#baby's first RPF

[theriverbeyond]

is it gauche to write RPF about ceo assassinations? anyway

[imsofuckingnormal]

i feel like im going to explode

[scrollonso]

First Kiss (Special Ending)

A strollonso AU where 18 year old rookie Lance Stroll falls helplessly in love with the notoriously mean world champion. (4.4k words, fluffy ver) [@v3lnys @biancathecool] {This is just a mix of different moments, i'm scared to let them go}

last part - masterlist - it's over ☹️

"I want a baby" A tipsy Lance muttered, face barely illuminated in their shared hotel room.

"What?" Fernando laughed, unsure what Lance was talking about, he never made much sense when he was drunk.

"A baby, Nano." Lance frowned, eyebrows furrowing at the sound of the Spaniard laughing

"You want a baby? Lancito you are a baby." The older man said, sitting down next to Lance

"Do you not want a baby with me?" His voice cracked, eyes welling with tears as he sat on the edge of their bed.

"Ay, Mi sol. I do, I do want a baby with you." Fernando backtracked, moving his hand to brush the Canadians hair from his face "Let's sleep before we get a baby, okay?"

Lance nodded and before Fernando knew it the taller boy was curled up and asleep under the duvet.

The sun streamed through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. Lance stirred, groaning slightly as he rubbed his eyes, the events of the previous night slowly coming back to him. Fernando was already awake, sitting in an armchair by the window, a cup of coffee in hand and a knowing smile on his face.

"Good morning, mi vida," Fernando greeted softly.

Lance sat up, blinking away the remnants of sleep. "Morning, Nando."

Fernando watched him carefully. "You remember what you said last night?"

Lance's cheeks flushed. "Sort of. I said a lot of things."

"You said you wanted a baby," Fernando prompted, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Lance's eyes widened as he recalled his drunken confession. "I meant it, you know," he said earnestly, his voice steadier now. "I really want us to have a baby."

Fernando's expression softened. "I know you did. And I want that too."

The weeks that followed were filled with research and conversations, the initial idea turning into a plan, el plan. By December, Lance and Fernando had finalized the adoption process, ready to welcome a newborn into their lives.

On December 21st, they found themselves in Bulgaria, meeting their son for the first time. The tiny baby was swaddled in a soft blanket, his dark eyes wide and curious. Lance’s heart swelled as he held the baby close, Fernando at his side, both of them marveling at the little life that had become theirs.

"Look at him, Nikola Stroll-Diaz," Fernando whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

Lance gently touched the baby's cheek. "He's perfect," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Back in their home, the nursery was ready, filled with soft toys and a crib waiting for Nikola. The transition to parenthood was an adjustment for both men, balancing their careers and new responsibilities, but the joy they felt was undeniable.

In the early hours of the morning, Lance would often be found rocking Nikola to sleep, the baby nestled against his chest. Fernando would join them, wrapping an arm around Lance, their little family complete.

One evening, as they sat together on the couch, Nikola asleep in his crib, Lance turned to Fernando. "You know, when I said I wanted a baby, I never imagined it would feel like this."

Fernando smiled, pressing a kiss to Lance's temple. "It's better than anything I could have imagined."

Their journey had been unexpected, but as they watched their son grow, both men knew they wouldn't trade it for the world. Lance and Fernando had found something more precious than any championship title, they had found family.

The house was quiet, except for the soft coos of Nikola, who was nestled comfortably in Lance's arms. The snow outside created a serene backdrop, the fireplace casting a warm glow inside the cozy living room. Fernando entered, his expression thoughtful, as he sat down beside Lance on the couch.

"Lancito, there's something important I need to talk to you about," Fernando began, his voice steady but serious.

Lance shifted slightly, adjusting Nikola in his arms, the Spaniards tone worrying him. "Hm?"

Fernando took a deep breath, his eyes meeting Lance's. "I've decided to leave Renault."

Lance's eyes widened in surprise. "You're leaving Renault? What happened?"

Fernando nodded, understanding Lance's reaction. "But I feel like I need a new challenge, something that will push me further."

"Nando, we have a baby now, is that not new enough?" He joked before his curiosity deepened. "So, where are you going?"

A small smile tugged at Fernando's lips. "McLaren."

Lance's surprise turned into a smile. "McLaren? Do you know who your teammate's gonna be?"

Fernando nodded, his excitement evident. "Lewis Hamilton, I'm pretty sure you guys were in F3 together"

Lance nodded before looking down at Nikola, who was now dozing peacefully in his arms, and then back at Fernando. "I’m proud of you, Nando. I know you're gonna do great."

As the podium ceremony began in Malaysia, Lance made his way closer to the stage, navigating through the throng of fans and team members. Fernando stood tall on the top step, his face beaming with triumph as the Spanish national anthem played. He glanced down, his eyes finding Lance and Nikola in the crowd, his smile widening even further.

After receiving his trophy and the customary champagne spray, Fernando looked back at his family, his expression a mix of joy and love. Lance waved, Nikola’s tiny hand mimicking the motion with Lance’s help.

Fernando couldn’t resist. As soon as he could he made his way towards the two the crowd parted, allowing the man to reach his family. He took Nikola into his arms, pressing a kiss to the baby’s forehead before leaning in to kiss Lance.

The cameras on them and shocked expressions from people in the crowd meant nothing when he had Nikola and Lance in his arms.

Lewis was one of the first to voice his support after the two publically announced their relationship. In the next race weekend, he wore a "Love is Love" shirt during media day, making a small yet powerful statement. "We’re all part of this family," he said in interviews. "Fernando and Lance are showing incredible bravery, and it’s our duty to support them."

Kimi also showed his support. He was seen wearing a rainbow wristband during the pre-race drivers' parade, a subtle yet significant gesture. When asked about it, he simply said, "It is no different than me and Jenni."

Nico, Felipe, and Jenson joined the movement, each wearing "Love is Love" shirts during various race weekends. Their actions spoke volumes, showing unity within the paddock. Nico, in particular, used his platform to speak out against the negative reactions. "This sport should be inclusive and welcoming to everyone, both black and gay drivers."

Giancarlo and David added their voices, emphasizing the importance of acceptance in such a high-profile sport. David, during a television broadcast, said, "My past rivalries with Lance has nothing to do with how I feel. Their love and commitment to their family is something to be celebrated, not condemned."

In private, the support from fellow drivers meant the world to Fernando and Lance. It reinforced their belief that they had made the right decision by coming out, not just for themselves but for the many others who might be struggling in silence.

Nikola, still blissfully unaware, continued to bring joy to their lives. The paddock began to embrace him too, with drivers often stopping by to say hello and spend a few moments with the bright-eyed baby.

After the podium celebrations and media commitments after the European GP, the two returned to their hotel suite, where Nikola was waiting with his mémé. As they entered, still riding the high of their dual podium finishes, they found Nikola playing on a soft blanket spread out on the floor.

"Hey, mi sol," Lance greeted, scooping Nikola up into his arms, having made sure to wash off the champagne before he returned. "Did you miss us?"

Nikola’s eyes lit up at the sight of his fathers, and he reached out towards Fernando, who joined them, pressing a kiss to Nikola’s forehead. “Today was a good day,” Fernando said, his voice filled with contentment.

Lance gently bounced Nikola in his arms, Fernando sticking his tongue out at the baby. Suddenly, Nikola let out a high-pitched giggle, his eyes sparkling with delight. Both Lance and Fernando froze, their eyes widening in surprise.

“Joder. Did he just laugh?” Fernando asked, a broad smile spreading across his face.

Lance nodded, his own grin matching Fernando’s. “Oh my god!"

They took turns making silly faces and noises, their smiles growing with each giggle that escaped Nikola’s lips. The room filled with the sound of his infectious laughter.

“Look at him, Nando,” Lance said, his voice choked with emotion. “He’s so happy.”

After the season had concluded, Lance, Fernando, and Nikola retreated to their home in Dubai for a well-deserved break and to celebrate Lance's 20th birthday.

Fernando had woken up early, setting about preparing a special birthday breakfast while Lance and Nikola slept peacefully. Lance awoke to the delightful scent and the distant sounds of clinking plates. Rubbing his eyes, he smiled as he heard Nikola’s excited babbling from his crib. He turned to see Fernando entering their bedroom, a tray with breakfast treats in hand.

“Happy birthday, mi sol,” Fernando greeted warmly, quick to peck his boyfriends lips.

Lance’s smile widened. “Thank you, Nando. This looks amazing.”

Just then, Nikola’s babbling escalated, and they saw him standing in his crib, eager to be let out.

“Looks like someone is ready to join us,” Fernando smiled, setting the tray down and lifting Nikola out of his crib. The baby giggled, reaching out for Lance.

Lance gently scooped Nikola into his arms, planting a kiss on his chubby cheek. “Good morning, sweet boy,” he cooed, eliciting more giggles from Nikola.

Years passed in a flash, Nikola now 2 and Fernando back with renault. He took Lance outside, Nikola not far away on a blanket over the grass, distracted with toys.

"Lance," Fernando began, his voice filled with emotion as he looked deeply into Lance’s eyes, "from the moment we met, you’ve brought light and joy into my life. You’ve been my boyfriend, my best friend, and the love of my life."

He paused, his heart racing with anticipation. "Today, I want to ask you something. Will you marry me?"

Fernando reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box, opening it to reveal a stunning ring nestled inside. "I promise to cherish you, to support you, and to love you with all that I am, for all the days of our lives. Lance Stroll, will you do me the honor of becoming my husband?"

He held his breath, waiting for Lance’s response, his heart overflowing with love and hope for their future together.

Touched by the sentiment, Lance leaned over to kiss Fernando, forgetting to say yes as his emotions swallowed him. “I love it. Thank you,” he murmured, his heart full.

"Is that a yes?" Fernando whispered as the kiss broke

"Yes" He nodded eagerly, vision blurred with tears as Fernando put the ring on his finger

In 2010, they finally got married. The venue they chose was a picturesque estate in Asturias, nestled amidst rolling hills and lush gardens, offering a serene backdrop for their special day.

The morning of the wedding dawned with clear skies and a gentle breeze, setting the stage for an unforgettable celebration. Lance and Fernando, surrounded by their closest friends, family, and colleagues, prepared for the ceremony with a mix of excitement and nervous anticipation.

Lance looked gorgeous in a tailored suit, his expression a mix of joy and anxiety as he awaited the moment to see Fernando. Fernando, radiant in a sleek tuxedo, exuded confidence and happiness as he made his final preparations. Their son Nikola, now a lively three-year-old, played happily with his cousins and friends, adding a warm energy to the pre-wedding festivities.

As the ceremony began, guests gathered in an intimate garden adorned with floral arrangements and soft candlelight. Lance and Fernando stood side by side under an elegant arch, exchanging heartfelt vows that they had written themselves. Their promises to support and cherish each other resonated deeply, accompanied by the gentle rustling of leaves and the soft murmur of loved ones’ affirmations.

Nikola, the ring bearer, toddled down the aisle with a mischievous grin, holding the rings in his tiny hands, eliciting laughter and applause from the guests. Lance and Fernando beamed with pride as they watched their son play such an important role in their union.

The ceremony was followed by a joyful reception, where guests enjoyed delicious cuisine and danced under the starlit sky. The evening was filled with laughter, heartfelt toasts, and moments of pure happiness as Lance and Fernando celebrated their love and the journey they had embarked upon together.

Among the guests were many of their fellow Formula 1 drivers, who had become not just colleagues but close friends. Giancarlo, Nico, Sebastian, and others raised glasses in a heartfelt toast to Lance and Fernando, expressing their support and admiration.

As the night drew to a close, Lance and Fernando stole away for a quiet moment together, gazing at the stars and reflecting on the significance of their wedding day. “I never imagined I could be this happy,” Lance whispered, his hand intertwined with Fernando’s.

Fernando pulled him close, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. “Today was perfect.”

In 2016, Nikola experienced his first karting race. The venue was a local karting track in Montreal, the same one Lance had raced at dozens of times before.

Nikola, almost ten years old, approached the race with a mix of excitement and curiosity. He had shown a natural aptitude for driving even at his young age, often mimicking his Papas movements on their simulator at home.

Nikola, dressed in his racing suit labeled "Stroll-Diaz" at his hip, looked tiny but determined as he stood next to his kart.

When the green flag dropped, Nikola sped off, barely visible above the kart’s steering wheel. He maneuvered through the twists and turns of the track with surprising skill, his concentration evident even under his helmet. Lap after lap, he pushed himself, gaining confidence with each corner.

To everyone’s surprise and delight, Nikola crossed the finish line first, claiming victory in his debut race. The cheers of his family and the proud smiles of Lance and Fernando echoed across the track. Nikola, his face flushed with excitement, couldn’t believe he had won.

"I won! Dad, Papa, I did it!" Nikola exclaimed, his eyes wide with astonishment as he removed his helmet.

Lance and Fernando exchanged amused glances. "You did great, sweet boy," Lance said, ruffling Nikola’s hair gently. "You ready for the next five?."

Nikola’s eyes widened, having not realized there was more. "What?"

Lance and Fernando had noticed Nikola had been proudly telling his friends at school that he was Spanish and Canadian, just like his dad and papa. While they appreciated his admiration and identification with them, they also wanted him to understand and embrace the fact that he's Bulgarian.

"Nik, can we talk to you about something important?" Lance began, his voice gentle but firm. Nikola nodded, curiosity evident in his eyes as he sat between his fathers on the couch.

"We love that you want to be like us, niño," Fernando chimed in, placing a reassuring hand on Nikola's shoulder. "But we also want you to know who you are."

Nikola furrowed his brows slightly, he was well aware that he was adopted but he didn't understand where this was going. "I'm Nikola Stroll-Diaz?"

Lance nodded, leaning in to explain. "You are, but you're also Bulgarian."

"We want you to feel proud of all the places that are a part of you," Fernando added, his voice warm with encouragement. "Bulgaria's where you were born, and it will always be a part of you, no matter what me and Dad are."

Nikola pondered this for a moment, processing the new information. "So, I'm Spanish, Canadian, and Bulgarian?" he asked tentatively.

"Yeah," Lance replied with a smile. "You're a little bit of everything, and that's what makes you special."

As Nikola grew older and more involved in karting, his connection to his Bulgarian heritage deepened, both Lance and Fernando trying their best at learning and teaching him the language and culture.

At thirteen years old, he decided to compete in the WSK Open Cup, a significant step in his racing career. Determined to honor his Bulgarian roots, Nikola made a deliberate choice to race under the Bulgarian flag.

Nikola's dedication to representing Bulgaria on the international karting stage earned him a nickname that resonated deeply within the racing community: the Bulgarian Lion. He wore the name with pride. So much so that on his sixteenth birthday Lance finally agreed for him to get the words tattooed.

During the races, Nikola showcased impressive skill and maturity beyond his years. His speed and strategic racing maneuvers caught the attention of seasoned competitors and racing enthusiasts. Off the track, journalists and fans alike praised him not only for his talent but also for his commitment to honoring his Bulgarian identity.

Lance and Fernando watched with pride as their son embraced this new chapter in his racing journey. They supported him wholeheartedly, attending races, offering guidance, and celebrating his achievements both on and off the track.

As the season progressed, the nickname "the Bulgarian Lion" became synonymous with Nikola's racing persona, making waving the Bulgarian flag after winning the championship a thousand times more meaningful.

As they prepared for the 24-hour Endurance race in Dubai 2021, the atmosphere in the team garage was electric with anticipation. Nikola, suited up and ready for his stint behind the wheel, exchanged a nod with Fernando, who was overseeing the final preparations with a focused intensity.

"You've got this, Nik," Fernando said, his voice filled with confidence as he checked the telemetry readings. "Remember to stay focused and keep your lines clean. We're counting on you."

Nikola nodded, adjusting his gloves with a determined expression. "I got it, Papa," he replied, his voice steady despite the nerves bubbling beneath the surface. "I'll make you proud."

Lance stood nearby, a proud smile lighting up his face as he watched father and son exchange encouraging words. "You've trained hard for this, sweet boy," Lance chimed in, patting Nikola's shoulder reassuringly. "Trust yourself."

Nikola glanced at his father, a mix of excitement and gratitude in his eyes. "Thanks, Dad."

Fernando stepped closer, placing a hand on Nikola's helmet with a smile. "Now go out there and show them what you're made of."

With a nod, Nikola slipped into the driver's seat, the engine roaring to life beneath him. As he rolled out onto the track, Lance and Fernando exchanged a proud glance, knowing their son was ready for the challenge ahead. Throughout the grueling hours of the race, they monitored his progress, offering encouragement over the team radio and celebrating each successful stint.

When Nikola brought the car back into the pits after a particularly intense night stint, Fernando was there to greet him with a firm handshake and a heartfelt embrace. "You did it, hijo," Fernando said, his voice thick with emotion. "You drove like a champion out there."

Nikola beamed, adrenaline still coursing through his veins. "Thanks, Papa," he replied breathlessly.

Lance joined them, wrapping his arms around both Fernando and Nikola in a tight hug. "We knew you could do it," he said proudly, his voice tinged with emotion. "You've made us so proud, Nik."

Fernando and Lance were enjoying a rare moment of downtime in the living room of their home in Dubai, the hum of the Formula 1 season momentarily distant. Nikola, had been spending a lot of time on his phone lately, having just gotten into his first Serious relationship.

Fernando opened twitter and was greeted by Nikola’s face, him and one of his friends in theid fireproofs wearing chains with a song playing on the background Fernando couldn’t help but burst into laughter, the video catching him off guard.

Lance, sitting next to him, leaned over to see what was so funny. His amusement quickly turned into concern. “Fernando, we need to talk to him about this,” Lance said, his tone serious. “Our image and his are important. We have to be responsible on the internet. He's not just a teenager, he's our son.”

Fernando, still laughing, shook his head. “Come on, Lancito. He’s just having some fun. Let him enjoy himself. Besides, the fans aren't taking it seriously.”

Lance frowned, clearly not convinced. “It’s not just about fun, Fernando. What he posts online reflects on all of us. We can’t just ignore how things can be perceived. We need to teach him about maintaining a good image.”

Fernando put his arm around Lance, trying to ease his worry. “Nik’s a smart kid. He knows where to draw the line. And honestly, it’s good for him to have some fun, racings been stressing him out. We can guide him, but we also have to let him be himself.”

Lance sighed, nodding slowly. “I know you’re right, but I still think we should talk to him. Just to make sure he understands the balance between having fun and being responsible.”

“Of course,” Fernando agreed, still smiling. "He’s growing up, people talking about him is gonna do more than us talking to him"

In 2025, Nikola joined Prema in F2, taking another significant step towards his dream of racing in Formula 1 as his Dad had around his age. His rookie season was challenging, filled with ups and downs, but Nikola's talent and resilience shone through. He secured multiple podium finishes, earning respect and admiration from his peers and racing fans.

One particularly memorable race took place at the Spa. Nikola started from the back of the grid due to a technical issue during qualifying. Undeterred, he drove with remarkable skill and tenacity, overtaking car after car. By the final lap, he was in third place, chasing down the leaders. With a daring move at the last corner, he secured second place, earning a standing ovation from the crowd.

After the race, Lance and Fernando were there to greet him, their pride evident in their expressions. "That was incredible, Nik," Lance said, his voice filled with awe.

Fernando nodded, his eyes shining with admiration. "You've got the heart of a champion, hijo."

Nikola smiled, his exhaustion replaced by pure exhilaration. "I learned from the best."

As the years went by, Nikola's journey in motorsport continued to inspire many. He remained grounded (somewhat, he also remained aware of his advantages both from family and his good looks), always remembering the lessons his parents had taught him about love, resilience, and the importance of embracing one's identity. His success was not just measured by trophies and titles but by the impact he had on the sport and the legacy of acceptance and inclusion he helped foster.

In 2028, as Nikola finished the last race of his first season in Formula 1, placing 3rd in the championship, he stood on the same podium where his Dad and his Papa had once celebrated countless victories. The echoes of the roaring crowd filled his ears, a blend of cheers and applause that seemed to merge the past and present. The sun set behind the grandstands, casting a golden glow over the circuit, making the moment feel almost surreal.

Nikola’s heart raced, not just from the adrenaline of the competition but from the overwhelming pride and joy coursing through him. He glanced down at the crowd where Lance and Fernando watched with beaming smiles. Their eyes glistened with pride and love, their expressions reflecting the countless years of guidance, support, and encouragement they had given him.

Lance, ever the serious and composed figure, had tears welling up in his eyes. He remembered the many conversations they had about anything and everything, about the hard work and dedication it took to succeed in such a demanding sport. He had always been the one to emphasize responsibility, ensuring Nikola understood the weight of the family legacy he carried. Watching his son achieve this milestone was a testament to their shared efforts and dreams.

Fernando, standing beside Lance, couldn't contain his wide grin. He had always believed in letting Nikola find his own path, balancing hard work with joy and laughter. Fernando’s laughter had often filled their home, rubbing off on the other two in the house, a reminder that passion and fun were essential ingredients for success. Seeing Nikola on the podium, Fernando saw the perfect blend of their teachings. A young man who was as dedicated as he was joyful.

As Nikola raised the trophy high, he felt the weight of his family's legacy in his hands. The crowd’s cheers grew louder, a symphony of support and admiration. He could see flashes of both his fathers' victories in the eyes of the fans, a reminder of the history that had shaped him. But more than anything, Nikola felt the unbreakable bond of his family, a constant source of strength and motivation.

The journey to this moment had been filled with challenges, triumphs, and lessons. Nikola remembered the early mornings at the karting track, the long nights spent discussing strategies, and the countless pieces of advice from both Lance and Fernando. Every step of the way, they had been there, pushing him to be his best while reminding him to enjoy the ride.

Standing on that podium, Nikola knew that no matter where his racing career took him, the support of his family would always be his greatest strength. The future was bright and full of possibilities, but the foundation built by his Papa and Dad would always guide him. As the national anthem played then the champagne was sprayed, Nikola looked towards the crowd, locking eyes with Lance and Fernando. They nodded, a silent promise of unwavering support and love.

In that moment, Nikola understood that his victories were theirs as well, a culmination of shared dreams and relentless dedication. He stepped down from the podium with a heart full of gratitude, ready to embrace whatever came next, knowing he would never walk the path alone.

[stripedstarsblueflags]

Sunshine boy

Word count: 3.5k

Pairing: Landoscar

Rating: T for substance use

caught in the rain

omg did blueflags just write fluff?

“Wait, wait, hold on,” Oscar says. “Remind me how you got this number?”

On the other end of the line, Max Fewtrell is not amused. “Mate, I’ve had it,” he grumbles, huffing into the speaker like he’s struggling with something. Oscar winces at the static and pulls the phone away from his ear. “And, seriously, you’re worried about that now? We’ve got bigger problems.”

From the background, a giggling voice slurs, “Hi Osc!”

Oscar allows himself one second of blushing and butterflies at hearing Lando’s voice; then Max’s concern spreads to him as well. He listens as Max attempts to calm him down from… whatever’s going on. “Hey, Lando, come on, look at me… take some deep breaths– no, no, don’t eat that–”

“What’s going on?” Oscar interjects, standing up and pacing. His anxiety is immediately conjuring up worst-case scenarios, and it’s not helping. He walks to the window and looks out at the night outside; some fresh air would be nice, but it’s been absolutely pouring for the last few hours and shows no signs of abating now. “Is he okay?”

“I’m okay!” Lando sings, so loud into the speaker that Oscar flinches and nearly drops the phone. There’s some more scuffling on their line, presumably as Max swipes his phone back. “He’s not,” Max contradicts firmly as Lando whines petulantly in the background. He has to raise his voice over a white-noise roar in the background, Oscar notes.

“Did he take something?” Oscar asks. He looks to the front door where he’s left his shoes. He thinks about driving fast in this kind of rain– it’s not that he can’t do it, it’s that none of the other drivers on the road can. “And where are you guys?”

“I found him in a park, stoned out of his mind,” Max tells him. The roar in the background gets louder, like a busy street. “I don’t know who he was smoking with, he’s not really giving me complete sentences, but–”

“That’s because you’re not nice,” Lando complains. “See? That’s complete. Tha’s very complete…”

As worried as he is, Oscar can’t help but feel an almost painful sense of endearment. As cute as he is, though, Lando has apparently had some lapses of judgement tonight.

“Are you outside?” Oscar asks, just as a roll of thunder rumbles overhead. “In this?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Max says, urgency creeping into his tone. “He’s locked out. No keys, no wallet. He called me on a payphone. I mean, thank god I know his spots…”

Oscar swears under his breath. He can’t take his eyes away from the storm outside, the way the rain slices through the air in cold sheets and spills over rooftops with whitewater force. “Okay, okay,” he says, mostly to himself as he tries to thinks. “You drove there, right? Can you at least–”

“We’re walking to my car right now,” Max confirms. “And normally I’d just let him crash at mine, but I’ve got family visiting this weekend. They can’t see him like this. Fuck, Lando, I told you to keep your arm around my shoulders– sorry,” Max apologizes. “He’s a lot to handle right now. Listen, Oscar, I’ve already called half a dozen people. If there was anyone else, I wouldn’t–”

Oscar puts the pieces together over Max’s fumbling. “You want to drop him off at mine?”

“I’ve got a spare,” Max says quickly, talking in a rush like he’s scared Oscar will hang up. “Somewhere, I mean. I didn’t have time to find it before I went out to get him, I can go back to my place and look for it properly but I don’t know how long that’s gonna take and I don’t want to leave him alone in the car too long and–”

“Max, it’s fine,” Oscar interrupts. It’s only when Max sighs, full of relief, that he starts wrapping his head around what he’s just agreed to.

“Thank you,” Max tells him sincerely. “You’re a good guy, Oscar. Knew I could count on you.”

Oscar bites his lip against the sudden warmth in his face, overwhelmed by the compliment, and tries to push his embarrassment aside. “Right,” he mutters. “Um, don’t mention it. How far away are you?”

“I need your address, first.”

Lando, sounding no less coherent, pipes up: “‘S in my phone already.”

“What?” Oscar and Max say at the same time.

“Lando, you don’t have your phone,” Max reminds him. Then, to Oscar: “Why does he have your address?”

“Um–” Oscar is uncharacteristically flustered at the interrogative tone in Max’s voice, which seems to imply something far beyond the mundane situation. “Uh, he dropped me off from padel, once, we were playing with–”

“Okay, yeah,” Max concedes. Whatever that edge was in his voice (suspiciously like jealousy) is smoothed out before Oscar can make sense of it. “Listen, just text me your address and I’ll tell you when we’re close. Also, uh–” Max clears his throat. “He’s, like, soaking wet, so–”

“I’ll take care of him,” Oscar assures him.

“Oscooooo,” Lando coos happily.

He hears Max open a car door, and the call ends sometimes in the midst of Max trying to manhandle Lando into the passenger seat, which is a relief. Oscar doesn’t think he can say a single word without stammering now.f

If Lando sounded out of it on the phone, Oscar is definitely not prepared for what’s standing on his doorstep.

Both Max and Lando are drenched to the bone, water pooling under their shoes and into the hallway carpet. Max must’ve given one of his layers to Lando because he’s only wearing a t-shirt, which is plastered to his skin and nearly transparent. Despite the extra jumper, Lando’s shaking so badly that Max has to hold him upright.

“Shit,” Oscar say. “You guys look terrible.”

“Nice to see you too, Oscar,” Max grumbles, slinging Lando’s arm over his shoulders right before he starts sliding.

“Nice to see you, Oscar,” Lando mimicks dopily, eyes glazed. His cheeks and the bridge of his nose are a blotchy red like he’s been badly sunburnt, while the rest of his skin is frighteningly pale. His teeth are chattering too hard for him to keep his mouth closed, and there’s a slight glisten of drool on his chin

Oscar quickly opens the door wider and beckons them both inside. Max struggles to get Lando to coordinate his feet enough to walk; Oscar reaches out instinctively, then immediately draws his hands back like he’s been burned. He aches watching the two of them struggle, but it’s one thing to agree to help Lando, and quite another to… what, cradle him? Carry him? Surely if Lando were sober he’d have objections–

“Did, uh,” he starts eloquently. “Did he, like, OD? Is that even a thing with weed?”

Max shakes his head and braces himself against a wall so he can adjust his grip on Lando’s waist. Lando watches the dark handprint spread under his palm and drip rainwater onto the carpet, mesmerized.

“He didn’t, and no,” Max says, in answer to Oscar’s questions. “But his tolerance is practically nonexistent. Worst I’ve ever seen. And knowing him he probably forgot to eat…”

“Sorry,” Lando mumbles, confirming.

Max sighs. “We’re gonna have a talk about this, you and I. Don’t think you get off easy just cause you’re with Oscar.”

Oscar’s taken aback, but before he can begin to wrap his head around what that might mean, Max nods at him. “Thanks again for your help. I’ll be back as soon as I can to take him home, just gotta remember where I left that fucking key.”

“Okay.” Max is clearly exhausted. Oscar finally reaches out without second-guessing himself; Max looks at him gratefully before stepping closer and finally shifting Lando’s dead weight from his own arms to Oscar’s.

Lando stumbles, nearly knocking them both off balance, and then curls into Oscar immediately. Oscar flinches and draws in a sharp breath; it’s like hugging a block of ice. Lando is absolutely freezing, and his rain-drenched clothes are quickly soaking Oscar as well. He shivers so hard Oscar can hear the spasm in his breathing, everything too tense for him to catch his breath. He closes his eyes and makes a sound like a mewling kitten and burrows into Oscar’s chest, tucking his face into his shirt.

”You got him?” Max asks, flicking water out of his eyes.

Oscar’s got him. One arm wraps firmly around Lando’s waist, maintaining their balance despite the actual pain his bare skin experiences from how cold Lando is, and the other cups the back of his head in his hand and draws his face closer to his own body heat. Lando hums against him, and Oscar can feel the vibration at the base of his sternum.

“Yeah,” Oscar answers belatedly. “I can find some clothes for him, something comfy…”

“Good. You do that.” Max gives him one pained smile, failing to suppress his own shudders, and steps back over the threshold. “I owe you one.”

Before Oscar can explain that Max doesn’t owe him anything, that he’s happy to help, that he would’ve offered without being asked if he’d have known, that’s he’s actually rather irritated that he wasn’t higher up on the list of people Max had called, come to think of it–

Max leaves, closing the door behind him.

Oscar is left alone with a very cold, very wet, very stoned Lando Norris.

Lando’s ragged breathing is the loudest noise in the flat. He’s squirming in Oscar’s arms, nuzzling insistently at his chest like he’s trying to climb inside of Oscar. His hands are so cold they leave painful stinging impressions wherever they touch Oscar’s skin.

“God, Lando,” Oscar murmurs. “You’re freezing.”

Stating the obvious. Lando moans miserably in agreement.

“Yep, okay. Follow me. Uh, can you walk?”

Apparently Lando can, as long as he’s allowed to cling to Oscar like a giant half-frozen octopus at the same time. The walk down the hall to the bedroom is agonizingly slow, but every time Oscar tries to detach himself to get them both moving quicker Lando cries out. He’s very much not in his right mind, but he still sounds so pained that Oscar lets himself be nearly frozen along with him in the simple quest to get to the end of the hall.

He has to physically pry Lando’s arms off him in order to sit him on the bed. Lando whines and reaches out into the air, trying to pull him back and missing atrociously. Oscar peers into his eyes; there’s not a spark of recognition or self-awareness. All Lando understands is that he’s cold, and the only bit of warmth is going away.

”Lando, please, just stay here,” Oscar pleads, only belatedly realizing he’s using the same voice he used with their family dog. “I promise I’ll be right back, I just need to get some extra clothes for you, okay? Something warm.”

“Mm’kay,” Lando mumbles, nodding too many times. He wraps his arms around himself, but his strength is visibly fading. His lips have darkened to a bruise-like blue. Not a good sign.

“Stay here.” Oscar moves quickly, digging through his drawers to find the warmest possible outfit. He gathers everything he needs and turns back to Lando, sitting near-catatonic on his bed, and stalls.

“Um,” he says, clearing his throat when Lando shows no response. “Hey. Lando.”

A flicker of awareness. Lando’s eyes focus on him for a split second, then cross.

Oscar approaches him, tentatively holding out the clothes like he’s holding out a treat to a stray dog. “Bathroom’s over there,” he says, gesturing with his chin. When Lando doesn’t react, he adds, “You need to get out of these clothes. You’re soaked, you’re gonna get sick.”

To his relief, Lando finally seems to hear him; unfortunately, some crucial parts of the sentence have evidently been missed as Lando starts trying to wriggle out of his shirts right there.

“Woah, uh, you sure–“ Oscar squeezes his eyes shut, which is stupid since Lando’s got so many layers on that he’s not even a little indecent, but he finds it easier to talk without looking. “You sure you want to do that here? And not in the bathroom? Or I could like, step out and–”

”No-o-o-!” Landos’ voice is so broken by shivers that Oscar’s resolve simply melts. He steps forward to help his friend.

It’s a lot quicker with the two of them working together. When Oscar finally pulls Lando’s last shirt over his head, exposing his bare chest and arms, he makes such a pained yelp that Oscar scrambles to get the dry clothes on him like he’s being timed.

With a lot of fumbling and strategically averted glances, they finally manage to get Lando completely redressed. His hair is still dripping, but he looks much more comfortable in fleece pajama pants and a hoodie so big it goes down to his thighs. His fingers don’t even reach past the sleeves; it looks like he’s got big paws instead, floppy when he reaches for the hood and pulls it up.

Oscar’s teased Lando about their height difference a few times, but right now he looks tiny. Red-rimmed eyes blinking up at him from the shadow of the hood, shoulders all but swallowed up in the fabric, hands tucked primly inside the sleeves as Lando rocks on his heels.

It feels only natural when Oscar opens his arms and welcomes Lando back into his embrace. Lando, to his credit, seems a lot more coordinated now that he’s not wearing half his weight in rainwater. He slides his arms under Oscar’s and holds him around the waist, letting his head rest on Oscar’s chest like it’s his new favorite pillow. “Thanks, Osc,” he sighs contentedly.

The nickname that can seem so mundane in the media activities feels suddenly, vulnerably intimate. Well, Lando’s never said it with his lips pressed right up against him, has he?

To distract himself, he tries to focus on just getting Lando away from the brink of hypothermia. He tightens his grip and rubs up and down his back with open palms. “You’re still so cold,” he frets, just to have something to say.

“Nmshph’ you,” Lando protests.

Oscar places his warm hand over the back of Lando’s neck, still refrigerator-cold. “What was that?” he asks.

Lando mouths at empty air a few times before he speaks, like he’s trying to form the sentence before his mind is ready. “I said ‘Not with you’,” he answers.

Oscar inhales a little too sharply.

This does not mean anything this does not mean anything this does not–

He just needs to keep the tremor out of his voice. He just needs to be normal about this.

He closes his eyes. “Yeah, you’re right. I’ll keep you warm.”

To describe Lando’s response as anything other than a purr would be simply delusional.

Oscar’s hands move without his permission, seeking up to run shaky fingers through Lando’s hair. He’s careful to be gentle around the tangles. It’s still wet, but no longer dripping in small waterfalls into his eyes, so that’s an improvement. Lando sways his head from side to side, like he’s encouraging Oscar to keep going.

So he does. Lando’s breathing evens out, the shivering smoothed over. His eyes flutter shut.

“Do you want to lie down?” Oscar asks.

Lando nods tiredly against his chest, so he carefully walks them both over to the bed. Stripping back the covers proves to be a challenge, because Lando is putting more and more weight on him by the minute. His shoulder is starting to cramp up, an unpleasant stiffness making its way into his neck.

“Lando,” he huffs tiredly. “This would be easier if you could just step ba–”

“So pretty,” Lando murmurs.

Now Oscar might be the one turning to ice, with how quickly his whole body falls into stillness. “Uh,” he begins gracelessly, a pillow slipping out of his hands and back onto the mattress with a thwump that makes Lando giggle. “Erm, what was that?”

He’s asking in the confused, self-denying hope that Lando will either realize he didn’t mean what he just said or will have forgotten the thought entirely. No such luck, though, as Lando finally leans against the bed and allows Oscar’s shoulder a much-needed respite. He turns a bit and tries to arch his back to lean away from Oscar without completely detaching himself, but he doesn’t quite have the coordination. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he places his sweater paws on Oscar’s waist.

Looking down at the position, Oscar’s brain short-circuits.

It looks like they’re dancing. Not even in an elegant, romantic way, more like two school kids who are trying not to get caught by the chaperone.

Oscar brings his eyes back to Lando’s upturned face, bedsheets all but forgotten. Lando still looks so small, swimming in Oscar’s clothes, looking up dazedly through his eyelashes. The smile flickering on his lips could light up the whole room. “You’re so pretty,” he hums contentedly. “What are we doing?”

“What?” Oscar snaps himself out of it seconds after the question leaves his mouth; he does not need to give Lando any more prompting. His face is burning. He’s a little out of breath. He needs to find some way to neutralize this situation, to get himself and his own live-wire feelings away from this…. what, danger? temptation?

“We,” he says, answering Lando and talking over his own spiraling stream of consciousness, “are getting you ready for bed. And then Max is going to come back and take you home.”

“Tu tu tu tu…”

“No, not that Max. The other Max.”

Lando nods sleepily and, to Oscar’s immense relief, finally starts climbing into the bed. Oscar puts his hands behind his head so he doesn’t death-drop it into the wall.

Then Lando’s brow furrows. “Why?”

“Wh– because he has a key. To your flat.”

Lando shakes his head. “Why,” he repeats again with a petulant frown. “Got a bed right here.”

Oscar swallows. “Yeah, but that’s my bed.”

Lando shakes his head again and opens his mouth like he wants to argue, but instead settles for reaching into the air and making weak grabby hands for Oscar. “‘s your bed,” he reasons.

Oscar allows himself a split second of imagination: the two of them, curled together under the covers, the whole room blanketed in the shushing sounds of the rain outside. Lando curling into him like he’s finding some sort of sanctuary in Oscar’s arms.

Then he decides his best escape plan is going to be lying through his teeth: “Um, that’s okay, actually, I’m not tired…”

“Yeah, but I am.”

Something about that last sentence sounds scarily sober all of the sudden. Oscar peers into Lando’s eyes, trying to discern the bloodshot threads that mean the drug still has a dominant hold over his mind. In the dim lamplight of his bedroom, it’s hard to tell. Lando seems to like the attention, though, staring back with what can only be described as awe.

“Pretty,” he whispers, his voice barely audible on the edge of a sleepy exhale. His eyelids are starting to slide shut, slow and heavy as syrup. “Come to bed.”

He sounds tired, but he doesn’t sound nearly as out of it as he did even ten minutes ago.

Something between excitement and panic ignites in Oscar’s chest like a gas fire. His mind races two steps ahead of him, providing an onslaught of horrifying what-ifs: what if Lando comes to his senses and pushes him out of the bed, what if he realizes what’s going on and thinks Oscar is trying to insinuate something, what if he changes his mind about what he means when he’s obviously delirious and half-frozen to death, what––

What if he means it?

Whatever the case, the regretful, abrasive Lando in Oscar’s head is nothing compared to what’s curled up in his bed right now. Longing eyes, reaching hands. Rain-matted curls making little loop-shaped impressions on the pillowcase.

Who would he be to say no?

Oscar climbs carefully into the bed.

His initial plans to stay within the narrow strip of space between Lando and the edge of the bed are dashed immediately.

Lando finds him under the blankets and goes full koala. Within seconds of lying down he’s wrapped in so much Lando that the blankets feel like an afterthought. Lando’s practically lying on top of him.

Oscar tries to keep his breathing under control. He can’t remember the last time he was this close to… well, anyone. Their legs are entwined. Lando’s arm is slung across his waist, head back on his chest like he could build a home there.

And the thing is, it doesn’t feel dangerous. It doesn’t feel like temptation.

There’s no fear here, no second-guessing anxiety or hysterical self doubt.

He’s under the covers with Lando, and it feels right.

Lando’s still a little cold. Oscar shifts up just enough to free one of his arms and wrap it around Lando’s shoulders. Lando curls into him, purring again.

It’s nice.

“Thanks, Osc,” Lando sighs, voice muffled by Oscar’s shirt.

Oscar finds his free hand lifting to card through Lando’s hair again. He can’t help it. “Yeah,” he says as Lando nestles in, savoring all the warmth Oscar has to give, “anytime.”

[babychosen]

save a horse (ride a cowboy)

8pm, Friday. Red dress. Booth near the end of the bar, by the dart board.

She forgot how demanding the text felt, but it had only encouraged her to want to show up even more.

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

4 and 9 for rosquez, especially with. vale getting overstimulated / multiple orgasms...

rosquez: 4 (multiple orgasms/overstim) + 9 (heat/rut)

Valentino’s so tired that he barely even twitches when Marc grinds his slick, waxed thigh against his cock. It hurts—but it’s a disconnected, abstract hurt. Except it keeps hurting, now with a dizzy underside, Marc baring his neck and releasing another flood of his scent. Caramel-thick, urgent, sharp.

He thinks his body is trying to get him hard again, but he can’t. Finds it funny, almost, in a vaguely hysterical twist, blinking the dryness of his eyes.

“Hm?” He asks intelligently.

Marc seems wired, grinds out this impatient noise against the hinge of his jaw. “I need,” he starts, then gives up halfway through. Valentino hears him through a downpour of water.

It clears up fast, though. Marc grabs his hand and shoves three of his fingers inside him. It’s hot inside him, he thinks, stupid and blurry around the edges. Valentino has no idea how he still wants to fuck.

“Again,” Marc says, low, pitiless.

He swallows. “If you give me twenty minutes.”

Valentino tries to roll away, to reach for the bedside table. He should still have some pills, he thinks. But he doesn’t go far—Marc pins him in place, swings himself until he’s straddling Valentino, sodden wet between his legs and manic, drenched in a silvery sheen of sweat.

“No,” he says petulantly, grinds against Valentino’s mostly soft dick.

He flinches. Grunts. It goes by him like an electric shock, nerves in overdrive, tears—maybe, maybe—clinging to his lashes.

“Marc,” Valentino pleads.

To no use. Marc keeps riding three of his fingers, rubbing slick and heavy across his cock. The room falls out of focus around him. Breaks into loose, colorless shapes when Marc leans forward and shoves the scent-leaden crook of his neck against his nose, so that everything Valentino can feel and smell and swallow is how fucking needy he is.

He gets hard mostly despite himself—slowly, too, somewhere between Marc coming on his fingers with a spasm and Marc biting down hard over the scarred imprint of his teeth on Valentino’s neck and Marc sitting on his cock.

Valentino has no idea what kind of noises he’s making through the pound of blood in his ears, only that they must sound strangled, because Marc is grinning, shark-like. Starts riding him like he’s going to die without it, nails scrabbling hard against the skin of his inner wrists.

“Aren’t you going to fuck me?” Marc asks, devilish, singsong, smelling like Valentino can bite into him and tear a piece.

“Allora, you’re horrible,” he chokes.

Marc’s grin widens a fraction. He reaches for Valentino’s spasming, unsteady hand to work one of his fingers inside again, pressed tight against his cock.

Which—

Christ.

“I’m probably not going to knot you,” Valentino manages to pant out, shudders against the hellfire heat raking over his nerve endings.

Marc’s mouth pulls, and he clenches around him, fever-hot, a delirium. “You are.”

It’s sort of horrible. Valentino bucks up, fucks into Marc as far as he’ll get.

[verstpn]

every day the urge to write a sebmark fic inspired by ancient literature gets stronger

[earl-grey-teacake]

I love your baby!au, it's such a joy to read!!! Given how Logan and Oscar are like two peas in a pod, I'm interested in how their first ever fight/argument as young children would play out. I don't think neither Logan nor Oscar would be able to handle the understanding that the other is a bit irked at them very well - Williams/Mercedes and Ferrari/McClaren would be very invested in ensuring that the two are able to make amends.

AHHH! Thank you so much!

This ask had been sitting in my inbox for so long since it matched up with a fic I was writing. I finally finished it so now you can know exactly how their first fight plays out!

Thank you for the ask and sorry for the wait!🥰

****

First Fight (4678 words) by Vivi_teacake Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Formula 1 RPF Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Oscar Piastri/Logan Sargeant, Alexander Albon/George Russell, Lando Norris/Carlos Sainz Jr, Lewis Hamilton/Nico Rosberg, Nico Rosberg & Logan Sargeant, Jenson Button & Logan Sargeant, Lewis Hamilton & Logan Sargeant, Charles Leclerc & Oscar Piastri Characters: Oscar Piastri, Logan Sargeant, Alexander Albon, George Russell (Formula 1 RPF), Lando Norris, Carlos Sainz Jr, Lewis Hamilton (Formula 1 RPF), Nico Rosberg, Charles Leclerc, Jenson Button Additional Tags: Galex family, Carlando family, Brocedes is inflicting generational trauma, Fluffy, Hurt/Comfort, First Fight Series: Part 4 of Baby!Loscar AU Summary: “We are not friends! Go away!” Oscar had yelled. “I don’t like you! I hate you!” Logan had yelled back. “I hate you too!” Those were the last words spoken between them. Oscar and Logan have their first big fight and neither kid seems to know how to deal with it.

[three-headed-monster]

we're already wet (and we're gonna go swimming)

Luke fucking hates My Tie.

or, a back-door luke hughes character study

[toppamplemousse]

my beloved, neither do you

“Charles knew. He had known from the moment Max had confessed his feelings between motorhomes, kissing Charles like he held the air to breathe in his lungs. He had known from the way Max’s hands fit so perfectly in his, fingers interlocked, emotions interweaved. He had known from the times they fought, the way their anger and irritation presented so vastly differently, but their love always brought them back together, back into each other's arms, back home.

Theirs was a story written long before they were aware, a story intricately traced in the tides along the coastal cliffs, churning and crashing, dappled with sunlight and presided by the moon.”

charles leclerc/max verstappen, 7k words, on ao3

[chasing-clovers]

make the yuletide gay

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: National Football League RPF Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationship: Joe Burrow/Ja'Marr Chase Tags: Established Relationship, Fluff, Christmas, tree decorating, Slow Dancing, Idiots in Love, Boys Kissing, Implied Sexual Content, boyfriends with a good flirt to roast to affection ratio, Joe calling Ja'Marr “baby” repeatedly, AKA a Christmas gift to me and the 3 other sub Ja'Marr truthers

Summary:

Ja’Marr’s eyes flicker to the man beside him. Joe’s soft pink lips are settled in a thin smile, and there’s a kaleidoscopic reflection in his baby blues as they assess the tree from top to bottom, glittered with pure childlike wonder. It’s an enchanting contrast to his strong facial features, to his sharp jawline and the steep decline of his nose bridge that curves up slightly at the tip — Joe’s side profile alone made Ja’Marr go weak in the knees.

“Yeah,” he replies, distractedly, “it’s pretty.”

or Joe and Ja'Marr decorate a Christmas tree.

[lychiism]

I admire their audacity because when we thought they couldn’t get any gayer they went on intl break and did shit like this

[w1ld-wr1t3r]

Carlando 26 ❤️🧡

Hmm . . . okay. This is an interesting one! This song is from the soundtrack for "The Creator" (great sci-fi movie, highly recommend it) and I have, admittedly, lightly toyed with the idea of an AU based on it. I've never done anything with it because I've never been able to decide which people should fill which roles and what kind of story arc I want for everyone, but every now and then I think about it again. I'll consider this a little trial run of sorts. :)

All referenced lore comes from the movie. The only term I throw around that might not make sense without context is "simulant," which is a term in the movie for an AI individual who has a human appearance and human emotions. This scene also directly mirrors a scene from the movie.

26. A Place In The Sky by Hans Zimmer

Carlos never thought he'd be here, stuck in the middle of pro-AI territory all on his own and with probably half the military after him. He also never thought he'd willingly share company with another AI, not after the last time he was here. He had worked for the anti-AI movement his whole life. He thought he'd left this godforsaken place behind a long time ago.

But he'd just had to let himself get talked into this mission, hadn't he?

And now here he was, stuck with some simulant that for some reason was the most important bot in the whole world, tasked with getting them out of the country so that his bosses or his bosses' bosses could pick it apart and learn what kind of advantage it was supposed to have.

This bot was some sort of kid . . . somehow. It was a simulant but a kid. That wasn't supposed to be possible. And what was a kid supposed to do to turn the tide of the war? Drive the enemy crazy with incessant questions? It was already doing that to him.

Well. Okay. Maybe it was more innocent than incessant.

But he wasn't going to admit that out loud.

"If people aren't made like robots are," the child - man, he really should give it a name already - asked softly, "then how are they made?"

Carlos didn't look at the kid, watching the trees pass by outside the bus instead. But he did answer. "They're made by two people who are in love."

The kid absorbed that before asking another question. "What's it like to be in love?"

"It's like . . ." Carlos started, trying to find words that a nonhuman kid could understand. "It's finding happiness in someone else. Like finding a missing piece of yourself."

The kid looked at him innocently. "Do you love someone?"

Carlos paused, shifting his jaw. He didn't know why he was entertaining this topic. But . . . "Yes. I do. I did."

Lando. The one he'd been tasked to follow and study, all those years ago. His target. A person of interest. Connected to a key pro-AI figure. Supposed to be the enemy.

The only man he'd ever loved.

It was unprecedented for them - an AI supporter, and an AI fighter - to fall in love. But they did. They'd found the keys to each other's hearts. They'd made a life for themselves. They were going to have a family.

But then it had all been ripped away.

Their home. Their unborn child. Lando himself.

All because of a goddamn botched raid.

He would never forgive himself for lying to Lando about who he really was. Seeing the betrayal in his eyes as he caught Carlos trying in vain to call off the raid, finding out he hadn't truly abandoned the side of anti-AI. It had made Carlos want to go back in time and slap himself, scream at himself for hiding it from Lando, for not just giving up everything for him. Because before he'd lost everything anyway, he was afraid he'd lost Lando's love, too.

He would never forgive himself for that.

"Off," he finally choked out, using a term that the kid could understand. "He's . . . off."

The child absorbed this solemnly. "Where do people go when they're off?"

Carlos tried not to get choked up as he watched the scenery pass by. "Heaven," he said. "It's a peaceful place in the sky."

"Are you going to heaven, too?" the child asked.

A tear finally rolled out of his eye. "No," he whispered. "You . . . you have to be a good person to get into heaven."

The child was silent for a long time. Then they finally spoke again. "Then . . . we're the same."

Carlos finally turned to look at them in confusion, meeting the eyes that had reminded him uncannily of Lando from the very start. It was part of the reason why he didn't look at the kid any more than he had to.

The kid looked at him serenely, yet sadly. "Neither of us can go to heaven," they explained simply. They looked down at their hands. "Because you're not good. And . . . I'm not a person."

Something about the way the child said it . . . the emotion in their voice . . . it stirred something in Carlos.

Maybe the kid wasn't so inhuman after all.

Gently, he lifted his arm so that the kid could lean against his side, snuggling closer and getting comfy for the long ride they still had ahead. As they finally lapsed into silence, Carlos returned his gaze to the window, thinking about bright laughs and whispered words of fondness in a home he had once shared with the person he loved.

He didn't dare hope that they might be reunited one day. But maybe . . . maybe, he could still make Lando proud somehow.

[youbeautyyy]

All his life, hockey has been his flow state. Like a cat tracking prey, Jeremy crouches and watches the puck flit around the ice, back and forth, along the boards where McAvoy checks a forward. Boston gets the puck back, only to turn it over and he watches it fly towards his net.

He flicks it out with his leg and gets back into position for the rebound that he can see coming, dropping into butterfly position and protecting the five hole.

They don’t let up, but neither does he.

Eventually, Jeremy dives on the puck and comes up with it smiling. Through the roar of the crowd and the praise from his teammates, he hears one distinct voice shouting behind the glass.

“That’s it, Sway! Keep it up!”

Hockey has always been his path to flow, but when he follows the voice to another save, and another, and another, Jeremy realizes that it’s not just hockey.

It’s Linus, too.

↳ read the rest of what's right, and what's wrong. here on ao3!

[jovenshires]

spommy brainrot for the soul?

always lets see what i've got on deck here. here's a compilation of rare and underrated spommy moments i think ab frequently:

and if that's not enough here's a little taste of (the now FINISHED and in the beta process) domo:

[rogloptimist]

the rot has started leaking out of my ears unfortunately (context; jonas is president of the library planet and tadej is elected(?) leader of a beige cult. they both exist within a larger cult centered around necromancy that consists of an entire solar system, and have been summoned to god’s home to become saints but someone was found dead the previous night)

jonas is elbow deep in documents older than dominicus itself when the heir to the eighth walks into canaan house’s library. he sits on the disintegrating leather chair across from him, the movement across the rotting floorboards rattles the keyring sitting on the glass table between them. tadej pogacar shines in the morning light, looking utterly unaffected by the late night of harassing a recently dead body. he smiles at jonas, a laugh dancing across his eyes.

“warden,” he greets with a friendly nod. “not what you expected when god invited you to his home?” the question takes jonas by surprise- he might have been slightly busy staring.

“i suppose you could say that.” he says curtly. tadej is shockingly nonchalant given the situation. in fact, given his entire self. while his interactions with the 8th house were admittedly limited, tadej has none of the grim, sterile air that seems to come hand in hand with devoutness to… honestly? he isn’t quite sure what. when it came to religious cageyness, the eighth and ninth are neck and neck- unless you want to breathe in lungfuls of dust in the archives, their secrets remain buried.

“for academics, you sixth really do speak so little. i don’t bite, i promise.” his grin suggests otherwise. he gestures a go-ahead. “i don’t mean to disturb you. please.”

right. work. 

jonas looks down at the mildewy tome on his lap, but can only feel tadej’s gaze burning into his head. 

he looks up. tadej doesn’t react.

jonas closes the book. maybe it’s time to switch directions on research. as head archivist plugge would say, direct interaction with the subject is necessary to glean true progress in knowledge. circulating secondhand accounts always ends in a disastrous game of telephone. if he wants to know anything about canaan house, he’ll first have to speak to the people in it. a shocking amount of information is revealed when you simply let someone talk.

if he wants a conversation, i can give him a conversation.

“you’re not disturbing me. i actually wanted to speak to you after yesterday— the theorems you executed were… intriguing.” an understatement. while he knew about the procedure in theory, jonas had never seen a man’s soul be sucked out of his body and put back in the husk just minutes later.

“ah. the siphoning?” tadej smiles. “i’ve been told seeing it for the first time is…” he trails off, probably looking for a respectful way to put it. “surprising. adam and i were born for it, though.” (quite literally- jonas at least knew that they genetically engineered babies on the eighth for maximum compatibility for the practice.) “it doesn’t hurt him permanently as long as i don’t go too far, and i haven’t. with house relations as they are now, i’m sure it’s not just us with unfamiliar practices, no?”

he dances around his sentences like an acrobat. it reminds him of primoz and his fascinating ability to speak in riddles. jonas on the other hand, obscures meaning through omission- unfortunately, he is far more direct in his fewer words, so he chooses them carefully. “of course. i’ve been guilty- i admit, i’ve had many assumptions about your… culture broken. it seems public sentiment about the eighth isn’t quite up to date.”

this makes tadej burst into laughter. “you mean that everyone says we have massive, beige, god shaped sticks up our asses?” jonas goes red, but tadej graciously does not comment further. “it’s not exactly false. i may be a competent as an adept, but i’m not exactly a revered heir. back home, they tell me i…” he pauses. “they tell me i want too much. they say i am too hungry. that i need more, too quickly. that i mistake my own ambitions for the will of god.”

jonas thinks of adam on the stairs, going gray as light spilled from tadej’s eyes and mouth. he remembers tadej licking his lips. 

good. let him talk. humiliation forgotten, he raises an eyebrow. “and do you?”

tadej smiles. his hands float to the blindfolded skull on his neck. “i try not to make a habit of deciding what is and isn’t his will.” he releases the chain. the skull swings once, twice. “however, i do believe it an essential part of our paths to live in his image. was he not the one to discover necromancy? to resurrect us all? surely it requires hunger to want something so much you create life out of death.”

a heretic heading the templar of the white glass, then, he thinks.

“so you want to be god?” 

maybe slightly too blunt. the eighth adept continues anyway.

“who doesn’t?” tadej shrugs as he leans back into the seat. “it’s not that i wish to be worshipped, of course, but imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. i seek to be great so that i can be more holy. i seek to be like god so i can offer a purer version of myself to him. my success is his, my joys, my sorrows, my soul. my quest for the divine is my worship.” 

he straightens, slate grey eyes eyes slicing into his gaze. jonas feels a chill go down his spine. while servants of the eighth he’d met previously seemed faded, the soft white of their robes bleeding into their skin and eyes, tadej’s created contrast. every color was more saturated, his cheeks pinker, irises sharper, hair wilder. “you want it too. i can tell. people like us can’t touch divinity without needing more. the only error my people have made is mistaking that hunger for heresy.” 

suddenly, he rises from his chair and extends a hand, pulling jonas up to mere inches from his face. he touches where jonas’s jaw meets his neck, and the warden of the sixth’s breath catches. for a moment he cannot tell if he’s going in to kiss or to choke him.

he does neither. instead, he whispers in jonas’s ear, breath hot against his cheek.

“what you need to do,” he says, “is decide if you’re going to do anything with it.” he drops his hand. “it was lovely speaking with you, jonas.” 

jonas opens his mouth to reply, but tadej disappears out the door before he can even choke out a “you too”. 

face burning, he runs a shaking hand through his hair. although he barely spoke, he feels raw. he wonders if adam feels as if his ribs have been cracked open to expose his beating heart after his soul is siphoned- his life itself flowing through another’s veins before it is spat back out, tainted with the stain of being known. 

he sits back down.

it takes until matteo comes looking for him to discover the scarlet key is missing from the ring he left on the table between them.