#and technically official charts

[front-facing-pokemon]

[satoblue]

satoao height difference . . . 🤍+🤎

[breakerbeam]

the fact that agent 4's icon in side order is just the squidbeak splatoon logo is DASTARDLY. LET HER BE A CHARACTERRR

[kaiser1ns]

#. 매니저님, 감사합니다 !

featuring 𝘀𝗮𝗷𝗮 𝗯𝗼𝘆𝘀 𝘅 𝗳𝗲𝗺!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

fluff. equal parts of chaotic, cute, and crackhead energy and you alongside the mix as the babysitter manager of the boys.

CHECK OUT THE SERIES MASTERLIST

JOINING THE PRIDE at first, no one knew who you were. you looked more like a crazy fangirl or someone who got in with sheer pretty privilege. people online were confused. who’s is she and why is she fixing abby’s shirt? why is romance letting her touch his hair? why is she carrying baby’s backpack like a mom on a field trip? why did they listen to you?

people assumed you were a saesang, until the company confirmed you were, in fact, their manager.

yes, their official manager. the person responsible for their schedule, performances, social media coordination, and not letting them accidentally create a scandal or make you lose your sanity. the last one it’s not going well.

you even had your own tag: #SajaHunter but fans quickly turned it into #SajaPrincess because somehow you became the bias, the bias wrecker and the ultimate bias. fan edits? everywhere. fanfics? people want you, literally. someone made a fancam of you sneezing and it hit 2M views for the first eight hours.

THE LIONESS WHO RULED your popularity exploded overnight. fans started asking for your autograph at meet & greets. they begged you to join the group and perform. the boys had no say in this. why? because if the fans want something, they get it.

sure, maybe it helps their corruption plans. maybe corrupted souls taste better when people adore the whole group. you're a better marketing strategy than they ever expected, but they won't tell you that.

your own schedule just got a hell of a lot longer, because now you have to learn choreography and lyrics under twenty-four hours. congrats, you are the 6th unofficial member!

THE SODA POP CIRCUS their debut song became a number one hit. “soda pop” took over charts, and so did you… unintentionally. during a performance, you accidentally wandered into the camera frame, because you were just checking the mic levels, okay? we don't want to have any technical issues, and boom, you were given the centre position.

jinu noticed you looked a little overwhelmed, so he calmly walked you through the choreo in front of thousands of fans like it was nothing. abby joined, then romance and before you knew it, it was “manager-nim meet & dance”.

and of course… the shipping tags started. the fandom loves you and jinu. no, abby is better? you have to be joking, romance is right there! but mystery is so calm around you, and baby even freestyles for you!

YOUR RELATIONSHIP WITH THE SAJA BOYS, or your babysitting shift that no one pays you for.

JINU is one cocky, smirking, definitely suspicious, extremely good looking man. he acts like he doesn’t want you interfering in his plans, whatever those are, but deep down, he’s the first to notice when you’re tired or stressed.

one time you tripped backstage, and he caught you in his arms like a literal k-drama moment. you swear time slowed down, the lighting was perfect, the atmosphere was unrealistically romantic and there was music coming from who knows where. his smile? blinding.

then he dropped you.

like right on the floor after he stared right into your soul. you assigned him to night duty after that. studio lockup, cleaning everything alone. no complaints from him, though. he just smirked and wished you a good night.

“you keep falling for me.” “i’ll fall on you next time, jinu.”

ABBY is a shirtless menace, even worse he is a walking thirst trap. probably allergic to buttons. you’ve tried to make him dress appropriately, but does he listen? no. instead, he stands shirtless in front of you asking,

“this one or this one? can’t decide, wanna style me?”

he’s built like a greek statue and knows it. he flirts with his eyes, lips, abs, his entire existence. steals your phone, takes normal selfies, then mirror ones and cherry on the top is when he fills your gallery with thirst traps. now 99% of your storage is abby, and the other 1% is screenshots of your to-do list.

still, he’s protective: carries your bags, shields you in crowds, even throws an arm around you when paparazzi swarm.

“don’t worry, princess. i will be your sanctuary.”

ROMANCE lives up to his name. heartthrob, gentleman, professional flirt. somehow always knows where you are in a room and always finds a way to be close enough to brush your shoulder.

he makes hearts appear from thin air. you hope it’s cgi or some special effects. probably not, but you won't question it.

he constantly asks your opinion on fashion, only to wear whatever you say makes him look “most kissable.” his excuse? “the fans like it.”

he winks at you during interviews. throws air kisses during rehearsals. and when you get flustered?

“aww, manager-nim, blushing again? you’re so cute when you try to be professional.”

this boy flirts without even speaking. one way or another he will always keep you close, especially when it's a crowded space, he will hold your hand, because he doesn't want to lose you.

MYSTERY with his face usually covered, speaks in hums and nods. you suspect he’s either an introvert… or plotting global domination, possibly both.

he’s usually calm, soft, and sweet until he isn't.

one time, a male fan got way too close to you and the next thing you knew, mystery was growling and biting the guy’s arm like a possessive and territorial lion. you had to spray him with water ... no, you are not joking, you had to.

“bad. bad mystery. sit.”

poor boy looked guilty afterward. quietly said sorry, as you forgave him, gave him a hug… and he melted. behind you, the other members stared daggers, he just smirked.

mystery: 1

everyone else: should have been me

BABY has the maknae privilege at max level. he does something wrong? it’s okay, happens to the best of us. he wants extra snacks? sure. needs a nap? go ahead. wants cuddles? of course.

you baby him more than the group does. he knows it and abuses it.

until the day he crossed the line.

he added demonic hellfire hot sauce to your lunch ramen. not spicy, not even buldak. no, this was 4th dimension inferno level. maybe if you drank lava it wouldn't cause such an effect. you took one bite and transformed into a dragon with a hot steam coming from your ears, face bright red, tears streaming.

and baby? had the audacity to laugh ... right in your face.

so you sprayed him with the emergency water bottle too.

“i didn’t mean it.” “you literally labeled the sauce ‘hellfire.’”

he apologized… eventually, when he found out you stopped spoiling him or giving him the extra attention. you forgave him, after he promised he wouldn't do it again. 

oops, he did it again.

FINAL RESULT AND SHIFT REPORT you’re definitely the human holding this group together, while also being the main character in a demon-infested boy band that came straight from nowhere.

the most fun part is you don’t know they’re demons. just suspect things like superhuman strength, suspicious magic, teleporting, glowing eyes, strange skin patterns. but as long as they don’t cause trouble, which they are every good at, you let it slide. you love them anyway.

even if you're starting to wonder why your soul feels slightly strange every time jinu smiles at you or abby takes his shirt off again.

but remember, you signed the contract. and ... you didn’t read the fine print though, did you?

taglist: @seneon @y2kuromi @maruflix

©2025 kaiser1ns do not copy, repost or modify my work.

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Thirty-Six

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, birthdays + Christmas, some emotional instabillity.

Notes — I hope you guys love this one. It's so full of sweetness. A bit of frustration too, but mostly sweetness.

December 2023

The lights in the MTC's build bay always felt too bright. Amelia squinted up at them in annoyance, then turned her gaze back to the car.

Her car.

Not hers in any legal or possessive way — it belonged to the team, to the season, to the wind tunnel and CFD modellers.

But the final profile of the MCL38-AN was a shape that had lived in her brain before it ever existed in carbon fibre form. It had existed exclusively within spreadsheets and flow charts and headaches. Whiteboard scrawls at two in the morning. Phone calls to her dad. Arguments with aero. Hours of simulations. Hours of starting over.

And now it was real. Sitting right in front of her.

Orange and black, sleek and hungry, its chassis caught the overhead lights and glowing.

Amelia didn't move. She needed minute. She just stood beside the rear wing, arms crossed tight over her chest, soaking in the project that had consumed every spare hour of the past two years of her life.

She had half a muffin in her bag from breakfast four hours ago. She'd forgotten to eat it.

The name on the spec sheet was just technical: MCL38-AN. The suffix had started as a quiet claim — her way of signing something no one could take from her. Years ago, her father had passed off one of her ideas as his own. "AN" for Amelia Norris, scribbled on a draft after too much coffee, felt like insurance. But the department kept using it. Zak hadn't stopped them. And now it was printed on the official build list, black ink and daring her to believe it was really hers.

Her name. On a car.

"Staring at it won't make it disappear," came a voice from the other end of the garage.

Amelia didn't look over. "I'm aware," she replied flatly.

Anthony, one of the build engineers, chuckled and walked closer, wiping grease off his hands with a rag. "Just never seen you stand still this long before. Thought maybe you'd short-circuited."

"Internally," she replied. "I'm experiencing the Blue Screen of Emotion."

He laughed again. "Hell of a machine you designed."

She didn't correct him.

Instead, she stepped forward and laid one hand on the side-pod. The material was cold and smooth under her fingers. She could feel the vibration of the building, the faint hum of tools and voices and fluorescent life, echoing back through the structure.

"This was all in my head once," she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. "And now it's... this."

Anthony, thankfully, didn't say anything saccharine. Just gave a nod and let her stand there.

Amelia walked slowly around to the front of the car, fingers trailing against the bodywork. Her brain was already scanning for imperfections — minor details to flag, alignment to double-check, tolerances to run again. But beneath that, buried under years of ruthless professional calibration, was something quieter.

Pride.

Not loud or dramatic or showy. Just a quiet click of recognition.

This was good work. And it was hers.

"Can we run power systems later today?" She asked.

Anthony nodded. "Soon as Oscar finishes his lunch."

"Tell him I said no mayo on the telemetry."

"I don't even know what that means."

Amelia didn't clarify. She just smiled faintly to herself and stepped back, surveying the car one more time.

MCL38-AN.

Not bad for a girl who used to line up her Hot Wheels in exact weight-to-downforce order as a kid and got sent home from school for correcting her teacher's physics formulas.

She pulled out her phone, snapped a picture of the car, just for herself, then typed out a message to Lando.

iMessage — 14:33pm

Amelia (Wifey 4 lifey)

Almost ready for testing. I'm so proud it's making me nauseous.

A second later, another text.

Amelia (Wifey 4 lifey)

Or maybe that's just the pregnancy.

—

Amelia sat cross-legged across from Lando, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands despite the lingering warmth in the air. Lando was barefoot, legs stretched out, half a grin on his face as he finished the last bite of cake she'd awkwardly cut with a plastic knife.

They were on Max's boat, rocking gently in the Monaco harbour. They'd stolen it for the day.

"Bit late," he teased, licking frosting off his thumb. "Birthday was like... three weeks ago."

"You were busy," she said simply. "So was I. And also I needed time."

"Time?"

"To figure out what to give you." She said. Then she reached into her bag and pulled out a small, square box; plain brown kraft paper, tied neatly with black ribbon. No card. Of course there was no card. She hated cards — never knew what to write in them.

Lando raised an eyebrow as he took it. "Not socks?"

"No."

He peeled the ribbon open and lifted the lid.

Inside was a tiny frame. Minimalist. Neutral. Inside it, a single page torn from a notebook — lined paper, slightly smudged pencil. On it: a series of racing lines drawn from memory. His best qualifying lap from Silverstone. Annotated in her handwriting with tiny notes. Brake here. Open throttle earlier. Turn-in felt cleaner than expected.

He stared at it for a long moment before speaking. "This is..."

"You told me you wanted to frame that lap. I had the data sheet, but I wanted to draw it from memory," she said, eyes on the water instead of him. "That way it's both yours and mine. More special."

Lando didn't speak. Not right away. Just set the frame down carefully and crawled across the cushions to kiss her — soft, deliberate. One hand cupped her jaw; the other rested over her heart like it was helping him breathe. When he pulled back, his eyes were suspiciously glassy. "I think that might be one of the best birthday presents I've ever received," he said. "And I love it."

She gave a tiny shrug. "Good. You're really hard to shop for. You buy everything you want as soon as you decide that you want it."

He laughed, pulling her into his chest.

The boat rocked gently, and the sun sank lower, and for once there was nothing they needed to do, nowhere they needed to be. Just a belated birthday, and a perfect lap, and the girl who knew every corner of it better than anyone ever would.

—

The ultrasound room was dim, lit mostly by the soft blue glow of the monitor and the faint flicker of winter sun bleeding through the frosted windowpanes. The air smelled faintly sterile, like clean cotton and antiseptic.

Amelia lay back on the table, her t-shirt folded up over her stomach, the thin paper drape rustling every time she shifted. One hand was clenched tightly in Lando's — not out of nerves, exactly, but out of that taut, quiet focus she always wore when she didn't have full control of a situation.

She eyed the plastic bottle in the technician's hand with thinly veiled suspicion.

"What is that?" She asked flatly.

"Just ultrasound gel," the technician said, chipper and entirely unprepared.

Amelia narrowed her eyes. "What are the ingredients?"

The woman faltered, eyes darting to Lando and then back to Amelia. "Um..."

Lando looked at his wife.

Amelia didn't look at him. "I just feel like if we're going to lather something all over my body, I should know whether it contains...you know, petrochemicals or carcinogens or hormone disruptors."

The technician blinked. "It's... mostly water-based," she said finally. "And glycerin. No dyes. No perfumes."

Amelia stared a second longer, then gave a short, diplomatic nod. "Fine."

Lando leaned over and whispered, "You sure?"

"Yes," she muttered.

The technician, clearly deciding she'd earned the right to proceed, gently pressed the probe to Amelia's stomach. She flinched, not from pain, but from the cold smear of the gel, and made a disgruntled little noise in the back of her throat.

Lando squeezed her hand once, smiling.

And then the screen flickered. A faint, grainy image bloomed into view, shadow and static and light, and the whole room seemed to still.

"Ah, a very easy one. There we are," the technician said softly, her voice shifting into something gentle. "One very small someone."

Amelia blinked at the monitor. "That blob is a baby?"

The tech chuckled. "That blob is your baby."

Lando's breath caught in his throat. He shifted closer to her side, eyes locked on the flickering movement onscreen — a heartbeat, tiny and fast and impossibly loud once the audio kicked in. It sounded like wings. Like something about to take off.

Amelia didn't speak for a long time. Just stared. Her mouth parted, eyes wide. She looked stunned, like her body had already figured it out, but her brain hadn't quite caught up.

"Is that..." she finally whispered. "That flicker, is that... the heartbeat?"

The technician nodded.

Amelia's mouth wobbled. Her fingers clenched tighter around Lando's. "It's going so... fast."

"Perfectly normal at this stage."

Lando, who had been quiet until now, suddenly straightened and leaned in closer, eyes glued to the screen. "Wait—how fast? Like, beats per minute?"

The technician glanced at the monitor, tapping a few keys. "Right now, it's about 170. A bit faster than an adult's, but that's exactly what we expect this early on."

Lando's eyes widened. "One seventy? That's incredible. Is that—like—normal?"

"Yeah, perfectly normal. It usually starts slower around five weeks and then speeds up."

Amelia's voice was quiet, but steady. "How many weeks are we exactly?"

"About seven weeks from the last menstrual period," the technician replied, smiling gently.

Lando glanced at Amelia, then back to the screen. "So... when's the due date? When can we expect... I mean, when—?"

The technician switched the screen to a small calendar. "Based on measurements, your due date should fall somewhere around August 14th."

Amelia exhaled slowly, eyes still on the grainy image of that tiny flickering heartbeat. "August 14th," she repeated. "Between Spa and Zandvoort, then."

Lando grinned and squeezed her hand. "That's... just over six months away. Feels proper real now."

Amelia's lips twitched in a tired smile. "Yeah, it's a bit overwhelming."

Lando's voice softened. "Overwhelming in a good way?"

She nodded. "Yeah. I think so."

He looked at her with such tenderness that it made her throat tighten.

She leaned her head against his shoulder.

"Maybe," Lando said softly, "instead of letting this make us feel out of control, we need to learn how to trust that our little person is just... doing its own thing."

Amelia closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them again, the flickering heartbeat was still there — small but unmistakably alive. "Okay," she said quietly, "yeah. Okay."

The technician smiled again, dimming the monitor as she packed up. "You're doing wonderfully. We'll schedule your next scan in three to four weeks time, but for now, just try to enjoy this moment."

Lando squeezed Amelia's hand.

—

The Norris house was full of noise — crumpled wrapping paper on every surface, half-eaten mince pies on plates, Christmas music playing softly in the background, and the fire crackling with the kind of persistent warmth only a real log burner could offer.

Amelia sat on the arm of the couch, a mug of peppermint hot chocolate in her hands (the only thing that didn't make her nauseous that week), watching Lando and his siblings messily construct some kind of Christmas LEGO set on the floor.

It was chaos. The good kind. Lando was wearing a Santa hat and trying to boss everyone around. Cisca was curled up in the other armchair watching them fondly, and even Adam was getting involved, despite pretending he was "too old for LEGO" about twenty minutes earlier.

Amelia felt warm. Not just from the fire, or the hot chocolate. But that kind of rooted, grounded warmth she hadn't felt since childhood.

Lando glanced up at her from the rug. His cheeks were flushed, curls a little wild, still in pyjamas. He grinned that stupidly wide grin of his; the one she could never not return.

"Okay," he said suddenly, clapping his hands together. "We've got one last gift."

His siblings groaned dramatically. "You're just trying to win Christmas," Flo said, already suspicious.

"No," Lando said, glancing up at Amelia. "This one's from both of us."

He got up and walked to the tree, pulling out a small box, about the size of a mug, wrapped in deep green paper and a lopsided gold bow. He handed it to Flo, gesturing for her to open it.

She peeled it back, frowned... and then blinked.

Inside was a tiny McLaren onesie, size newborn, folded neatly next to a photo printout of the ultrasound. On the front of the onesie was a little stitched helmet — and underneath it, "Team Norris. Arriving August 2024."

There was a beat of silence.

Flo stared.

"Shut. Up."

Adam whipped around, eyes wide. "Oh my god."

"No way," Flo said, already scrambling up from the floor.

Cisca covered her mouth, eyes wide and glassy. "Are you—? Are you serious?"

Amelia nodded, quietly overwhelmed by the whole thing, but smiling anyway, caught in the centre of a hug from Lando's siblings as they collapsed into her, cheering and yelling and somehow knocking her mug over (Lando caught it just in time).

Flo kept staring at the ultrasound photo like it was a sacred relic. "I am going to be the best auntie."

Adam walked over to Lando and gave him a tight hug, a forehead kiss, and a pat on the back.

Cisca hugged Amelia gently, brushing her hair back. "I had a feeling," she whispered. "You've had that glow."

Amelia laughed. "The glow is just sweat from the constant nausea. But thanks."

Lando wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, chin on her shoulder, warm and soft and safe."Merry Christmas," he murmured.

She leaned her head back against his. "Merry Christmas."

—

January 2024

The new apartment smelled like fresh paint.

It was bigger, with big windows and tiled floors and way more space than their old place. But in that exact moment, it mostly looked like a war zone. A mess of cardboard, bubble wrap, and various limbs sticking out from behind furniture.

"Why does your wife own so many pairs of shoes?" Max asked, squinting as he pulled box after box labelled Amelia: Shoes from the back of the moving van.

"She likes having options, Max," Lando replied from inside the apartment. "You wouldn't get it."

"I've already seen three pairs of the same sneaker!"

"Sometimes she wants them to look newer, sometimes she wants them to look worn!"

Amelia stood frozen in the middle of the living room, arms wrapped tightly around a single lamp. Not because it was heavy, it was from IKEA, but because she'd very quickly reached her max input for the day.

People talking, laughing, doors slamming, someone (probably Charles) putting a Spotify playlist on the TV at full volume, Celeste asking where the boxes marked kitchen - fragile had gone (answer: behind the miscellaneous - Lando's gamer shit), and her mom trying to organise snacks that everyone had insisted they didn't need but everyone was happily eating.

It was chaos. Warm, well-meaning chaos. But chaos all the same.

"Breathe, baby," came Lando's voice, suddenly right behind her. His hand gently closed over hers, guiding the lamp to the floor. "Let go."

"I'm fine," she said quickly.

"You're vibrating."

"I'm self-regulating."

"You're about to pop like a champagne bottle on the podium."

She blinked at him. "Lando."

"It's fine," he whispered, kissing her cheek. "Go sit. I'll turn down Charles' shit music."

She nodded once and retreated to the kitchen, or, well, what would be the kitchen, once all the boxes weren't stacked like a cardboard skyline.

Her dad followed her a moment later, holding a garbage bag full of what looked like packing peanuts. "Need anything, sweetheart?"

Amelia, dazed, looked up at her dad. "A new brain."

"I meant, like, a juice box."

"Oh. Do we have any?"

"I'll ask your mom." He laughed and kissed the top of her head before disappearing to the balcony.

Celeste popped in with a stack of throw pillows and collapsed beside her. "Remind me never offer to help anyone move again."

Charles, sliding by with a box labeled guest bathroom, raised his hand. "You're all weak."

"You hired movers," Max called from the hallway.

"Because I am smart," Charles countered.

Eventually, they made enough of a dent in the chaos to pause; boxes stacked in corners, the couch unwrapped, the kitchen sort of navigable. Everyone collapsed onto furniture, floor cushions, or each other.

Lando dropped next to Amelia with a thud. "Jesus," he said. "I'm never standing up again."

Tracey passed around bottles of water.

And then, without thinking, because she was tired, overwhelmed, and slightly frantic, Amelia looked at the empty room across the hall and said aloud. "Oh, cool. I'll be able to start putting the nursery together."

The silence was instant.

Zak froze mid-sip. Tracey turned so fast she almost knocked over Celeste. Charles blinked once, then again. Celeste slowly tilted her head like a confused golden retriever.

Only Max continued scrolling on his phone. Lando looked suspiciously casual, but his eyes had gone wide.

"Sorry," Charles said slowly. "Did she just say nursery?"

"She did," said Tracey, standing like she was ready to break into dance or faint, unclear which.

Amelia, blank as ever, looked up. "Oh. Yeah. Sorry."

"You're pregnant?" Celeste screeched, immediately launching across the couch.

"About eight weeks," Amelia said matter-of-factly.

"Oh my gosh—"

Lando, grinning now, tugged Amelia into his side. "We were gonna wait a while. But she's obviously forgotten the whole secrecy part."

"Not forgot," Amelia said. "Just... didn't filter."

Tracey shrieked. Charles stood and clapped. Celeste immediately demanded to know every detail. Her dad was just staring at them, his jaw slightly ajar.

Max looked at Lando and deadpanned, "Told you she'd blurt it eventually."

"You knew?" Tracey barked.

"Of course I did." Max said.

Celeste swatted him. "I can't believe you didn't tell me!"

Amelia rolled her eyes, but she was smiling, buried in a couch cushion, legs tucked under her, chaos all around her, but warm. Safe.

Loved.

"I'm going to have to help you build nursery furniture, aren't I?" Charles asked.

"Yes," said Lando.

—

Amelia sat on one of the bar stools at the kitchen counter, wearing her comfort pyjamas and cupping a warm mug in both hands. Her mom was rifling through a drawer looking for teaspoons and her dad was standing far too close for someone who'd said "I'm not gonna hover."

"You're hovering," Amelia said without looking up.

"I'm not," Zak replied, absolutely hovering.

Tracey gave him a look as she passed. "Sit down, Zak."

Amelia smirked faintly.

Zak pulled a stool out beside her but didn't sit. He just sort of... rested one hand on the counter and stared at her in that way dads do. "You keeping anything down?" He asked.

"I'm eating a lot of toast," Amelia said. "And drinking ginger tea."

He looked vaguely panicked. "Should we be calling someone? We have dietitian's, or—?"

"Dad."

"What?"

"I'm pregnant. Nausea is normal."

Zak muttered something about "precautionary measures" and "just checking" and "your iron levels, you never know," and finally Tracey grabbed his sleeve and tugged him to the other side of the kitchen.

"Let her breathe," she said, soft but firm.

He sighed but relented, pouring himself a cup of tea and stealing a look at Amelia like he still couldn't believe it. Like some part of him was seeing her as a baby again in his arms; not a woman, not a race engineer, not someone capable of growing a human. Just his daughter.

"I'm going to be a granddad," he said eventually, more to himself than anyone else. He blinked a few times, then smiled like he'd just realised it wasn't a prank.

Amelia raised her eyebrows, lips twitching. "Has he only just realised that?"

Tracey chuckled. "Oh no, honey. He's already ordered some books on newborn safety."

Zak tried to look insulted. "One of us has to be prepared."

Tracey ignored him and turned her attention back to Amelia, warm eyes softening. "You know," she said gently, "that first night at dinner, when you got all worked up about Lando... I just knew."

"Knew what?"

"That this was going to be something magic," she said. "You had that look on your face. Not the 'I'm in love' one, not yet. But that one you get when you've found something you'd fight for. And I thought, ah. There it is."

Amelia blinked, caught off guard. Her mouth opened, then closed again, unsure how to respond.

Tracey smiled knowingly. "You've always been complicated. Precise. A little special in a systemised way. But with him? You were safe. Not smaller, not quieter; just... steadier."

Zak, finally sitting, looked from his wife to his daughter, then back again.

Tracey walked over and touched Amelia's hair, smoothing it back without thinking. The kind of motherly gesture that was muscle memory. "We're very proud of you," she said softly. "Not just for the baby. For the life you're building. For letting yourself build it."

Amelia didn't answer right away. Just looked down into her tea and let that sit in her chest like a warm ache. "Thanks," she said finally, quiet.

Tracey smiled. "Now come sit with us in the living room and let your dad lecture you about your fiber intake."

"Oh no."

"I made a PowerPoint," Zak added helpfully.

Amelia stared at him. "I—I eat enough fibre. I swear. I promise. Don't make me sit through one of your terribly constructed PowerPoints."

—

Five hours later, the apartment was finally quiet.

The kind of quiet that only came after the storm; post-laughter, post-chaos, post-Max dropping a full pizza box face-down on the kitchen floor and Charles chasing Celeste with bubble wrap around his head like a helmet.

Everyone was gone now.

Some boxes still weren't unpacked, the dining table was holding an array of loose screws and takeout containers, and there was one singular sock hanging off the new lighting fixture that neither of them remembered installing.

But it was quiet. And theirs.

Lando lay stretched across the couch in sweats and a hoodie, one leg propped up on a box labeled BED LINENS???. Amelia was curled on top of him like a blanket folded in half, her cheek resting against his chest, arms wrapped around his middle.

She was half-asleep, her body finally relaxing after hours of overstimulation and problem-solving and people asking where things were that she did not know. "Is it weird I don't feel like this is real yet?" She murmured.

Lando looked down at her. "The apartment?"

"All of it. The space. The nursery. The fact I told everyone because I accidentally emotionally short-circuited. I mean, who announces a pregnancy like that?"

"You," he said, brushing his fingers through her hair.

She huffed a breath that was half-laugh, half-groan. "My brain was tired. My mouth just... decided."

"Hey." He tugged gently on a loose strand of her hair until she looked up at him. "It was perfect. So you. I mean, Tracey looked like she was about to cry and throw you a baby shower in the same breath."

Amelia groaned and buried her face back into his hoodie. "She's going to buy so many pastel things. I'm not emotionally equipped for pastel."

Lando laughed. "We'll make a blacklist. No tulle. No gingham. No text that says 'Born to race' or anything cringe like that."

Amelia was quiet for a moment. "Do you think it's okay we're doing this now?"

He didn't ask what this meant. He knew.

The baby. The life. The shift. The permanence of it all.

"I think it's us," he said simply. "And I think whatever that ends up looking like is okay."

She let out a breath. "I don't know how to do any of it. Not even the parts people think I'm supposed to be good at. I couldn't find the dish towels today."

"That's what the box labels are for."

"And you?"

"I'm just here to kiss you when your brain melts and tell you you're brilliant anyway."

She finally looked up at him again. Her eyes were tired — not with sadness, just the fatigue of too much change all at once. But they were also soft. "You're annoying," she said.

"What, being emotionally intelligent and devastatingly handsome is annoying now?" He teased.

"You're a good human weighted blanket, so I won't argue with that."

He smiled and kissed her forehead. "It's a privilege, honestly."

They lay there for a while, the hum of Monaco outside their windows, the buzz of city life just distant enough to feel like background music. Inside, it was soft. Warm. Familiar.

Eventually, Amelia whispered, "We really live here now."

Lando tightened his arms around her. "Yeah, we do."

"And we're gonna have a baby here."

"Mmhm."

"I have to start nesting. Like... soon."

"Tell me what you want built. I'll blackmail Charles and make him do it."

She laughed quietly against his chest, a sound full of exhaustion and affection.

Then, softer, almost to herself, "I think I'm happy."

Lando didn't say anything right away. He just turned his head and kissed her temple again, slow and sure, before whispering into her skin, "I know."

—

The morning had not been kind.

Amelia had thrown up twice before she even made it out of bed, once more in the sink when the smell of coffee drifted through the apartment. Her stomach had settled into that weird, hovering nausea, not quite sick, but never okay, and everything around her felt a little too much.

Too bright.

Too loud.

Too far from stillness.

The apartment was still full of half-unpacked boxes. One of them had exploded into a mess of packing peanuts by the bookshelf because Lando had tripped over it while trying to carry a lamp. That had made her laugh, for a moment. But now even that memory felt distant and staticky.

She hadn't eaten anything. Her body felt too heavy and too floaty at the same time.

So she wandered into the room off the living room and stood in the doorway, barefoot and still in one of Lando's shirts, staring at the swing.

The sensory swing hung from a reinforced hook in the ceiling, an enclosed hammock-style cocoon of soft dark grey fabric.

She hadn't used it yet.

But now... now she needed to be held by something.

Amelia walked over slowly, pulled the soft stretch of the fabric down, and climbed inside like she was folding herself into a shell. It wrapped around her shoulders, her hips, her knees. A full-body compression hug.

She let herself swing gently, letting the quiet motion do what words and plans and spreadsheets couldn't. The light filtered through the gauzy curtain. The outside world muffled. The only sound was her breathing.

Her eyes fluttered shut.

Her muscles finally, finally relaxed.

And then, maybe because the relief was so sharp in contrast to how awful she'd felt all morning, or maybe because everything just hit all at once, Amelia cried.

Just soft tears slipping down the sides of her face into the swing's fabric as her body unclenched. She didn't even try to stop them. Didn't need to understand them. Her hands cradled the soft swell of her lower belly as she rocked gently in the cocoon, the comfort so complete it almost hurt.

The motion, the weightlessness, the compression; it was like someone had pressed a reset button on her nervous system.

"I love you very much," she whispered, hand on her stomach, words falling into the soft dark of the swing. "Even if you are already making me throw up five times a day." She gave a little wet laugh. Then sniffled. Then rocked some more.

Eventually, Lando peeked his head around the doorframe.

He didn't say anything. He saw her there, bundled up like a sleepy moth, puffy-eyed and peaceful, and his whole expression softened.

"You good, baby?" He asked gently.

She nodded, still sniffling, half-smiling. "It works."

He smiled back. "Good" He walked over and pressed a kiss to the fabric where her shoulder must've been, still swaying. "Want toast when you come out?"

"Only if it's with the nice jam. The apricot one we got from the market last weekend."

"Anything you want. We're celebrating the swings debut, after all."

"Dramatic." She said.

"I know," he grinned.

And then he left her to swing, warm, wrapped up, and for the first time all day — completely okay.

February 2024

Amelia woke to the smell of espresso and something sweet (cinnamon, maybe) and the distinct sound of someone failing, very quietly, not to clatter around in the kitchen.

She blinked, groggy, and rolled over to find Lando's side of the bed empty. A sliver of warm morning light streamed in through the curtains. The apartment smelled like flowers and coffee and... possibly burning toast.

By the time she made it out of bed, hair a mess, t-shirt halfway sliding off one shoulder, she found him standing in front of the kitchen island, proudly staring at a tray of slightly overdone croissants, a half-burnt omelet, and a mug that said engineers do it with precision.

He turned the second he heard her. "Don't say anything," he warned, waving a spatula at her. "This is a labour of love."

"I can see that," she said, amused. "How's the toast?"

"Charcoal adjacent."

She padded over and leaned into his side, arms looping gently around his middle. "Morning."

Lando pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Happy birthday, baby."

He guided her over to the table, where a small stack of wrapped gifts sat beside her laptop — one of them unmistakably from Oscar if the cartoon scribble on the tag was anything to go by. Another looked suspiciously like it had been wrapped by Max's girlfriend Celeste, given the glittery ribbon and note that just said DO NOT OPEN NEAR ZAK.

"Did you do all this this morning?" Amelia asked, eyeing the slightly lopsided croissants.

"Well," he said, handing her the mug, "I tried to sneak out of bed early. But then you curled up in the blankets and made that sleepy sound you make and I lost, like, twenty minutes just watching you sleep."

Amelia sipped the coffee. Ugh. Decaf. "Weirdo."

"Your weirdo."

They sat together, eating what they could salvage of the breakfast. Lando gave her a small, leather-bound notebook for scribbling car notes (with custom embossing: A. Norris, Race Strategist / Best Mummy Ever). She rolled her eyes, but she didn't stop smiling.

Later, while she was cleaning up plates, he appeared behind her with one last gift, this one small and velvet. Her breath hitched when he opened it. A pendant: a tiny silver disk with a barely-there engraving.

A heartbeat. The one they'd seen on the ultrasound.

"I wanted you to have something that was just... for you," he said quietly.

She touched the charm gently, thumb brushing the engraving. "I love it," she said, voice slightly wobbly.

He kissed her temple again, arms wrapping around her. "I love you."

The rest of the day was full of small joys; visits from friends, a video call with her mom, cupcakes delivered from a café Oscar insisted was life-changing. Max and Celeste swung by with a gift bag full of baby-safe skincare and a framed photo of the four of them.

At one point, her dad had messaged her.

Happy birthday, kiddo. Love you so much. See you soon.

To which Amelia replied.

Love you too.

That night, after the guests had left and the candles had flickered low, Amelia found herself curled up in her sensory swing by the window, legs folded up under her, pendant resting in the middle of her collarbones. Lando lay on the sofa nearby, watching her with quiet contentment.

"I think this was one of my best birthdays," she said softly.

He smiled. "Even with the burnt toast?"

She nodded. "Especially with the burnt toast." And then, after a pause, "Next year, we'll have someone else around to help us celebrate."

Lando's eyes softened. "Next year," he echoed.

—

WhatsApp Groupchat — 2024 F1 Grid

George R.

Welcome to the 2024 rookies!

Oh wait.

LOL.

Nevermind

Lando N.

Someone get this man a rookie asap

Charles L.

Bro we are all still here 💀

Alex A.

Just the same 20 people trying not to crash into each other

Esteban O.

Consistency is key 😂

Oscar P.

George is out here welcoming imaginary friends

Carlos S.

Rookie of the year is the Ferrari catering team

Lewis H.

I vote my physio as rookie of the year tbh

Yuki T.

I still feel like a rookie emotionally 😮‍💨

Fernando A.

I feel younger every season 😎

George R.

Ok ok I made one mistake

I was being polite

What if someone snuck in overnight. Like a stealth rookie

Pierre G.

Bro this isn't among us

Max V.

Let him live he tried ✋

Lando N.

He tried and failed. Spectacularly

George R.

Blocked. All of you. I'm blocking all of you.

—

The main presentation hall at the MTC was cold, the hush of anticipation a physical thing. Staff, engineers, drivers, media teams, and execs milled around in soft clumps, all eyes drawn to the shrouded figure on the platform. Silver satin draped across carbon fibre; sleek, taut, and humming with promise.

Amelia stood off to one side, arms crossed over her chest, one foot tucked behind the other like she was bracing herself against something invisible.

It was familiar, this room. She'd stood in it a dozen times. But this time was different.

This was her car.

She heard footsteps and didn't have to look to know it was Lando. He came to stand beside her, hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers, gaze fixed on the covered car like it might move if he blinked.

"It looks like a spaceship," he murmured.

"It's as complex as one," she said simply.

He grinned. "I'm gonna drive a spaceship."

"You're going to win in it."

Her dad walked out onto the stage, some carefully crafted speech on hand, but Amelia barely registered it. Her ears rang with something heavier; a low, surging pressure that sat in her chest and refused to settle.

She heard her name, heard Zak referencing her as lead technical design engineer on the project, and the soft ripple of polite applause. She didn't move. Didn't blink.

When the cover was pulled back and the MCL38-AN was finally exposed under the lights. Lean, mean, shimmering with graphite and papaya — the room went reverently silent.

It was beautiful. Sharp and elegant and mean in all the right places.

And hers.

Her hands trembled slightly where they were folded. Lando noticed. He reached down, laced his fingers through hers without saying anything. She didn't look at him, but she held on.

Oscar appeared at her other side, chewing a protein bar. "It looks fast," he said through his mouthful.

"It is fast," Amelia replied, deadpan.

He nodded. "Good. I hate slow cars. Bad for my numbers."

Lando snorted. "Your numbers are fine."

"I want more numbers."

Amelia ignored them both. Her eyes were fixed on the low spoiler, the curve of the side-pod, the subtle detailing near the rear suspension she'd fought tooth and nail to implement — backed up by three sleepless weeks of CFD simulations and one argument with the floor design team that she'd very nearly won with sheer stubbornness alone.

"Do you want to go look at it up close?" Lando asked, gentle.

Amelia shook her head. "Not yet."

He didn't press. Just stayed beside her as people filtered forward. Cameras clicked. Flashbulbs strobed. Somewhere, someone asked Oscar to smile more. Zak was already doing a walk-around with Sky Sports.

But Amelia stayed back, hand in Lando's, watching as her car, her beautiful, terrifying, finely-tuned monster, greeted the world for the first time.

Finally, Lando leaned in, voice low against her ear. "I'm so proud of you."

Her mouth twitched, just a little. "I know," she said.

Then, after a beat, "I'm proud of me too."

—

There were two weeks until they were due to fly out to Bahrain for testing.

The smell of carbon composite and metal dust still clung to the air. Most of the lights had been dimmed in the engineering wing of the McLaren Technology Centre, but not in Bay 2. Bay 2 was lit up like a crime scene — bright, clinical, unrelenting.

And Amelia was pacing.

"You changed the front wing flow guide without flagging it to me." Her voice was flat, but her tone cut sharp enough to peel paint. "It's not a minor tweak. It alters the pressure delta across the entire front third of the car."

Across the table, three senior aero engineers; experienced, respected, and visibly nervous, stood their ground, albeit quietly. One of them, Benji, cleared his throat.

"We didn't go behind your back," he said carefully. "It was discussed at the Friday meeting—"

"I wasn't at the Friday meeting," she snapped. "I was with Oscar for simulator calibration. You knew that."

"We had to lock a version in for pre-season aero scanning," said another engineer, trying to be the reasonable one. "You were behind schedule finalising the nose cone parameters—"

"I was behind schedule," Amelia repeated, eyebrows arching dangerously, "because I was rewriting your cooling duct schema so it wouldn't explode in Bahrain."

Silence.

Lando stood quietly just inside the doorway, arms crossed, watching. He wasn't saying anything — yet. But his eyes never left Amelia.

"You've added drag," she said after a beat. "I ran the updated airflow map through CFD myself after I saw the render. It introduces wake turbulence at high yaw, and we already struggle with straight-line pace. You've made us slower on the straights to gain — what? Four points of front downforce?"

"Four points could help balance in the high-speed corners," Benji offered.

"At the expense of the entire overtaking window!" Amelia barked. "You want Lando and Oscar to defend for twenty laps in DRS zones with a car that drags like a parachute because you like the numbers it spits out on paper?"

Someone muttered something; too low to catch. Amelia's head snapped around like a hawk.

"Say it louder," she said. "You clearly thought it was clever enough the first time."

The engineer paled slightly. "I just said... maybe you're too attached to this design."

Lando stepped in before Amelia could respond.

"No, see, here's the thing," he said, tone deceptively easy. "You don't get to say that. Because her attachment? That's why this car is visibly better than last year's. She is the reason why we had the third-fastest chassis on average post-Zandvoort last year. Because she gives a shit. And if Amelia says it's wrong? Then it's wrong."

The room froze. One of the engineers swallowed hard.

Amelia, though, didn't say anything for a full five seconds. She just stood there, arms folded, staring down the table like she was willing the numbers to change.

Then, calmly, "You're reverting to the previous design."

"We can't. Not until—"

"I'll update the approval file myself," she continued. "I want the renders sent back through me. If you're going to make changes to a car with my name on it, you'll run it by me first. Not the group chat. Not Zak. Not the test team. Me."

Stillness.

Eventually, Benji nodded, his jaw tight. "Alright."

She left the bay without another word, her footfalls even, deliberate. Lando followed a few paces behind, catching up only once they hit the corridor.

"You didn't have to jump in," she muttered.

"I know," he said. "But I wanted to."

They reached the elevator. Amelia punched the call button too hard.

"They're not wrong," she said quietly, not looking at him. "I am too attached."

Lando nodded. "Yeah. And that's why you're the only one I trust with it."

—

The hum of the wind tunnel was a low, constant growl behind the soundproof glass. Screens lined the wall of the operations room, flooded with live data — airflow vectors, pressure maps, drag coefficients, temperatures.

Amelia sat perfectly still in the front row, staring at the monitor.

The numbers were wrong.

Not wildly, not catastrophically. Just... wrong enough.

Behind her, the aero lead, one of the few who hadn't been at the shouting match in the engineering bay days before, was going over test notes in a too-cheerful voice. "And that's run twelve with the revised front-wing guide and standard rear beam. A bit of turbulence in the crosswind scenario, but nothing unmanageable."

Amelia's fingers twitched against the armrest of her chair.

Zak stepped in beside her. "They've already locked the transport containers for Bahrain," he said in a low voice. "The old spec wouldn't make it through the scans in time."

"I know," Amelia said without looking at him.

"We'll revert before Melbourne," Zak added. "That's the plan."

"I know."

She said it again, like repetition might dull the edge.

Zak hesitated. "I get it. I do. But it's one race."

"It's the first race," Amelia said quietly. "It sets the baseline. The whole development curve starts from that data. Every upgrade, every refinement — it's all going to skew unless we compensate."

Zak didn't argue. He didn't need to. They both knew she was right.

But it didn't matter.

Because the parts were packed, the plane was leaving in 48 hours, and the wrong spec was going to touch asphalt in Bahrain.

She stood abruptly. The chair creaked as it slid back.

"Amelia," Zak said. "I know this is hard for you."

She turned, her voice clipped but steady. "It's not hard. It's inefficient."

And she left the room.

—

The lights were low. Her desk lamp cast a soft amber glow across a table full of design sheets and scribbled notes, crossed-out margins, red-circled flaws, annotations that no one else in the department could read but her.

Her iPad was open to the Bahrain track layout. She wasn't crying — not even close. But her jaw was clenched hard enough to ache. Her hands flexed, restless, unable to do anything.

She hated that feeling.

A soft knock came at the door.

"Go away," she said without looking.

It opened anyway.

Lando leaned in, holding two takeaway drinks. "I come bearing peace offering. Decaf vanilla chai for my beautiful, smart wife."

She didn't move.

"I know," he said gently. "It sucks."

"I'm not angry anymore," she said.

He gave her a look. "Don't lie to me, baby."

She finally looked up, and he crossed the room to set the drink beside her keyboard.

"I spent a year making it perfect," she murmured.

Lando touched her shoulder. "And it still will be."

Amelia looked back at her notes. "I hate being forced to let something go when I know I'm right," she said. "Just because I'm one person versus an entire team — and I know that it's not fair to expect them to just blindly trust everything I say, but it makes me so mad.'

"Okay," he whispered. "Time to go home, I think."

—

"Do you need six pairs of sunglasses?" Amelia asked, holding Lando's McLaren duffel open.

Lando didn't even look up from where he was rolling socks. "Yes."

"You only have two eyes."

"It's called fashion, baby."

She rolled her eyes and shoved the sunglasses back in, making sure the soft case separated the orange-tinted pair from the purple ones, because God forbid they get scratched.

Their bedroom looked like a tornado had touched down; open suitcases, half-folded clothes, a stack of electronics chargers that Amelia had labeled with colour-coded cable ties two seasons ago and still didn't trust Lando to keep organised.

Her own packing was... slower. More deliberate. She sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her own suitcase, a checklist open on her iPad and a faint, lingering wave of nausea rising every few minutes like a passive-aggressive tide.

"Are you sure you're okay to fly?" Lando asked for the third time that afternoon.

Amelia clicked her Apple Pencil against her teeth. "I'm pregnant, not ill."

"Still."

"I have packed ginger chews and compression socks."

He looked up. "You hate ginger chews."

"I also hate throwing up at 30,000 feet. Sometimes compromise is necessary."

He grinned. "That's very mature of you."

Amelia waved vaguely in the direction of the ensuite. "Can you grab the skincare bag? Not the one with my regular stuff — the one with the unscented moisturiser that doesn't make me gag."

"Yes, your highness."

She threw a sock at his head.

The packing process stalled every few minutes for various reasons: Amelia needed a snack; Lando forgot where he'd put his phone; Amelia remembered she hadn't downloaded the Bahrain telemetry files onto her personal iPad; Lando insisted on reorganising his racing gloves by colour.

Eventually, Amelia sat back with a soft groan, rubbing a hand over her belly. Not that there was much to feel yet, no bump, just the persistent hum of her body shifting quietly into something new.

She felt... heavy. But not in a bad way. Just full of lists, of responsibilities, of life. Literally.

"Hey," Lando said gently, crouching in front of her. "You okay?"

She nodded, slow. "Yeah. Just... tired. Everything feels like it takes twenty-percent more effort."

"You want to skip testing?"

Amelia narrowed her eyes. "Lando."

"I'm just saying—"

"No. Don't even suggest that. I need to be there for Oscar and I want to be there for the cars first proper run. I have to see how it holds up."

He smiled softly. "Just checking. That's my job now, remember? Worrying about you."

Amelia's expression softened. "I'm fine. I'm just slower than usual. I'll sit. I'll drink plenty of water."

Lando stood and offered her a hand, helping her up off the floor with the ease of long practice. They zipped the last suitcase together, and she stared at the organised chaos around them with a long, contemplative sigh.

"Think this baby is gonna like Bahrain?" She murmured.

He shrugged. "Hot. Loud. Feels like it's already genetically predisposed that baby is not going to have a good time."

She laughed, quietly, the sound curling in her throat.

They were flying out in the morning. Testing started two days after that. And in a few more weeks, the  2024 season would roar to life; full throttle, no mercy, no brakes.

But for now, there were just bags and chargers and familiar, cluttered rhythms. And them.

Just them.

For now.

[valeisaslut]

do either of them have beef with anyone else in the industry either secretly or very publicly lol

oh you want drama. buckle up.

COLLIDE POPSTAR!READER X ROCKSTAR!ELLIE BEEFS LMAO

you and ellie? you’re literally drama magnets. two beautiful, very deranged celestial bodies orbiting the same flaming sun of pettiness. you can try to be normal. you try to play nice. but it’s in your blood.

ellie’s public beefs:

⭑.ᐟ first of all. donald trump. legendary. iconic. HISTORIC beef. back when the fireflies were first exploding, trump randomly decided to tweet, “i don’t get this ‘ellie williams’ noise. very sad!” and ellie, from her green room mid-tour, tweeted:

“damn. didn’t know hell had wifi. eat my mf strap.”

32.3 million likes. someone screen-printed it onto a shirt. "eat my mf strap" became an iconic quote for the lesbian community. the white house official account blocked her. she framed the tweet and hung it in her LA apartment above some grammys.

⭑.ᐟ then there’s machine gun kelly. he tried to flirt with her once at a fashion week afterparty, and she looked him dead in the eye and said, “i'd rather fuck a broken amp.” he blocked her immediately. she’s still proud. she brings it up unprompted at least once a month.

⭑.ᐟ she also has serious beef with shawn mendes. no one knows why. literally no one. she just refuses to be in the same room as him. if you ask her why, she’ll shrug and say: "his aura is suspicious." dina thinks it’s hilarious. jesse once laughed so hard ellie threatened to kick him out of the band.

⭑.ᐟ with spotify....? they removed her from one curated playlist. she mailed them a written letter that said, simply: "eat shit." they framed it and hung it in the New York office. she's now technically "banned" from the headquarters but still uses her premium account like a menace.

⭑.ᐟ adam levine. he once said that "bands are dead" in an interview and she just responded with a photo of the Fireflies headlining Lollapalooza in front of 80k people. captioned it "damn. missed the funeral."

⭑.ᐟ kanye west. listen. she never said anything directly. but once during a show in chicago, she did a rock cover of Gold Digger and changed the lyrics to: "i ain’t messin’ with no nazi bitch.". went extremely viral. never mentioned it again.

⭑.ᐟ sometimes she will just randomly unfollow and refollow people to cause chaos. in 2023 she unfollowed like half of the Grammy performers and then posted "just had to cleanse my aura real quick" on her story. so mf uncalled for.

your (reader’s) beefs:

you? oh, you are so scary when you want to be. the QUEEN of passive aggressive beef.

⭑.ᐟ you once had a fake-nice beef with a former disney star turned influencer who kept posting those “some of us don’t need features to chart 🧘‍♀️” captions. you responded by dropping a deluxe edition of your album featuring three collabs and an orchestral version and a remix and charted every single one. captioned your post: “thankful for my friends 💕.”people caught on immediately. there were think pieces.

⭑.ᐟ you once got asked to collab with a rapper known for being homophobic (da baby) and you very publicly turned it down by posting an instagram story that said: "i’d rather eat thumbtacks. respectfully."

⭑.ᐟ katy perry said something vaguely homophobic ab you on a podcast once, and when asked about it in an interview, you smiled so sweetly and said, “i thought she was opening a shoe store? i support small businesses tho.” the interviewer had to excuse themselves to laugh.

⭑.ᐟ you hate perez hilton. it’s no secret. once he tried to bait you into drama by tweeting “pop princess y/n getting a little too wild lately?” and you quote-tweeted him with: "who let you out of the nursing home."

⭑.ᐟ your most lowkey beef is with a famous country singer who said “i don’t think pop stars are real musicians.” you have never once acknowledged it publicly. but at your next show you covered Jolene and changed the lyrics to make it about stealing his girlfriend. people understood.

⭑.ᐟ you once got kinda shaded by an "edgy" alt-pop girl for your tour costumes being "too theatrical," so at your next show, you entered the stage in a 40-pound diamond-studded corset on a chariot. you didn’t break character once. the videos are still trending on stan twitter.

⭑.ᐟ GQ photoshopped your waist in a cover shoot without telling you. so you, being the legend you are, posted the raw, unedited pics on instagram with the caption: "i like my waist the way it fucking is. thanks." simple. lethal. a cultural reset.

ellie, naturally, saw it and went absolutely feral in the gq comment section. no emojis. no punctuation. just pure threat: "touch her again and i’m burning your mf offices down"

and privately? you both absolutely despise a HANDFUL of people. yall even keep a list. it’s literally like a famous people burn book. you’re planning to leak it someday just for the drama.

but yeah. despite the occasional beef, the truth is: you two are untouchable. you're the biggest thing in music right now. everyone either wants to collab with you or be you. labels want you, fans worship you. and when you do get hated on, it's so clearly jealousy that you don't even have to respond. you just post a blurry pic kissing ellie backstage and it gets 20M likes overnight.

[bitchface24-7]

THE SEDUCTIVE PROFESSOR VIKTOR PT2

synopsis: after completing “The Science Behind Magic: HXT101” with straight As your darling Professor Viktor decides to reward you. After all, you're no longer his student... So you two are no longer breaking any rules. And he can have you in Any. Way. He. Wants.

warnings: age gap (viktor’s gotta be anywhere in his 30s-40s to be a professor, reader is in their 20s (early to late I don’t really care) ), technically still a power imbalance, switch leaning dom!viktor, I tried my best to make this gender-neutral, this isn’t gonna be a full on story, just bullet points I come up with, Grammarly as my beta

genre: m/f or m/m

p.s. Please save me from this man, why is he invading my every thought and dream? He's making me realize things about myself.

PART 1

Being in higher education is a total pain in the ass.

Having Viktor as your professor made it a million times easier.

Especially since you finished his class as the top student. The look on Viktors face when the charts were released still gives you butterflies to this day.

You're officially a graduate of your STEM program! And with how amazing your grades are, and how many spectacular references you got; you were able to become Viktor’s TA. Allowing for Jayce to become the Lab Professor of “The Science Behind Magic: HXT101” (they still alternate roles. They hate being confined to one aspect of teaching.)

Especially since you're now secretly dating the most sought-after professor the academy has ever had.

You know it’s still frowned upon, a TA dating their superior, but at least it’s not as bad as a student fucking their professor. You're guilty on both counts.

You only have a scheduled class twice a week. Once on Tuesdays in the morning, and once on Thursdays in the afternoon. The rest of the week you're free to do whatever (and whomever) you please. It's mostly built this way so you can have enough time to grade almost a hundred assignments and still have time to relax.

You two have squeezed that schedule dry.

You've had sex in the classroom, in your shared office, in the library, in each others apartments.

You're fucking like rabbits.

You'll never forget when you were honestly, truly, just trying to grade some papers with Viktor in the library and all of a sudden you're getting fondled underneath the table and you're covering your mouth trying not to get caught.

You were rewarded that night with how well you behaved. You made sure you two didn't get caught. How sweet.

But there have been times when you've been bratty; desperately craving Viktor's love and attention.

And you got it, in the form of you getting your throat fucked and ass smacked with Viktors cane. He didn't stop until you had tears streaming down your face and your ass was a beautiful mixture of red, purple, and blue.

(you were too stubborn to use your safe word)

The looks of concern your students shot you as Viktor subtly yet smugly drank his sweetened coffee made your blood boil in both anger and lust.

You could barely sit or move due to the spanking, and you could barely talk due to the pounding your throat received. Making it so Viktor taught the class and you sat there pretty; and incredibly uncomfortable.

Some students shot you pointed looks but you pretended they weren't there.

But… there has been instances where YOU were the dominant one.

Where you sucked his cock under his desk, not caring if colleagues came in to chat. Even if it was the dean.

Where you rode him into the mattress, painting his pretty neck and chest with a smattering of hickies.

Where you sat on his face until your body gave out due to how skilled he is with his fingers and tongue.

You're not sure you've ever orgasmed this much before in your life, but you’re not complaining!

Aside from the mind-blowing sex… dating Viktor is like a dream come true.

He’s caring, sweet, kind, and thoughtful. He's still snarky and sassy with a dry dirty humour but… he's perfect.

And you wouldn't change a damn thing about him.

Even when you two are cuddled up in bed late at night and you're having a deep conversation, and Viktor’s insecurities peek through, you shut that shit down immediately.

You're in awe over the fact Viktor's never been in a proper relationship before.

You make a promise to yourself after learning that. You'll be Viktor's first and last relationship.

Till death do you part baby! You wonder which ring will look best on your ring finger.

(but that's a bit farther into the future. Enjoy your relationship as it is now with its sweetness and crazy freak nasty sex)

[deductivisms]

compiled a small profile for my hunter based off the official website profiles hehe !!

also dynamic/relationship chart with avis unit + olivia hehe

he has a little more lore/trivia below (there are light story spoilers for the LR campaign and HR!!)

background rundown-

kazu would technically be the hunter who lived through the events of rise (pre-sunbreak arc, he leaves kamura shortly after the end of rise); born and raised in kamura village alongside his elder brother, sou, and younger sister, koharu, the two older brothers would eventually become hunters.

though sou was very conscious of his duties as a hunter, kazu tended to have a more jaded view on his role: this would lead to disagreements between the two regarding the rampage, with kazu refusing to help in the efforts to hunt ibushi and narwa, believing it better to fortify kamura than to confront the elder dragons directly

despite his efforts to dissuade sou from the hunt, his brother would go on anyway and would fall to ibushi. this would cause kazu to finally accept the gravity of the situation, and lead to him taking on the assignment in sou's stead, going on to slay both ibushi and narwa.

though his efforts would lead to the end of the rampage, he'd leave kamura and wind up working for the hunter's guild main branch where he would remain until he was assigned to the forbidden lands research commission

⚠️ WILDS LR CAMPAIGN / HR40 SPOILERS ⚠️

i kind of reverse engineered a parallel to nata with kazu's backstory, with him not fully understanding the weight of being a hunter / a hunter's role in preserving the ecosystem, and throughout the story he'd eventually come to see his younger self in nata -- hence kazu made a show of acknowledging alma's authorization to slay arkveld; here he'd be showing nata the true purpose of a hunter, while also refusing to neglect his duties like he did while still in kamura

my personal cheesy hc is that the line "The path we must take is clear" was actually something that sou said to kazu shortly before going to confront ibushi, so kazu hearing nata say it had him like 🥺

misc trivia

his sister, koharu, is in a different unit within the forbidden lands commission -- she coincidentally wound up there after her mentor was assigned to the commission (more on him another day...-); this is the first time the siblings have met since kazu left kamura (and koharu is relieved to see he's still as cringe as always <3)

kazu is married to his childhood best friend, yuito (ykz forever..); yui would probably normally function as his handler

on that note ik people ship their hunter w/ alma but in my vision she finds herself embarrassed bc, despite canonically looking into the mc hunter's background, she only looked at kazu's record and didn't know he was married until a little into working with him ... a one-sided crush that quickly fizzled out after he offhandedly mentioned his husband...-

[gav-san]

“No Takebacks" 4

Masterlist here

No Takebacks Masterlist

One Piece Masterlist Here

Sealegs and Low Expectations Word Count: 1.5 K+

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5

Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10

You stare at the map.

Then the weather chart.

Then your tea has gone cold in your hand, like the sinking realization in your gut.

You have to cross the ocean. Not just any ocean. That ocean. The one with no reliable commercial routes, known for storms, Sea King activity, and one infamous phrase whispered in smoky taverns: ‘You’ll have to go with them’.

You spend three hours trying to find a better option. You check your contacts. You weigh the price of bribing a Navy escort. You even consider swimming.

Then, with the slow agony of someone volunteering to lick a boot, you pull out your pen and write a letter. The wax seal isn’t even dry before you regret everything.

TO: Benn Beckman FROM: A suffering, brilliant, hygienic professional

SUBJECT: Please don’t make me say it out loud

Need passage. No questions. One-way. One person. Must not involve mold, fermented socks, or that time Shanks tried to flirt using a mop.

P.S. I will pay. In coin. And bleach. P.P.S. I swear, if he so much as winks at me, I will file an official complaint with the World Government’s office of decorum. P.P.P.S. I’ll send soap ahead of arrival.

Two days later, you receive a single, smugly folded response:

“We’ll pick you up. Bring your sea legs and low expectations. Shanks already asked if he should wear shoes. I told him no. You’re welcome. —BB”

You consider setting yourself on fire.

When the Red Force arrives, it is, of course, dramatic. Sun at its back. Sails flared like a flirtatious cape. A man waving from the prow with no shirt, two drinks, and zero shame.

Shanks.

“Did you miss me?” he calls out.

“No,” you shout back. “But I did miss sanitation standards.”

Benn lowers the ramp for you, wearing the same calm, wolfish look that suggests he already knows how this trip will end. You board. Grudgingly. Gloved.

The crew cheers your arrival.

Someone throws petals. Someone else throws a sock. You dodge both. Later, over tea that tastes suspiciously like rum and regret, you mutter to Benn, “I can’t believe I’m doing this again.”

He leans back, lazily satisfied. “Sure you can.”

And unfortunately, you can.

Because crossing this ocean alone would kill you. But with the Red Force?

It might only ruin your standards. 

The trip is—marginally—better.

Your cabin is… not clean, but cleared. There are no mystery socks. The sheets are new-ish. There’s a basin, actual soap, and a handwritten note that reads:

“We tried. —Ben” Underneath, in different handwriting:

“I wore shoes!! —Shanks”

You burn the note immediately.

Still, you can’t deny it—your first impression stuck. The crew now refers to you as “the terrifying one” or “Lady Bleach,” depending on the level of formality. They stand straighter when you walk by. They rinse things before handing them to you. One even apologized after sneezing near you.

You're not respected. You’re feared. Which, for your purposes, is better?

But the real problem?

Shanks.

Shanks, who is now cocky.

As if your presence aboard is some kind of trophy. As if your sharp glares and venom-laced sighs are signs of affection. As if you didn’t once threaten to exile him to a vinegar barrel for calling you sugarplum unprompted.

You catch him once watching you from the helm, arms folded, grin slow and easy.

“What,” you snap, “are you staring at?”

“You,” he says, far too pleased. “Existing. Here. On my ship. Willingly.”

You narrow your eyes. “Marginally willingly.”

He leans forward just enough to be unbearable. “You came back.”

You open your mouth, then close it. Because technically, yes. You did contact them. You did board. You are here. But he doesn’t have to sound so victorious about it.

Benn walks by just in time to witness the standoff.

“She’ll jump overboard,” Benn warns mildly. “You know she will.”

“Only if I mop with her toothbrush,” Shanks replies.

You do consider jumping. Instead, you walk away with your dignity intact, a bottle of sanitizer swinging at your hip like a sidearm.

A week into the journey, you catch Shanks walking barefoot again.

You spray the deck behind him. He turns, eyes wide. “Did you just sanitize where I stepped?”

“Yes,” you say sweetly. “I’m marking the danger zones.”

He beams. “You’re learning to care.”

“I’m learning where to never step again.”

He laughs. You scowl. The sea sways.

It happens one morning on deck. The sky is suspiciously clear. The gulls aren't even screaming. You should’ve known something was wrong.

You’re sipping tea—hot, blessedly clean, Lucky Roux-approved tea—and checking your ledgers when Shanks strolls by.

Wearing boots.

Polished boots.

He’s clean-shaven. Hair tied back. The shirt actually buttoned past the third one. Smells like cedar and citrus and—not even joking—soap. There’s a fresh cut to his coat, a glint to his rings, and a smug ease to his walk that makes you feel like you’re the one off-balance.

You narrow your eyes. “Who are you and what have you done with the barnacle in charge of this ship?”

He winks. “Just decided to try something new.”

You squint harder. “Like not being a biological hazard?”

He hums, leaning one elbow on the railing beside you. “Figured I’d extend my lifespan a little. You said clean sailors live longer.”

You drop your teacup.

Not dramatically. Just slowly. Like your body has gone into shutdown to preserve mental resources.

“What,” you say in a voice drained of all hope, “did you just say?”

Shanks tilts his head, grinning wider. “Clean. Sailors. Live. Longer.”

You grab the railing for support. “The end is nigh.”

“No, sweetheart. The beginning is.”

“Don’t make this romantic.”

“Too late. I already used your lavender soap.”

You turn away, physically repulsed by how well he wears decency. It’s a betrayal. You’ve built your entire defense system around his lack of composure. His lack of cleanliness. The chaos was the armor.

And now?

He’s put together. He smells good. He’s flirting with one hand in his own jacket pocket, not yours. You hate it.

Even Benn notices.

He walks past, raises a brow at Shanks, and mutters, “Now she’s really in trouble.”

You fling your notebook at him.

But you miss, because you’re still reeling from the worst discovery of all:

Unfortunately…

Shanks cleans up really well.

You avoid your feelings the same way the Red-Haired Pirates avoid assigned bath times: poorly, pettily, and with increasing levels of chaos.

It's not denial, exactly. It's more like calculated emotional containment.

You see Shanks walking around all clean and golden like a shipwrecked demigod, smelling good, charming the crew with both charisma and citrus soap—and you simply decide to focus on other things. Important things. Like filing. Or passive-aggressively restocking the med bay with antiseptic in alphabetical order.

Meanwhile, the crew watches with interest. Not concern. Not sympathy. Just the particular kind of delight that comes when a living legend starts losing his balance over someone sharper than him.

But the worst offender?

Benn.

He’s relentless. Not overt, never cruel—just quietly disrespectful in a very specific, personally offensive way.

Like how he starts casually dropping comments like:

“We’re all real proud of the captain. He’s been wearing shirts and deodorant for five days straight. Wonder what changed.”

Or:

“Crazy how you’ve never joined the crew officially, but you’re still the only reason we have functional plumbing.”

Or the truly unholy:

“Should we change your title from Informant to First Lady of Cleanliness? Or maybe just Shanks’ Sanitation Secretary?”

You try to maintain dignity. You glare. You scoff. You avoid Shanks’ path like he’s made of pathogens again.

But it doesn’t help that he keeps getting cockier by the day.

He leans into doorframes. Winks with his clean eye. Starts calling you “Miss Sparkle” just to watch you snap.

You scream into your pillow at least once a night.

One morning, you storm into the galley to find three things:

Shanks, barefoot but holding a mop.

A chore wheel titled “Approved by Her Royal Soapiness.”

Benn, drinking coffee, with the smuggest look known to mankind.

You stare at it all.

Then turn, very calmly, to Benn.

“I will drown you in bleach.”

He sips his coffee. “Then I’ll die clean.”

And somewhere behind you, Shanks whistles a wedding march on a mop handle.

You are not okay. And they are having the time of their lives.

[cryingatwindermerepeaks]

Miscellaneous Hcs for the yellowjackets ‘post-rescue, they all live in a big house together (official name pending) au’

Been havin a not so good days and needed the comfort of this so it’s a bit messy. would love to hear any comments, questions or requests you have based on these !

- they have one cat - wasp - who they found in the wilderness (I’ve made a post about him before which you can probably find by searching for him on my page), anyway, he stays with Tai (and because of that Van and Nat too) after they are rescued and naturally moves into the big house with them all when they move in. Melissa really badly wants a dog but because Van is scared they can’t have one - she has a stuffed dog called Rupert though and she treats him like a real dog. Eventually a compromise was met and Mel got a frog for her birthday, she named him Michael. Akilah and Mari each have a mouse, Mickey and Minnie. Lottie has a bigggg fish tank and lots of fish she loves to just sit and watch.

- Gen and Mel share a room, Akilah and Mari share a room. Jackie really wanted to share a room with Shauna but Shauna wanted some of her own space. They share a wall though and have a secret code to communicate through knocks. There is a bedroom set aside for if someone is feeling big and for some reason struggling to be in their little room - for instance sometimes Nat really doesn’t want to regress and will sleep in that room - but usually no one minds sleepin in their little room when they are big. Even though it’s technically a common room it’s pretty much dubbed as Tai and Van’s second bedroom because they are the ones in cg headspace most often. The two also share a room when they are regressed. Lottie has two rooms but this is because she regresses super young and needs a crib which she doesn’t like when she’s big.

- They have a chore chart! Every week the jobs are supposed to change but a lot of the girls have favourite chores and will try to trade with others. If someone is feeling particularly small or down, someone else will usually offer to take their chores. They also have a rewards chart! Everyone has their own goals they are working towards, and not everyone always knows what the others are. For example, Mel gets a sticker for telling Van or Tai when she needs to use the bathroom so they can take her but the others don’t know that because she’s embarrassed by it. They all do know what everyone else’s prize is at the end! Some goals get smaller prizes like lollipops or getting to pick the weekly movie, and some have bigger prizes like going to the zoo or getting new toy!

- Weekly Friday movie night! Everyone puts a movie (or show which they’ll watch a couple episodes of) in a hat (Melissa’s) and whichever one gets picked they all watch together. They take it in turns to pick what take out they order.

- They have two big cars and everyone has set sheeting spots (subject to change slightly depending on who is big and who is little)

- Fights are common, not usually ever anything big, just little squabbles which tend to be blown out of proportion because of so many big emotions. There is a calm down corner in the living room, but Shauna and Mari have separate spots because they are known to be more physical with each other when they are mad.

- They have a big treehouse, with a tire swing underneath. There are lots of competitions to see who can climb up without using the ladder fastest. Mel uses it to hide in a lot, Shauna likes to go and read up there, Lottie and Nat often go up together and climb onto the roof to look at the sky. Jackie likes to play house up there a lot, she doesn’t really like outside because dirt and bugs and just things that upset her sensory issues a lot, but she does like getting to play Mama.

- So many games of soccer and a lot of time training and doing drills. A soccer game is usually called whenever something big has happened that’s put everyone in a bad mood.

- Most of the girls are in therapy after everything that happened in the wilderness (and for some of them, before). Lottie has a session every week, she’s probably the one who put duo the least fight about it because she knows the other option (her parents sending her to Switzerland) is much worse. Jackie sees a doctor about once a month, for a while when she was really struggling with food she had to see a specialist for eating. disorders as well but she hated him. She doesn’t mind her new doctor. Nat is almost always regressed after her sessions and it’s never pleasant for her, she spends a lot of time hiding and favouring the others. Lottie suggests they try something else but Nat admits that she thinks it is actually helping she just needs time to decompress after. Van is very reluctant to admit she needs it and only goes for a few months but says it did help.

- A lot of them also take medication, whether that’s for mental health or a condition theu picked up in the wilderness. They each have a specific colour pill organiser that sits in a drawer in the kitchen and whoever is in charge of cleaning up after breakfast that morning has to check after that they are all empty for that day. Lottie when regressed is too young to take them herself so someone will help them and Jackie just straight up refuses to swallow pills so she needs hers crushed up into powder in her strawberry yogurt.

- There are definitely girls who are very much ring leaders when regressed. Jackie, Van, Tai and Shauna tend to almost always have someone trailing around to play with them.

- A few of the littles struggle with accidents but have very different feelings about them. Lottie gets anxious and embarrassed of it if she’s feeling older but usually she’s too young to care or be expected not to. She really just doesn’t have much awareness of what her body is trying to tell her ever, in other ways as-well like she’ll fall and bump her head then get straight back up and keep running because she’s too focused on catching the firefly to think about if her head might hurt. She has a change table in her room and wears diapers pretty much the whole time she’s regressed. Nat wets the bed because of trauma and when she’s super little, she wears pull-ups to bed. She doesn’t like talking about it but isn’t too embarrassed, not like Jackie or Mel. Jackie wets the bed but no one can talk about it. She gets defensive and mean and overwhelmed if they try. She uses pull-ups which Nat gave her though theu never talk about it. Mel has pretty frequent accidents at day and night. She’s super anxious and struggles to ask to go to the bathroom or excuse herself from the dinner table. Sometimes she’s so anxious she just can’t get up off the couch because someone might look at her. She is very ashamed of her accidents and almost always will only accept help from Van.

- There are alphabet letters on the fridge which notes (often passive aggressive on Shauna’s behalf) are left. It’s a good way of communicating when sometimes people are struggling for words.

- There’s a park down the road that they visit often, it has a little playground and a big oval and a dog park.

- A lot of the little’s love riding their bikes! Mari, Jackie and Gen in particular are big fans of their bikes! Mel and Van have skateboards (Mel taught Van how to skate because her brothers taught her growing up and Van had always wanted to try)

- Lottie likes to leave little post it notes around the house. It started as a way of remembering things and what’s real and what’s not, and people started leaving notes for her to remind her. Eventually she starts to just leave little reminders for the others of how much she loves and cares about them - especially if she knows someone is having a bad day.

[tadc-harlequin-au]

Hey, I know he's not technically canon but what would Cade look like in his adult body? Would he have an exposed heart like his dad? Or any particular style of fashion? I wanna see him fully grown next to his parents and see how tall his adult body is. And what about his teen stage? I vaguely remember you said that there were three main body changes, child, teen and adult. (Not forced or anything just curious about what Cade would look like as a big boy/fully grown harlequin.) ^^

I make a non-canon fanchild once and you all go crazy huh /j

Cade's development through the years could be summarized by this poorly drawn chart (that doesn't even cover ALL the changes but that's a story for another day) but it IS the base child-teen-adult progression.

Young Cade is quite the troublemaker; not fully in a bad sense, he's just very hyperactive and easy to be excited. He's also the embodiment of childish wonders and curiosity, so he's the happiest he can be if shown something new and amazing.

Teen Cade.... well, he's become a bit of a rebel because ofc he would be. Who wasn't. He thinks his mom is "babying" him, when no. Pomni's just become increasingly paranoid on how to handle the unfolding situation of her son growing up, and wanting to break things like her in her uncontrolled prime.

He's also become the most reckless and stubborn he'll ever be, answering back passive-aggressively and raising his tone against his parents when they're trying to talk some sense into him, going out on his own accord and even REFUSING to wear the tracker bell that would let Caine know his location for safety purposes.

Thankfully, Adult Cade has realized the errors of his cringe emo teen self and is back to being a happy, active and mischievous Puppet. He's become an official defender of the city, befit of the title of a Combat Harlequin. Although his relationship with his parents are no longer strained and is as healthy as can be, there's an intrusive thought lodged in his head somewhere that insists that he's not being a good son (considering his track record), how he's not living up to expectations because he hasn't done anything grandeur like both his mom and dad has in their pasts, nor achieved something worth celebrating.

He does realize that it's not the achievements he's worried about, but rather, it's actually his dream to travel the world and detail his exploits. Something that both his parents will have to come to terms with, because this means that their son wants to leave the nest and be on his own.

Now, for what you've been waiting for anon, here's Adult Cade side by side with Pomni and Caine, although this is their current looks and not their post-canon's, so-

He's slightly taller than both of them lol

[vixensdungeon]

Oh no, the dastardly No-Good Gang has ambushed crowd-favourite wrestler Joe Punchfist while he was promoting his upcoming charity match. He's outnumbered and getting pummeled in the middle of the ring while the officials look on helplessly. Will Joe be able to wrestle his match at next week's Renaissance Slayre pay-per-view, or will those poor orphans end up on the street? But wait! The crowd goes wild as a song starts playing and running out of the locker-room area comes…

Okay so before our valiant wrestler can run into the ring to save Joe's hide, we must create them. And we'll be using the WWF Basic Adventure Game for that!

The game assumes you'll be creating several wrestlers plus a couple managers and even a referee or announcer for each player, but we'll just be making one wrestler. This post is really long so click to see the rest of it!

First we pick a sex for our wrestler (this game was made in the early 90s so you'll excuse it if the terminology isn't up to 2025 standards). We'll be making a girl. For a name I just go to a random generator and get Weronika Sandström. She started wrestling out of high school so for random age we roll 1d10+17, getting an 18.

Then we determine our weight class. We could just pick, but that's not how we do it down in the Vixen's dungeon, so a random roll it is! A d% roll of 63 lands us in the lightweight division (sidebar: because this game is based on WWF in the early 90s, you can't actually make someone like Rey Mysterio in the game, because according to the designer's research there were no male wrestlers in the super lightweight category). Then we roll another d%. A 67 tells us that our weight is 225+1d6 pounds, 231 in our case. This gives us some game stats. Our maximum for the Aerial Tactics attribute is 90, and we get a +5 to whatever number we later generate for it. We have a -5 modifier for lift, meaning that our opponents need to roll 5 less than normal to lift us. Our maximum stamina is 90.

Next are our attributes. There's three ways to generate them: rolling random numbers and then assigning them as we see fit, using points to purchase them, or rolling them in order. And you know how we do it in the dungeon! For Brute Strength (STR) we roll a d6 on a chart and get a 6, which means a 50. Technical Ability (TEC) is 35, Brawling (BRA) is 45, Martial Arts (MAR) is 45, Aerial Tactics (AGI which is short for Agility rather than Aerial Tactics) is 30+5 for 35, Perception (PER) is 45, Stamina (STA) is 45, Business Skill (BUS) is 30, and Constitution (CON) is 45. Our lightweight girl is more of a powerhouse than you might expect!

Then we get to Advantages, which are miscellaneous qualities our wrestler might have, at the cost of lowering our basic attributes. And would you look at that, there's an option to roll them randomly! We get to roll twice and get 98 (Resistance to Attack) and 70 (Winning Appearence). We have to lower four attributes by 5 for the first one, and two of them for the second one. I choose to lower my TEC, BRA, AGI, and BUS, and then BRA and AGI again (I couldn't have lowered the same attribute twice to pay for the same advantage so I had to do them separately like that). This character is kinda starting to resemble the one I made in AEW Fight Forever, who is built entirely around kicking, although she is a heavyweight. For Winning Appearence I choose to be good-looking, and the neat thing about this advantage is that even if I had chosen to be ugly, the effect would be exactly the same and depend on whether the wrestler is good or bad. It says something about how our physical qualities are perceived depending on how our nature is perceived. For Ressitance to Attack I pick Martial Arts, which will halve the amount of stun those kinds of attacks deal against our wrestler. Your kung-fu is weak!

There's also disadvantages, so we get to roll some more, yippee! 50 and 45 would give us the same one so we re-roll one of them and get 39. We have Title Lust and Personal Vendetta. A second roll (69, nice~) means our lust is for the Intercontinental Title, meaning we can't wrestle for the World Title or the Tag Team Title. For Personal Vendetta I'll pick some bad character to feud with, probably someone from the No-Good Gang! We get to raise two and one attributes, respectively. I pick STR twice and STA once.

Now our attributes stand at STR 60 (the maximum for a starting character), TEC 35, BRA 35, MAR 45, AGI 25 (the minimum), PER 45, STA 50, BUS 25, and CON 45. We can now determine our secondary attributes. Our Power Bonus (PB) is the number of extra stun points we inflict, in our case 3/2/1/0 (I'll explain the slashes later). Our Stun Points (STN) are determined by cross-referencing some charts based on our STA and CON, which ends up giving us 200/140/92/46.

Next we determine our build. I want our girl to be of the Large variety (with some curves), so cross-reference a chart and find that at 231 lbs. our wrestler is 5' 8". Then we choose handedness. I try to roll for ambidexterity but fail, so I make her a righty like myself. As my finishing move I pick Bearhug, because isn't it nice to just cuddle your opponent into submission? Based on our AGI, our Movement (MOV) is 2/2/2/1. Based on CON, our Recovery (REC) is 4/4/3/3. Our Fan Support starts at 0, but our good looks will help in raising it! Finally we multiply our BUS by 5 for 125, giving us $125 because it's that kind of game. I'll buy a bandanna, some jeans (cut into jorts), a tank top, kneepads, and a sweat shirt, leaving us with $4. Hopefully we can make some money so we don't have to wrestle barefoot anymore!

So what's with the slashes? To illustrate, here's our final lineup of attributes.

STR 60/54/48/42 TEC 35/32/28/25 BRA 35/32/28/25 MAR 45/41/36/32 AGI 25/23/20/18 PER 45/41/36/32 STA 50/45/40/35 BUS 25/23/20/18 CON 45/41/36/32 PB 3/2/1/0 MOV 2/2/2/1 REC 4/4/3/3 STN 200/140/92/46 So you see how all our attributes actually have four values? As we start out at STN 200, they're all in that left-most value. But as our Stamina Points wear out, all our attributes start dropping!

Anyway, back to our exciting scene from earlier. "Sandstorm" by Darude starts playing as newcomer Weronika Sandström runs in to save the day!

As you can probably tell, this is a very silly game. And that's what makes it great.

[mydearestbeloved]

Ok but esper!Jinwoo and guide!reader wasn't something I was thinking about but it sounds delicious and it will now constantly be on my mind along with your tp!au. I totally get the struggle of wanting to hop between series but also wanting to stay on task lol. I love your work - thank you for feeding us 🙏❤️ take care of yourself!

Never thought anyone would notice that little bits I put in a reblog—at least not to the extent of mentioning them in an ask! 😂

I'm still very much obsessed and dead set on finishing Trial Player AU—but!

My mind wandered to an idea for Guideverse, where Reader is a special guide. She's an all-time high-compatibility match with many espers of various ranks, and her guiding power is incredibly strong to boot! Unfortunately, this makes her a rare commodity, so she's kept on standby for only the most special situations—ones that may or may not even happen—and used as a ready-to-dispatch backup in case any esper ever goes berserk. Because of that, she was never truly bonded to "the one", as per the usual one guide-one esper match.

That is, until Jinwoo reawakens as an S-class esper with his power scale offing the charts right from the get-go. The association in charge of esper-guide matching scrambles to find someone for him, and Reader is hastily appointed. The thing is, Jinwoo already has the System to stabilize him, so he doesn't actually need her guiding. Still, she does her duties diligently, staying by his side and all that. Her guiding—while rendered obsolete for stabilizing his powers—ends up offering Jinwoo peace of mind instead: calming his heart, body, and mind whether he's in turmoil, riding an adrenaline high during or after a raid, or when he just wants to not think.

I'm thinking of that "she fell first, but he fell harder" dynamic. Beside Jinwoo, Reader finally feels like she can be a person instead of a commodity. But she also feels useless, since her supposedly high-tier guiding—the very reason she was assigned to him—proves more or less ineffective for his actual condition. She feels like she have nothing to offer him back in return for giving her a life.

Jinwoo falls for her because she's just an overall sweet person to him, caring for him when she doesn't have to. Especially since, with their abnormal esper-guide temporary bond, she could technically just sit back and not bother with him.

Eventually, the matching association notices the abnormality and requests a proper compatibility test. And well—their score comes back as a 7. Not 70, not even close to the average stable match of around 60-ish. Just 7%. A number so low it makes everyone question how in the world Jinwoo is even receiving her guiding without showing a single ounce of agitation in response to the incompatibility. They association's conclusion? Reader's guiding is potent enough to override the low compatibility. 🤔

After that is just various shenanigans:

How Jinwoo staves of the matching association from disturbing his and his Reader's peace with their annoying insistences, that they can find him a better match but with the priority goal of retrieving Reader back into their arsenal;

How Jinwoo, after multiple experiences of being guided normally by Reader, starting to wonder how it would feel like to undergo the quote-unquote "Ultimate Guiding" by—ahem—sleeping with with her 🤭;

How Jinwoo wanting to be officially bonded to Reader, truly and permanently, as her one and only esper; and... yeah, that's how far my daydreams about this version of guideverse have gone, for now. ASDFGHJKL 🤣🤣🤣

Thank you for your kind words, dear Anon. You take care of yourself too! 🥰

[cisthoughtcrime]

I’m interested in learning Latin, where would you suggest I start?

So exciting! I'll try to keep this short:

I recommend starting with this very short informal intro, especially if you don't have a strong grasp on technical terms about grammar (most textbooks take that for granted). Latin grammar follows a rigid organisational system and the earlier you understand how it works, the easier it will be to learn the rest of the language. The 18-page PDF in the link uses English examples and practice questions to go through basic Latin grammar concepts and tables. It doesn't go through less basic things like participles or conditional clauses, but it does explain everything you need to know in order to learn those more easily. It also includes a hyperlinked list of good online resources for self-taught Latin and Greek students.

If you want to work through a textbook, Wheelock's Latin is probably the most widely used and comes with a lot of accompanying resources and guides (even though the official website looks older than Rome). Ecce Romani may be a bit more approachable and there are plenty of unofficial online lessons and guides made to go along with it. Those are my top two personally; I know some people like Latin Via Ovid because the practice texts are adapted from an actual ancient text about different myths, but imho I don't think it's as good a starting point if you're teaching yourself from scratch. Keep in mind that they'll all follow different formats for conjugation/declension tables, which can make it a bit confusing to switch between them; the short intro in that first link is a good way to understand how these charts work well enough to use them no matter the format.

There are tons of free resources online, even including full recordings of lessons, live study groups to join, communities with forum posting, and written-out explanations. For any individual concept that's troubling you, there are almost definitely multiple youtube videos of someone in front of a whiteboard saying it differently from the textbooks. Again, there's a good list included in that first document.

For practice in reading and understanding without deliberately translating, it's fun to try reading Latin translations of books you already know well in English, like Harrius Potter, Hobbitus Ille, Winnie Ille Pu, Alicia In Terra Mirabili, and many, many more, most of which are free on Archive and/or can be bought as physical copies.

However, this will be much more rewarding once you've built up some vocabulary and grammar, and might be frustrating or discouraging if you try the long ones too early, especially since they sometimes use words irregularly to convey modern meanings.

There are also a handful of recently-written stories in Latin targeted at students who like this kind of practice more. The German Netflix series Barbarians has all the Roman characters speaking in real Latin, and listening to it with subtitles can help build your ear for what sounds right.

Those are my recs for where to start! If you're stuck on something and can't find a good explanation, you can also send me an ask about it and I'm always happy to lay out how I think about it (even if my response times are irregular).

Good luck and enjoy!

[dr-spectre]

I heard about how in Bancala Walker there was a short story about Marina and Acht and their time in the domes. And I'm gonna be 100% honest with you. It kinda makes me mad, and it really highlights a massive problem with Splatoon as a whole, and that's how it treats its stories.

(Yep I'm rambling about Splatoon's storytelling for the 500th time, welcome to my blog.)

Since Splatoon 2, the series has had a weird relationship with its storytelling, the main stories of each campaign are very simplistic and are very video game like plots. "Go get the Great Zapfish back and save Captain Cuttlefish. Go get the Great Zapfish again and find Callie. Find the thangs and get out. GO GET THE ZAPFISH AGAIN AND SAVE CAPTAIN CUTTLEFISH AGAIN!!! Climb up the tower." Splatoon 1 got away with this because it's clearly the most "tutorial" mode out of any of the single player campaigns and it doesn't really try to say any deeper messages or express a character arc.

Now, obviously video game stories must have goals for the player to work towards, I'm not complaining about that, you gotta have that stuff in games to motivate the player, however, what really drives me up a wall is when they decide to add depth and interesting things relating to the characters and world, yet they intentionally throw away that same depth and chuck it to the side. Hell they sometimes retcon the optional hard to find lore or make it more confusing just because!! If you're gonna add depth and something else to these stories, you HAVE to actually explore it and expand upon it WITHIN THE STORY! You cannot add it as "extra lore" when it's stuff that should have been in the main storyline to begin with. It's like not adding seasoning to chicken and that you boiled the fucking chicken and wrapped it in lettuce and mayonnaise.

I could obviously talk about the elephant in the room... you know... this little goober right here. This freak.

And I'm going to.

From the concept art we were given, we know that Callie was originally gonna have more exploration into her troubling mental health issues as seen by her being in the shadows and being comforted by Octarians. It's a significantly different tone compared to the final product.

However in the final game, they tossed MOST of this shit away and say in the game as well as in official media, "naw she was kidnapped and brainwashed forcefully because she's a dumb clutz lmao." They tried to backtrack with an obscure relationship chart, the sunken scrolls and Squid Sisters web prequel series, but then they backtracked AGAIN with the Splatoon 3 artbook that states that she was "brainwashed." It's an incredibly simplified and frankly insulting version of events that are TECHNICALLY canon but Nintendo and others don't treat it as such and i don't know why. I dont know why they treat Callie like this. Is it because she's silly?

Wouldn't it be more interesting and more powerful as a story if they made Callie had more control and awareness of her actions? That she was truly acting upon her mental illness and isolation? Putting DJ Octavio, the fucking funny octopus guy on the same level as Talon from Overwatch and Hydra from Marvel, the literal nazis who damaged Bucky Barnes' brain and removed all of his memories, making him into the Winter Solider, is fucking psychotic and actually insane of Nintendo to do.

There is also Acht and how they were shown between Octo Expansion and Side Order.

Some of the most powerful stories in media have strong character arcs and characters overcoming their struggles and pain. It is inspirating and incredibly real to see a loved one reach out to a person that they care about who have lost their way, either from mental illness or drugs. Trying to bring them back and help them go through their pain together. When someone is under distress and mental health troubles, they can act like a completely different person and the fact that Nintendo half assed serious topics like this and made shit WAY WORSE boils my blood to no end.

In Octo Expansion, we were told that they went under Sanitization willingly in order to remove doubts in their mind and put their all into music. Now due to the unknowns of Sanitization at the time, this made for a really interesting character and brought up a lot of interesting questions as to why they would do this and who they are.

However, in Side Order when they explained Sanitization further and told us that Acht lost all of their free will and were FORCED to make music for Tartar, it kinda damaged their story a little bit. Like sure, Acht still probably wanted to go under Sanitization to clear their doubts and remove emotion, but the added information kinda goes against the interesting story they were trying to tell with Acht. Acht doesn't even mention why they went under Sanitization in Side Order and their reasoning is only found IN A SOCIAL MEDIA POST BACK IN 2018!!! THEY DON'T RESTATE IT AT ALL WHEN IT WOULD HAVE BEEN IMPORTANT TO DO SO! They kinda tell us via their letters, but guess when you get those, IN THE POST GAME!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This leads me to another big talking point, most of the lore is hidden and hard to find. You have to go out of your way to find most of the shit Splatoon has to offer. Sunken Scrolls are hidden collectables and most people don't wanna go through the effort of finding them all in the stages, the chat logs in Octo Expansion are completely optional due to entries being tied to specific stations and you can choose to easily skip them, the dev diaries are locked behind lockers and some people may complete Side Order in a manner where they can get to the final boss and be done with the main campaign before seeing most of the entries. Now I'm not saying that there cannot be extra lore tidbits for players to find, hell no, i love extra stuff like that, i think Splatoon 1 and 3's hero modes did a really job of that. BUT WHEN YOU HIDE AWAY IMPORTANT DETAILS LIKE CALLIE'S MOTIVATION IN SPLATOON 2 AND MARINA'S AND PEARL'S BACKSTORIES!?!? YEAH I GOT A FUCKING PROBLEM RIGHT THERE!

In other games, these would be cutscenes or a bunch of mandatory dialogue, BUT NOPE! THEY ARE IN HARD TO FIND SPOTS!

Some of the other lore details are found on social media posts and some of them are YEARS old or on Splatoon's dead Tumblr account. Most people would rather go to Inkipedia and even they can sometimes make vital mistakes or have wording that gives people the wrong idea on what happened in particular events, which heavily impacts the community and discussion. When i talk about my perspective on what happened to Callie in Splatoon 2, I've seen people say to me "wait really? Huh?! I didn't know that." The amount of research you gotta do to go into these characters is an absolute nightmare, AND DON'T EVEN GET ME STARTED ON THE SPLATBANDS!!! Their lore is literally locked behind Japanese exclusive expensive artbooks!!! WHY?!?!

I really do wanna stress again, is it cool to get cool lore outside of the games and as collectables?! ABSOLUTELY! You know how awesome it was to read the Alterna logs for the first time? The smile on my face seeing Pearl and Marina back in the Final Fest in Side Order. But when the main stories suffer because of important information being tossed to the side and not applied to the main games... I dont know man, it just becomes incredibly frustrating to me personally. Especially with all the misconceptions and other things that occur within the community, the fandom has an information problem and honestly, it's Nintendo's fault. Imagine if Side Order had flashbacks to a younger Marina and Acht, it would have helped with the middle chunk of the story being so... nothing.

[saywhat-politics]

A White House official says Amy Gleason is the acting administrator of the Department of Government Efficiency, after the White House struggled to answer who is technically at the top of the organizational chart.

Gleason declined to comment on her appoint as acting DOGE administrator. Gleason's LinkedIn lists her as a U.S. Digital Services senior adviser, and she has a background in consulting and the medical field.

When CBS News spoke to Gleason Tuesday morning ahead of her announcement as DOGE acting administrator, she said she was in Mexico and declined to comment further.