be filmed for the movie’s extended cut.

Warnings: rpf fic, oral (fem!receiving), biting, fingering, (blood kink?), its filth again lol

Word Count: 3k+

Reshoots have been eventful, especially since that night. Stolen glances and obviously different tension were prominent on set, especially now that some previously drafted scenes were brought to light. Ryan decided, for an extended cut, to bring back some scenes he left out for plot reasons, but wanted to add as a special little treat for the fans. Some, most even, were of flashbacks with Stack and Mary, a few scenes of their relationship including some more risqué moments. A couple included flashbacks with Smoke and Annie, and the short time they had with their baby girl. And, of course, the star antagonist, Remmick, with his lover, your character.

Since that night on the small set in the cabin, you and Jack haven���t really spoke. There’s not been many scenes that needed you both together, and unfortunately, it felt like that made things worse. You were given a script filled with the individual short additions, but past the reshoot of the Joan and Bert changing scene, you didn’t give it much thought. Apparently, neither did Jack, as when you walked onto set that morning and were told by Ryan about what the two of you were filming that day, both of you stopped dead in your tracks. You looked at each other, and you felt your heart flutter. Today, you were to film a scene where your character disagreed with a feeding Remmick committed, calling it too dangerous and she needed him to think some actions through a little better. To that, Remmick hated it. During their argument, things get heated as he needed to take his anger out on her sexually, and that’s exactly what she wanted, too. After going over the few lines of dialogue enough times to get it tweaked perfect for the day, you both headed to your individual campers to get your costumes on for the day.

You arrived to the set first, which was made during the first round of filming, but was set aside, now obviously for the tense scene you were about to film. After a few minutes speaking with your co-star and close friends Wunmi and Hailee, Jack arrived to the set, and of course, he was covered in the damn fake blood again. Something about that man in that way drove you insane. The two women looked at you and smirked, snickering as they walked away and whispering amongst themselves, surely about you and the way your demeanor changed instantly. Ryan called for the two of you to come over and run through the script quickly, and once he was satisfied with the tweaks, filming began.

You sat on the chair of the rundown cabin, the curtains rotted and discolored due to the abandoned effect it required. You took some deep breaths, preparing yourself for the first time you’ve actually been around Jack for a prolonged time since the incident.

“3.. 2.. 1.. action!”

Your character sat in the chair, fingers twiddling together as she waited impatiently for the return of Remmick, daylight beginning to peak slightly through the fortified window. The door busts open, and there he is, soaked with blood and skin smoking.

“Where the hell have you been, Remmick? It’s fucking daylight, you could’ve died!”

“I had a good feeding, darlin’. You would’ve known had you loosened up a bit and came with.”

You narrowed your gaze, sighing deeply and rolling your eyes. He walked to the kitchen counter, putting his hands on it and looked down.

“What, now you’re mad at me ‘cause I didn’t wanna go out that close to sunrise to take out a full group? Sorry, but I’d rather not burn to death!”

He slammed a hand on the counter, shaking his head, but still not raising it to look at you.

“Nah, nah, I’m not mad at you. I’m disappointed! We do this together, we’re in it together, and you just wanted us to sit and starve til dusk! This life is hell, and living it like it’s a normal one only makes it worse.”

“So, this cursed life is worse with me in it? You’d rather me just go, then? You forget you changed me, Rem. Not the other way around. You damned me to this, I get to live it how I want.”

Your eyes started filling with tears, a small talent you’d acquired a few months ago during the first round of filming. He finally looked up, the first time you got to see his face this morning. The costume today had the special effects for Remmick’s vampire teeth being out. The second you laid eyes on him, knowing what was to come in this scene, you knew you wouldn’t be acting anymore. Especially not with what the script called for next. His eyes darkened at you, and you could sense his energy changed too. He wanted your body on his, and it frustrated him that since that night, you hadn’t so much as even spoke to him. But here you were, fate making it clear, that the tension hadn’t just remained, it grew stronger. More full of yearning, more intense, more.. desperate, as he called it that night.

“Now, you know that’s not what I meant. Hell, if anything want you around more than what I get. I.. I need you more than what we have, darlin’. And for you to say you want to leave me.. now I just can’t be havin’ that,” he starts stalking towards you, the boots stomping intimidatingly on the wood. He was close, dangerously close to you. “Your fate is intertwined with mine now, and there’s no escapin’ it. If you leave I will not rest until you are back to me.”

“So you’re just gonna find a way for me to stay here? Stay with you and run the risk of living without you? I’d rather be away from you while you’re on this earth than while you’re rotting in whatever hell we’re damned to!”

He snarled, showing the frustration Remmick had towards your character, as she refused to see that he wanted what he thought was best for them, and she seemed ungrateful. You backed up into a wall, as Jack stomped closer to you, it’s almost as if he himself was frustrated with you, the real you. The tension in this scene goes deeper than just the characters now. It’s between you and him.

In a quick second, his hand with vampiric claws reach up to grab you by your neck, “Do you not realize what I do for you? I had came to terms that our fate isn’t gonna end happy like we hope for, but I want to make the best of it. For you! For us! I love you, and here you are bein’ cruel about it. Don’t you dare leave me.”

“I.. I didn’t.. I just wanted.. to be safe..” your spoke through exaggerated breaths, keeping up the act of being choked, even then Jack’s hand was just barely around your throat.

“I can protect you, darlin’. Always have, always will. You best come to your senses.. or do I need to fuck them into you?”

That wasn’t in the script. Your eyes widened, breathing rapidly speeding up. Ryan didn’t call cut. He thought this was improvising, it technically is. But you know it’s real. It’s not just Remmick. Your next line would only fuel the fire between the two of you.

“I’m sorry.. I need to understand you better.. I need you to show me just how sensible I can be.”

Jack shook his head, a real groan of frustration leaving him as he turns away from the shot, not acting anymore. Now, Ryan yells cut.

“Jack, you okay? Let’s take a 15, everyone.”

The lights flickered back on as his steps start rapidly making their way off the set. Concern fills you, he’d been off all morning, was he actually just frustrated? Upset at you? Michael called after him, but decided it was best to just let him take a second. You turned to look at him, and asked if he knew what was up.

“Nope. I’ve got no clue. He’s not been himself today. I figured you knew why.”

He looked at you, he figured you two had a blossoming romance starting up, but he took your confusion as a ‘no, it’s not that.’ Everyone took to different areas of the set, grabbing some waters and resting for a bit. There was no point in just standing here aimlessly when you knew you had to be the reason he was upset. Walking to the hallway he had stormed off into, you looked into every room with doors open, and knocked on the ones without. Eventually you came to the prop closet, and you knocked on it.

“Jack, are you in here? Is everything okay?”

The door swung open at your voice, and he grabbed your hand to pull you in. He slammed the door behind you and locked it. He was breathing heavy, almost distraught at what was happening. You looked to meet his eyes, and they were dark. Filled with lust, desire, longing.

“I’ve spent all week hoping you’d speak to me, and not once have you. All but looks. That’s not enough, love. I need you. I miss you. You.. are all I want. And to be thrown aside?” he looks away, shaking his head, “That’s hurt me, love. So yeah, yeah I’m mad at you.”

“I didn’t wanna make more awkward than it needed to be. I didn’t think you’d wanna speak to me after that. Kinda figured it’d be a one time thing,” you spoke.

“I told you I wanted to spend some time with you after that, how much clearer could I have been? We agreed to hang out, I mean.. How else am I meant to feel when you just give me glances? I wanted more than just a little fuck, love.”

So that was it. You didn’t think he was honest when he asked to hang out after that. It was a tension driven, lust filled sexual activity purely driven by fantasy. Or, at least you told yourself that. Later that night, you’d reflected on it all and got into your head over it, convincing yourself that nothing would come from it, and that all said after was just an adrenaline infused conversation. Before that, there was no real romantic communication between the two of you. Some flirting and glances, and the obvious tension.

“I just thought you were fucking with me. Just convinced myself that you were.”

“I would never do that. I’ve thought about taking youout for a nice date, just the two of us spending time with each other. Not just desperate tension on the set for hours each day. Got me frustrated over it all, I just couldn’t take it anymore.”

You sighed, looking to your right and thinking of what to say next. It was just.. what do you say? I’m sorry I did sexual acts with you then fucked off like a lousy shithead and ignored you the past week?

You tried to get some words out, but they just weren’t.

“Fuck this,” he growled out. He took your face between his hands and kissed you hard. The shock delayed your reaction, but you came to your senses quick, and wrapped your arms around his neck, kissing him back. It was sloppy, passionate, desperate. He slid his right hand down your body and placed it on your hip, turning you around and pushing you against the wall. Your hands traced into his hair, gripping it and pushing his face somehow even closer to yours. The hand on your waist came up to grab your left hand, the one on your cheek grabbed your right, moving to hold them above your head. His moved to hold both of them with one of his own, sliding the other right down your body, and under your costume dress.

“Fuck, I need to touch you. Been missin’ the taste of you ever since,” he said as his hand slid into your underwear, relishing in the moan you uttered, before gathering some of your slick onto his fingers and bringing them up. He put his fingers into his mouth, tasting the wetness you had for him. Humming in content, his eyes fluttered shut and back open, embracing the wonder he just tasted. He put his lips against yours again, tongue slipping into your mouth. Between him, the taste of yourself mixing with his spit and the same damn thing that drove you insane last time, the taste of the fake blood mixing into it, you could’ve came by that alone. The sensualness of the scandalous act the two of you were committing for the second time in a week just made the situation much hotter.

“Ah fuck this,” he moaned as he pulled away, hand letting go of your wrists as he fell to his knees. He lifted your dress up and pulled your underwear down. Taking a finger, he slid it inside you, a moan rumbling out of you as he moved it in and out. The sensation was insane, the speed was just right. He kissed your left thigh just above your knee, making his way closer to your pussy. Your breathing became labored, you felt yourself getting wetter and wetter. He placed an open mouth kiss as close to your center as he could, before giving it a bite. Fuck, those damn vampire teeth were still in. It hurt at first, and that pain quickly turned into pleasure as he gave you a hickey in the same spot. Your right hand gathered up your dress, allowing you to see a little more of what he was doing, and your left made its way into his hair. He growled impatiently, finding obvious pleasure in you touching him. He kissed the spot where he just placed the hickey, and turned his head, darting his tongue out to finally touch you where he wanted to most. His tongue licked you, desperate to get every ounce of you grazed. Your moans were now louder, the feeling of finally having that face where you wanted it was so relieving. Your hand moved to push his face further into you, causing him to moan against you. Your thighs trembled at that, and his free hand grabbed one and threw it over his shoulder, gaining more access into you. The hand now came to hold yours, giving you stability. His finger left your pussy, now using that hand to slid up your dress and grab your breast. His tongue now all but fucked you, rutting against you. The taste drove him insane, and he needed relief, but the sounds you were making.. the smell and taste.. the mere feeling of his tongue now inserting itself into your pussy was enough for now. He wasn’t eating you out, he was devouring you, feasting upon you, gorging himself of you. He wanted so bad to say some dirty shit to you but he just couldn’t waste a second not between your legs. Your head went back against the wall, eyes rolling as if all started to become too much for you. He pulls off of you for a second, catching a breath. Your high was just seconds away. He looks up at you, your slick covering most of his face, and the fake blood had now turned light pink from being smeared.

“Taste like fuckin’ heaven, love.”

The smirk he gave you showed the fake fangs piercing through, a reminder of just how hot he was as Remmick. You groaned at the sight, moving to shove his face back to where it belonged, needing to make more of a mess of him. He wasn’t ready to eat yet.

He spits right on your clit, a mix of your slick and his spit going back onto his meal, before he let up against your grip, going right back into your pussy. Finally you got your release, but he didn’t care. He was savoring you longer, like you were the last meal he’d ever receive, determined to collect as much of you as he could. His hand slips down from your breast, coming to your thigh and holding you still from the overwhelming sensation. Humming against you, he gave one more good rut of his tongue into you, licking his plate clean. He slid your leg off his shoulder before standing back up to face you.

“Somehow I think you’ve gotten the messier end this time,” you said to him. His leaned in to kiss you, your slick still shining on his face. He laughed, before leaning his forehead onto yours. You moved your head to go on his shoulder, and you noticed a mirror against the wall of the closet.

“Look at yourself, Jack,” you giggled, motioning to the mirror. He turned his head and stared for a second before putting his head down, and laughed.

“Nah, you’ve still made a mess of me, love. I’ve not even got my effects on anymore.”

The sound of your laughter together filled the room, and as the moment passed, silence grew. You wrapped your arms around his neck, before whispering, “I’m sorry,” in his ear. He sighed, turning his head to kiss your neck.

“It’s alright, love. ‘Suppose we can make a deal between us? No more tension, no more glances? You’re real special to me, you know? I’d love to take you out properly one day. And I mean it. Don’t get into your head about it,” he promised, referencing your doubts from earlier.

“Deal. I’m really sorry about that, I just got scared, that’s all. I didn’t wanna ruin a good thing, you know?”

“Come on, you couldn’t drive me away even if you tried. I’m here for you, I want to be with you. Let’s get done filming for the day and I’ll take you out for a nice dinner, yeah?”

You smiled, grateful for what will happen between the two of you. The days of hoping to spend time with him have came to fruition, and now there’s no more awkwardness, just the two of you. You know how you feel about each other, and it’s time you do something about it. Well, something romantic about it.

“That sounds nice, Jack. Let’s make sure this retake is the last of the day.”

A moment of silence was brought between the two of you, just holding each other. A loud knock at the door made the both of you jump, and a voice followed.

“Come on you two, 15 is over. Ryan’s almost back so make sure you get.. appropriate.” Of course, it was Hailee.

“Well.. as appropriate as you can get.” And Wunmi. Great.

“Yeah uh.. we’ll be out. Uh. Just.. go away, we’ll be back out there in a few,” you called out.

“So they know, huh?”

“Well they suspected it, from what I gather everyone did. Just wait until later,” you laughed. You were joking but also, not. He placed a sweet, quick kiss on your forehead before he went to open the door, but you stopped him. He turned and looked at you confused.

Smiling, you laughed and said, “You may wanna stop and clean.. all that,” pointing to the light pink fake blood. He shook his head and replied, “Alright, but you have to clean all that up too,” mimicking your point. The light pink had smeared onto your face too.

“Fuck you,” you muttered under your breath as he opened the door and walked out. Just as you turned to look better into the mirror, the door opened again.

“You’re real close to it, love.”

—

(A/N: as always, reader is meant to be as inclusive as possible, but if any mistakes are made please let me know! also, i’m thinking there will be more parts to this, at least a couple.)

Taglist: @theworldismyoister (if anyone wants to be tagged also, let me know!

[charm-in-spades]

Kinda pissed, won't lie. The Librarian of Congress would have been Carla Hayden, the first woman AND black American to run the library. She's been a librarian her whole career, has been a huge road block to Trump and his administration gaining unauthorized access (he needs Congressional approval) to library records (he's been attempting to destroy historical records and information through museums and libraries, and DOGE wants to train AI with the libraries contents. Additionally, the Library of Congress is also in charge of the copyright process, so we should probably be pretty concerned over that,) and was integral in getting the Library of Congress digitally archived so that more people could actually see what was there.

This is a woman who started her work in Chicago telling stories to kids with autism, and who spent a lot of her early career making sure kids and libraries had resources. She's done a lot for basically every position she's worked as, which includes Library Services Coordinator for Chicago's Museum of Science and Industry, Deputy Commissioner and Chief Librarian of Chicago Public Library (and the entire cities library system), Head of Enoch Pratt Free Library, President of the American Library Association, and expanded Baltimore's digital resources.

She kept the libraries open during protests and riots (kinda important since colleges and libraries can act as staging grounds for protests and riots). When Obama appointed her in 2016, she was confirmed in a vote of 74-18 attributed to the fact that even Republicans respected her for raising hell over the PATRIOT Act, as she was vocal about its infringements on American citizen's rights to privacy and a right to freedom from government control and oversight on what people read or learn about.

She's been a Librarian her whole career, which is notable because past librarians have generally been historians and scholars. The first librarian by profession since the 70s. She's dedicated her whole life to information activism. The ideas of Equity of Access she's discussed have long been centered towards -rural- communities and the visually impaired. On the Library of Congress web page, there's actually a video featured right now titled 'Celebrating Public Service: Resources for the Blind'.

She's talked about Equity of Access a lot over the years and as far back as 2004 described it as, "When all people have access to all library services and all types of library materials, no matter their age, ethnicity, physical ability, income, language, geographic location or type of library.”

As an activist, she's been incredibly vocal about people's right to access -free- information and has been a staunch advocate for libraries not just as hubs for learning but as lifelines and resources to communities in need. Places where the under-served can actually be helped. She has strongly fought to retain libraries as safe havens for everybody. You can read about her career down below in some of these sources but please understand what a loss this actually is.

source - Brittanica

source - library.illinois.edu

source - (to read this one, before it loads the paywall click the page reader and you should be able to see all of it. A trick that works for most paywall articles. )

Additional sources on Trump's targeting of the Legislative Branch and the LOC overall.

article

article

Here's an interview she did recently as well on 'Accessing Reliable Information'. I think everyone should hear and learn about her and role in information activism as a whole.

interview

Also want to give everyone an idea of the topics people are interested in via what's trending on the Library of Congress website today as of 5/18/2025.

Top Searches:

World War II

Newspapers

Veterans

Civil War

Slavery

Civil Rights

...I wonder why?

No children are allowed in the Library of Congress.

It's not that kind of library.

In other words...

You are being lied to

again

[my-castles-crumbling]

apartment - @wolfstarmicrofic - word count: 362

Remus had been panicking for months about it. Because he was who he was, he’d probably only allowed himself about a week of blissful happiness with Sirius before he’d started thinking about it, actually: what about after Hogwarts?

Sure, things were amazing now. They were like out of some silly Muggle romcom. He’d never been so happy, felt so loved or accepted. But that was precisely the problem. Because he was Remus Lupin, and he didn’t get those things.

So he started obsessing over it. What would they do after they graduated? When they were apart, and Remus wasn’t able to hold down a job or pay for a place to live because of his Furry Little Problem? Would Sirius finally realize how thoroughly out of Remus’s league he was?

Until one day, the shorter boy was chattering away while getting ready for class, fixing his long hair just right, while Remus sat on his bed, half-reading a book, half-gazing at his boyfriend in content awe.

“.....and when I buy us an apartment after graduation we can–”

“What?” Remus interrupted, completely distracted from his reading now.

Sirius froze and turned, his hair forgotten. “Erm. A flat? For you and I? Shit, Moons, I probably shouldn’t have just assumed, but–”

“You want to move in together?” he almost demanded, so shocked he forgot to act normally.

Sirius smiled awkwardly. “‘Course. If that’s what you want. I know it’s early and all, but we’ve been living together for seven years so it’s not like it’s new.”

“You know I can’t pay, right? I can’t…” Remus trailed off, desperate to make sure Sirius knew but unsure how to articulate the likelihood of him being financially secure.

“I didn’t go through the hell of being in my family for nothing, Moons. You know my Uncle left me enough to get by for years, and I want you there with me,” Sirius said with a soft grin. “You’ll be there with me, yeah?”

Delirious joy and relief flooded through Remus, and he couldn’t get off the bed fast enough. Stumbling to pull Sirius into a kiss, he murmured into the shorter boy’s lips. “Of course, baby. Always.”

[cantpickyourgenre]

Can I offer up a different view? I actually think Buck and Eddie will NOT be sharing a bed while Buck looks for a place. I think they create a schedule and they buy an air mattress and Maddie is just like, "um why not just share?" like it's easy! Like it's nothing! And Buck stutters and turns pink and changes the subject even though his eye keeps catching on the air mattress and wondering why the idea of sharing a bed with his best friend makes him feel the same nerves he felt when entering confession. Meanwhile Eddie is complaining to Hen about how his shoulder is sore. And Hen is like "maybe you need a new mattress" and Eddie just chuckles and says, "oh, I'm sure it's less about the mattress and more about the air mattress I sleep on every other week." Hen just sort of squints at him and says, "oh I assumed you guys were sharing. Since that's what you did. During Covid. And it was fine then." And Eddie pointedly ignores the implication and moves on. But in his brain it's like...Eddie Brain: You CAN'T share a bed because he'll know. Also Eddie's Brain: Know what? Eddie's Brain: Don't worry about it. Also Eddie's Brain: Okay :) Yay <3 But eventually the team all has a night out and Ravi ends up coming back with them because he wants to finish talking to Eddie about where he should go to get new tires or some shit. And Buck is like sulking, making sure Chris is going to bed and cleaning dishes loudly. By the end of the night they're all a little tipsy, but not drunk and it just makes sense for Ravi to crash there. So he goes to the air mattress that he's been kind enough to NOT mention, but Buck is like "ummm, actually......" because he cannot he can't nope no way share a bed with Eddie. But it's Eddie's week and he doesn't want RAVI to either. But Ravi is like "hell yeah, I'll have a sleepover with Eddie, we can talk more about rock climbing and BASKETBALL" and Eddie is just nodding, happy that bedtime is on the horizon. But Buck is like "NO, you and I WILL share the bed, sorry Eddie air mattress for you" and Eddie says "No I will not, my back NEEDS this week on the bed" and Ravi says "NO I will NOT be sharing a bed or an air mattress or anything with you longlegs." They argue for like half an hour and everyone is getting cranky until Ravi finally decides he will sleep on the air mattress, Eddie will take the bed, and Buck will sleep on the couch. The next morning, Eddie is annoyed by the whole thing even though he too, is terrified of the bed sharing. So after Ravi leaves and Chris is distracted he's like fuck it, we're going to talk about it and he slides a glass of celery juice into Buck's hand and says, "hey, why can't we share a bed like normal friends could?" and well...I think we all know the answer to that.

[happypeachsludgeflower]

One day, Shen Jiu’s soulmark burns itself out, suddenly a black harsh husk of a broken bond. A devastated Shen Jiu knows that this is proof Qi-ge died trying to come back for him. Shen Jiu cries, screaming his heartbreak in shrieking sobs, the jagged lines of a burnt out bond haunting him from his wrist.

Shen Jiu lives for years knowing his soulmate is dead, knowing there’s nothing left for him, but he keeps going because it wasn’t built in him to give up, to stop fighting. So he keeps dragging himself forward in spite alone, slaughters his way out of the Qiu household, burns the manor to the ground, and keeps going. For years he keeps going.

But then? But then… there he is at the Immortal Alliance Conference, staring back at him with haunted, horrified eyes. Qi-ge is there, alive, a charred husk of a soulmark patterned over with a new silvery one that’s taunting Shen Jiu across the bloodied field.

He rejected Shen Jiu. He replaced Shen Jiu.

Yue Qi reaches out a hand towards him, the heart displayed in his eyes wracked in guilt, in shame, in a myriad of drowning, awful, pitying emotions. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out, tears tracking a path down his face.

‘I’m sorry,’ rings in Shen Jiu’s head distantly as he swallows down a sob and growls at the other boy, gnashing his teeth. He clutches his arm to his chest and glowers hollowly back. ‘I’m sorry you’re here at all,’ the cruel voice mocks in his head, ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you a dirty secret forever. I’m sorry anyone has to know about you.’ Shen Jiu’s nostrils flare as he shudders an ugly breath, hand tightening around the soulmark on his wrist, gouging into the blackened mark. ‘I’m sorry I can’t erase the evidence of you from my soul’

Shen Jiu doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to hear it confirmed. He doesn’t want to know what he already knows. But he has to. He bares his teeth at the trembling man in front of him and snarls.

“Why,” he demands, voice cracking on the fury raging inside him. Tears burn in his eyes. “Why.”

Part 1 (here), Part 2, Part 3 (pending)

[loves-n-kisses]

Hai :>

I would like to request a Katsuki fic if it’s not too much trouble.

Katsuki x the foreign exchange student from America. She knows Japanese really well but still uses English (like simultaneously switches between the languages).

Katsuki didn’t think too much of it until the reader was having a late night conversation with Shoto in the common room in English. (I head canon that he knows English)

So katsuki gets jealous and when he finds shoto alone, he tells him to back off the reader but shoto offers to help him with his English. Now Katsuki surprises the reader by joining a conversation she’s having in English.

I hope that all makes sense

OMG I LOVE THIS ONE I GOT TO WORK IMMEDIATELY. I typed in what I wanted to say into a English to Japanese translator and pasted it. I am not fluent in Japanese.

Blasting Through Barriers: Katsuki x ExchangeStudent!Reader

A story where Bakugou breaks--or rather, blasts through the language barriers separating you two.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The common room of U.A.’s dorms was quiet, save for the soft hum of the vending machine and the occasional creak of the couch. It was late, past curfew, but you, the American exchange student, never cared much for rules when there was a good conversation to be had. You sat cross-legged on the floor, a can of soda in hand, chatting with Shoto Todoroki. The topic? Some American movie you’d both seen, and you were animatedly switching between Japanese and English without missing a beat.

“ほんとに、that scene where the hero just explodes into action? めっちゃ cool, right?” you said, grinning. Your Japanese was near flawless, but English slipped out naturally, like it was part of your rhythm.

Shoto nodded, his calm voice steady in English. “Yeah, the pacing was perfect. The director knew how to build tension.” His accent was slight, polished from years of private tutors.

From the shadows of the hallway, Katsuki Bakugou lingered, arms crossed, jaw tight. He’d come down for a glass of water, not expecting to find you here, laughing with Icy-Hot of all people. Katsuki didn’t care about you. Not really. You were just some loud, annoying exchange student who’d shown up a month ago, always mixing languages like you owned the place. Your Japanese was so good it pissed him off—made him feel like you didn’t even need to be here, learning hero work with them. But hearing you speak English with Shoto, so effortlessly, so familiarly? That hit different.

He didn’t understand half of what you were saying—English wasn’t his strong suit—but the way Shoto leaned in, actually engaging, made Katsuki’s blood boil. Why was he the one you were talking to like that? Katsuki gritted his teeth and stormed off, vowing to deal with this later.

The next day, Katsuki cornered Shoto in the training gym, slamming a hand against the wall beside him. “Oi, Icy-Hot. Back off,” he growled, eyes blazing. “I see you cozying up with the exchange student. Don’t think I don’t notice.”

Shoto blinked, unfazed. “You mean Y/N? We were just talking.” He tilted his head, studying Katsuki’s scowl. “You’re jealous.”

“Like hell I am!” Katsuki snapped, but his red ears betrayed him. “She’s just… annoying, okay? And you don’t need to be all buddy-buddy with her in freaking English.”

Shoto’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “If you want to talk to her, you could try English yourself. She likes it when people meet her halfway.” He paused, then added, “I could help you. With the language.”

Katsuki’s first instinct was to tell Shoto to shove it, but the image of you laughing with someone else—not him—burned in his mind. He grit his teeth. “Fine. But if you tell anyone, you’re dead.”

For the next week, Shoto quietly coached Katsuki in the basics: common phrases, pronunciation, even some slang you used. Katsuki was a quick learner when he wanted to be, though he’d never admit how much he practiced saying “yo, what’s up?” in his dorm room mirror.

A few nights later, you were in the common room again, this time chatting with Mina and Kirishima. Your voice danced between languages as you described some American festival. “It’s like, 超 fun, with all these food stalls and games. Kinda like a matsuri, but with, like, cotton candy vibes.”

Katsuki, who’d been pretending to read a manga on the couch, saw his chance. He stood, shoving his hands in his pockets, and sauntered over. “Yo, what’s up?” he said, his English rough but clear, his usual scowl softened just a fraction.

You froze, eyes wide. “Wait, Bakugou? Did you just… speak English?” Your grin was instant, bright enough to make his chest tighten. “Since when?”

“Since I felt like it,” he muttered, switching to Japanese, his cheeks faintly pink. “You’re always yapping in both languages, so I figured I’d see what the fuss is about.”

Mina snickered, and Kirishima gave a thumbs-up. “That’s manly, Bakugou!”

You leaned forward, switching to English. “Okay, tough guy, let’s see what you got. What’s your favorite thing about festivals?”

Katsuki hesitated, glancing at Shoto, who’d just walked in and gave a subtle nod. He took a breath. “The food,” he said in English, slow but steady. “And… winning stuff. Like, games. I’d kick ass.”

You laughed, clapping your hands. “Oh my god, you totally would! めっちゃ competitive, huh?” You switched back to English. “Bet you’d win me one of those giant stuffed animals.”

His smirk was pure Katsuki, even in a new language. “Damn right I would.”

From the doorway, Shoto watched, his expression unreadable but satisfied. Katsuki caught his eye, giving a grudging nod. Maybe Icy-Hot wasn’t so bad. But as you kept talking, pulling him into your mix of Japanese and English, Katsuki realized something: he didn’t just want to keep up with you. He wanted to be the one you laughed with, in any language.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hope I did it justice!

-made with loves n' kisses 💋✨

[wordsofwhimsy]

⏱︎ 𝙊𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚 ⏱︎

Pairing: Main!Mark Grayson x fem best friend!Reader

Warnings: None

Tags: Friends to lovers, Mark’s spittin mad game, fluff, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 1,822 

Synopsis: Mark comforts you after being stood up on a date.

a/n: i have it listed as a fem reader but i really did try to keep this more gender neutral!! i also have an idea for a 2nd part to this but idk i might just make that it’s own separate thing. we shall see

You used to joke that Mark Grayson was like gravity. Always nearby, always familiar. Something you didn’t have to think about.

He was your best friend.

The kind of best friend who sat on the floor of your bedroom, eating Hot Cheetos and watching you panic over homework. The kind who’d text you stupid memes at 3 a.m. just to make you laugh. The kind who, every now and then, looked at you like he wanted something more.

And before everything changed, maybe you would’ve let him have it.

Maybe you wanted to.

It was starting, back then. The soft kind of beginning. Lingering hands, long glances. You don’t remember who initiated the shift—but it was there. One of those stupid liminal phases, stuck between friendship and something else.

And then he got his powers, and the shift stopped all together.

He stopped being just Mark.

One day he was your dumbass best friend. The next, he was Invincible.

Suddenly he was gone half the time. Bleeding from places you couldn’t see. Showing up at your door with bruises he didn’t explain. Disappearing in the middle of conversations. Swallowing emotions like if he just didn’t talk about them, they weren’t actually real.

And still, he showed up.

Every single day.

He found you in parking lots. At work. On your stoop with takeout. Orbiting you like the earth was just a little too far and you were the only thing steady enough to keep him tethered.

He never said it. Not directly. But you could see it in his eyes—every time he showed up late with a smile, like he’d been lost but now finally found his way home.

But you wouldn’t let it breathe. Stepped on it before it could bloom. Told him he was sweet. That you loved him—just not like that.

Said things like, “We don’t make sense. You’re out saving the world. I’m… folding laundry and deciding if I’m ready to learn how to use a propane grill. I’m just not the kind of person that fits into a life like yours—not in that role.”

He’d just stand there. Quiet. Hurt. Letting you talk.

Letting you lie.

Because he knew the truth. He always had. You were the only person who could fill that role, and it would always stay an open position until the day you decided you were ready.

—

You hadn’t been on a date since... well, ever. Not really.

There was just Mark, and that almost-what-if stage that promptly collapsed under the weight of reality.

So when you finally downloaded the app, picked a stranger, and said yes to dinner, you told yourself it was progress.

You even styled your hair in a way that was new. Just for this moment.

You sat at the restaurant in an outfit that you swore felt like too much but talked yourself into anyways. Checked your phone a hundred times. Ordered a drink. Then another. Then realized slowly that you definitely had been stood up. This guy wasn’t coming.

No call. No message. Hell, you would’ve taken a messenger pigeon at that point. Some type of acknowledgement would’ve made it all feel just a little bit less… embarrassing.

You paid for your drinks and walked home in silence, feeling stupidly overdressed and like every person you passed knew about the wordless rejection you’d just faced.

Mark was already waiting on your stoop.

He didn’t ask where you’d been. Just handed you a bag of takeout and scooted over to make room.

You didn’t speak for a while. Just sat with your knees touching, paper bag warm between you, the hum of the streetlight buzzing faintly overhead.

 “Am I that bad?” you said abruptly without thinking.

Mark paused mid-chew, a fry half in his mouth. “Huh?” he mumbled, clearly confused.

You shook your head, eyes on the sidewalk. “Nothing. Just... I don’t know why I even tried.”

Mark swallowed. “Tried what?”

You gave a soft, bitter laugh. “The date.” His face changed instantly.

“Wait—you were on a date tonight?”

You scoffed, ripping the fry in your fingers in half. “If you could call it that. The guy didn’t even show up.”

You took the tiniest bite off one of the torn pieces, more so for the act of busying yourself than actually wanting to eat. “Guess I needed the reminder though. Like, of course he didn’t. Why would he?”

“Whoa, hey—” Mark leaned in, brows furrowed. “That’s not on you. That guy’s an idiot.”

You shrugged, but it was too stiff. “Or maybe he just looked at my picture a little too long and was like, y’know what, on second thought—”  

“C’mon, don’t do that,” he said, voice low, sincere. “That’s not fair.”

You laughed, like it was really starting to become funny (even though it wasn’t at all). “No no, seriously. The guy was probably showing his buddies my profile and they were all oof, you bagged a DOG—”

“Alright—unless the rest of that sentence is ‘a doggone beautiful creature’ I don’t wanna hear it.”

You choked back a laugh, bumping your shoulder into his. “God you’re so corny.”

Mark gave you a weak smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes before his lips fell back into a harder line. “I’m serious. You’re not a dog. You’re not—whatever it is you’re trying to say right now.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to reach back into the bag for more fries—for another physical means of distraction. But his grasp closed around the greasy brown paper, around your wrist, locking you finger-deep in the takeout.

“I fight bad guys for a living, [y/n]. It’s literally my job to like, curb stomp your inner demons.”

You couldn’t help the pfft that sputtered past your lips. “You might need to clock in for overtime ‘cause they’re kicking my ass tonight.”

Mark grinned, just a little too much mischief sparking behind his eyes. “I’m always in overtime. Job never ends.” He finally pulled your hand free of the bag. “Now let a man work.”

You were fighting back a smile of your own as he turned your wrist in his hand, eyes tracing every line like he was inspecting rare art. “These hands?” he said, tone suddenly reverent. “Adorable. Perfect. Nails always going crazy.”

You snorted an embarrassing sound, but he’d heard it a hundred times before. “They’re literally just French tips...”

He grinned wider, ignoring you completely as he kept going. His fingers found a lock of your [hair color] tresses, twirling it around his knuckle. “This hair? Should be in a Pantene commercial. Smells like a teenage boy’s dream.”

You laughed again, softer this time, trying to pull away—but he held on, gently. Then he leaned back just slightly, eyes raking over you with a grin that slowly began to fade as his gaze caught on everything else.

“I mean, you’re dropping jaws just walking around in jeans,” he murmured. “But this?” He gestured vaguely to your still-sorta-date-night look. “The man should be thanking God he didn’t show. ‘Cause I promise you would’ve ended his whole life.”

Your face went warm, lips furling inward in your nervous habit. You tried to play it off, bury your smile in another shake of your head, but it was already happening. The racing of your heart. The stuttering of your breaths.

And then his hand came up, brushing your cheek so soft and careful. “These lips…?” he whispered.

You were still as stone, eyes wide as you watched him. “What about them…?”

His thumb brushed across your lower lip, so gentle it made your chest ache. His gaze flicked up to your eyes, then back down again, like he couldn’t keep his stare away for longer than a moment. “If God ever needed to talk, I’m pretty sure your lips would be the vessel.”

You didn’t say anything.

You couldn’t.

The words had dried up somewhere between your lungs and your throat, stuck there trembling while your lips—those stupid, supposedly divine lips—parted just slightly under the pad of his thumb.

And then he was leaning in, chocolate eyes never leaving your mouth as if he was following them to his destiny. Maybe in another lifetime you would’ve stopped him. Told him again that this didn’t make sense, that you two could never work. Maybe in another dimension. Another version of reality. But there, in that moment, it was inevitable.

It was barely a touch at first. His lips ghosting over yours like he knew what you were thinking, knew that you were probably begging internally for him not to take it here. But you didn’t push him away, didn’t pull back, and he felt like he’d been gifted a second chance at life.

The kiss lasted only a second before he pulled back, his forehead resting against yours as eyes fluttered shut, stomachs tied tight in knots. “Tell me you felt that too,” he breathed, thumb stroking mindlessly over your jaw. You still couldn’t find your voice to answer, and instead tilted your head just enough to press another kiss to his lips. Then another. And by the third, it all began to unravel.

His hand slid to cup the back of your neck, locking you in as his free hand trembled against your hip. The manicured nails he just was praising now scratched lightly up his back, sending chills over his skin until one palm pressed flat between his shoulder blades and the other tangled in his hair.

Your mouth opened without thinking, and his tongue slipped in – no hesitation. You couldn’t believe you were tasting him like this. Couldn’t believe he was holding you like a lover, and not a friend. Couldn’t believe how utterly right it all felt.

What had you been denying yourself this whole time? How many other things in your life had you been so stupid over? Your thoughts could only spiral for so long before he broke away again, breathing hard – and not from lack of oxygen (the man could hold his breath for hours) – but from the sheer heat of it all.

“We should go inside,” he exhaled, his eyes glancing to a woman walking her dog past your front steps. Your pink cheeks burned cherry red, and all you could do was nod.