#everything worked out and they’re all alive and together

[monocub]

the asl boys <333

[teaboot]

Yeah Mr. Darcy’s proposal was a complete turd and a half but you gotta understand. You got your life together. A good career, stable income, retirement plan, all that shit together. And you meet this girl. And she’s everything. Clever, outspoken, funny, calls you on your bullshit. Grade A cutie, right? And she doesn’t go out of her way to spend time with you but she’s nice, and sometimes you catch her looking your way in a way that makes you think you might have a shot.

But her family. Holy shit.

First off, it’s p much ALL women, and mostly UNMARRIED women, which at this time means of something happens to her dad then you’re financially responsible for like. Four grown ass adults, potentially forever

Because mom in law is DEFINITELY gonna need someone to take care of her when dad in law kicks it, and they have like. NO money. So already you’re accepting that if all goes well, you’re gonna be one random old bag’s retirement home. That’s expensive and exhausting, yeah? Imagine asking someone on a first date knowing that if they say yes and things go good her high-strung chihuahua mother is gonna move in with you. IMAGINE.

And girly’s other sisters. Well, one is a sweetheart, yeah, so she probably won’t be an issue, but that still leaves three more, and two of those ones are INSUFFERABLE. Never went to school, dumb as rocks, spend cash like it’s toilet paper

And while one of the two is young still and might grow out of it the OTHER one is actively torpedo’ing her entire family’s reputation by wandering off with random dudes and chasing ass. She’s never gonna work, she can’t build connections, she’s a fucking sinkhole, and she’s being led on by the same goddamn con man ass leeching tit who’s been bleeding you dry while telling anyone who’ll listen that your family is full of ratty thieving bastards.

And if he dumps her after a week- WHICH YOU KNOW HIS BITCH ASS IS GONNA- you’ve got a SECOND UNMARRIABLE GROWN ASS ADULT TO PROVIDE FOR. And you KNOW she’s gonna be a tantrum-throwing little shit about it, and it’s not like you can lock her in the basement or something, you’re gonna have to bring her fucking. Everywhere. And give her an allowance and shit while she contributes zero, because again, she NEVER GOT EDUCATED AND HAS NO MARKETABLE SKILLS. She’s not even good to TALK to. FUCK

And you’re looking at this girl’s father like “please for the love of fuck get your spawn under control, marry them off, get them working on their résumé, learning to sew or be nursemaids or manage staff or SOMETHING, yall got no money and one foot in the grave” and that old man just laughs like “haha yeah, what can you do. lol”

So you’re looking to the mom and finally it’s making sense how she got that twitch in her eye and as MUCH as she is you’re starting to realize she’s the SMART one, desperately throwing her armloads of girls at random men like they’re a bunch of fucking lifeboats bobbing around a sinking ship, like yes Jesus Christ sweetly that life boat IS old and ugly and kind of boring but for FUCKS SAKE PICK ONE

And you look back at this girl who is ALSO REFUSING THE LIFE BOATS BY THE WAY and god damn it she’s still the most radiant thing you’ve ever seen so fine, fuck it, Christ alive, you’ll do it. You’ll shoot your shot. She’s everything you’ve ever wanted in anybody abut it’s not even just about that anymore, it’s about being her best fucking shot at a future, and even if she doesn’t like you all that much she’s still gonna say yes and that might break your heart a bit knowing it’s about the money but who knows, maybe it will at least be civil, or companionable, and even if she doesn’t LOVE you at least you’ll know she’s well and cared for

And so you’ll do it. You’ll take on the neurotic stress mess mother in law, the absent father, the broke ass wingnut no brain no money no future airhead sisters, the bad mannered relatives and the embarrassing behaviour and the impending future of sharing your entire shit with a clown parade of freeloaders, you’ll risk it all and accept the absolute certainty of financial ruin and emotional exhaustion for the rest of your whole ass life and you’ll make your own family deal with it too, you’ll do it, you’ll fucking DO IT, you stupid lovesick motherfucker

And so you go to this chick like “look. Your whole family’s a shitshow. You’ve got fucking nothing and you’re gonna die on the street. But for some reason- and I don’t get it either- I’ve fallen in love with you, and I wish I didn’t, but I did, so I’m telling you that whether you like me or not, I’ll give you everything. I’ll give you everything even if it’s the dumbest shit I ever done. Fuck my stupid Baka ass, I’ll marry you.”

And she looks at you- having heard or considered absolutely none of your months-long internal debate and monologue- and goes “The fuck did you just say about my family, you son of a bitch?”

And the shock of that is enough to jolt you back into a reality where you are able to actually hear and process what just came out of your damn mouth And yeah

Yeah, I think I kinda get it

[thestuffedalligator]

The way necromancy works is this: Everything in your body — meat, bones, skin, blood — has something like a memory. They remember, in their own way, what it’s like to be alive. Skin remembers the sun. Bones remember what shape they’re supposed to be in. Muscle memory is more than just an idiom.

The way necromancy works is that the caster puts a little bit of their willpower into a corpse to order it to remember how it functioned in life and obey. This is easiest to do with bones, which are easy to trick, and becomes increasingly difficult the more of the original body remains.

To reanimate a full body to your command, you have to have a lot of willpower.

The necromancer checked the map. She checked the map again. She squinted up at the stars, lips moving silently. Then, taking the lantern off its hook, she peered over the side of the little sailboat.

There wasn't much to see. The sea was dark and still as glass, except where the lanternlight turned a patch of seawater a yellowish-green. A tiny fish flitted into the gleam, attracted to the light, and then vanished into the murk again.

The necromancer chewed the inside of her cheek. She sat down again, the boat bobbing gently with the movement, and checked the map one more time. Then she opened the little wooden case on the floor of the boat, which unfolded into a neat arrangement of drawers.

There were. Things. In the drawers. Some wriggled. Others twitched little beetly legs into the night air. A few of them made noises, which ran together into a squeaky, wheezy squeal of horror.

The necromancer twiddled her fingers over the display as she considered her options. Then she grabbed a few of the twitching, wriggling things, held them in her palm and squeezed her hand into a fist as tightly as she could with a squelching noise.

She opened her hand to inspect her work. She breathed the spell into it, and then, holding her hand over the edge of the boat, dropped the spell into the sea.

And that seemed to be it. She sat back in the boat and closed the little wooden case. After a moment she started looking over the map again.

There were a lot of handwritten notes on the map. Each one was connected to a mark and some coordinates; some of them said, "Storm 1457," or "Struck a rock 1483." Others said "Total failure," or “Completely dissolved.”

The note the necromancer seemed most interested in was the one that read, “Battle of Salzstein, 1501.”

The necromancer checked the map. She checked the map again. She squinted up at the stars, lips moving silently, and then she was suddenly thrown down to the floor of the boat as though a giant, invisible hand had crushed her.

Her mouth opened in a noiseless scream.

Two minds were fighting for control of the corpse; on one side was the mind of the caster, and on the other was the memories of bones, of flesh, of skin, trying to drive the caster out.

The weight of that mind was incredible.

Sweat poured off the necromancer’s brow; darkness whorled across her vision. Then slowly, every movement a bone-breaking agony, she pushed herself onto her hands and knees, lungs straining.

The trick was that this mind knew how to obey.

The necromancer stood, wobbled, steadied herself and poured her willpower into the sea. She tried to make hers the full willpower the thing had obeyed in life, the will of the wind, of the sea, of the rigging and the wheel.

Because of course it had been alive. In a sense, they were all alive. Sailors talked of them like they were alive, gave them names, called them “she.”

Sailors knew they were alive.

It was the cessation of that life that interested her.

The necromancer reached out with her power, seized the mind in her hands and pulled, blood and foam flecking out the corners of her mouth as she ground her teeth together with the titanic effort and ordered it to obey.

The sea roiled, hundreds of tons of water moving fast as something deep below boiled to the surface.

A bowsprit sprouted from the water. Then a wood-rotted figurehead of a mermaid. Then inch by inch, yard by yard, the huge barnacle-encrusted bulk of silt-stained timber rose out of the deep, seawater streaming out of every gunport.

For a moment the warship hung in the air like a monstrous fish held by the gills of a colossal fisherman. It dropped into the sea with a sound like a depth charge; the little rowboat lurched in its wake.

The necromancer released the spell. Then she threw up, and passed out.

———

Later, once she had woken, gathered together the tackle box, the lantern, and the map and had scrabbled aboard, the necromancer inspected the undead ship.

There was a hole in the hull where a magazine charge had exploded. This was, admittedly, fine. Undead men could walk with a hole in their bellies; an undead ship could sail with one as well.

Really, she thought, despite the discomfort the spell had worked masterfully.

It was a perfect start.

She unfolded the map on the soggy floor of the quarterdeck, sucked the end of a pen, and next to the last marker wrote “Total success.” Then her finger began to trace down the page to the next.

And the undead ship — unbidden and obedient — shifted its sails and began to move south.

[greenglowinspooks]

Thinkin about a DCxDP where Danny’s helping ghosts find peace while he’s laying low in Gotham.

Like, he moved away from Amity for whatever reason. Maybe the reveal went badly, maybe he just couldn’t stand staying any longer. For whatever reason, he’s in Gotham, because the rent is cheap and he’s nowhere near the strangest thing there so no one looks at him twice.

However, this city is cursed. Like, cursed beyond cursed. It’s actively alive with how many curses there are, and the ghosts there are extremely unhappy about it.

(Of course, that’s not a problem for Danny. His ghost side filters out the toxic smog and the chemicals in the water, and his human side gives a resistance to the rank ecto and the hexes that are actively trying to devour him.)

He doesn’t really want to do anything about it, to be honest.

He’s sick of playing hero, considering how it went last time, and he’s busy working at Waffle House or Walmart or whatever other store doesn’t bother doing a background check (in Gotham, that’s probably all of them), and maybe trying to find a way to get highschool credits that don’t immediately disqualify him from every college in existence.

Still, the ghosts know he can hear them. They know, and they keep coming for help.

So, hey, why not? He definitely can’t put this as experience in any sort of job application, but he really doesn’t have much else to do.

So, he becomes errand boy for a bunch of ghosts.

Sometimes he’s finding objects that are important to them, sometimes he’s giving evidence they collected together of their murders to the police, sometimes he’s getting them the last meal they never had, sometimes he’s just spending time with them like they’re not dead.

The ghosts don’t always move on, but they’re always more at peace. Occasionally they pay him back in charms and blessings and the locations of valuables that he can keep or pawn for cash.

Eventually, a new ghost shows up.

She looks like a shadow, like all the ghosts of Gotham, but she seems stronger than usual. She asks him for a favor that those who came before him were never able to fulfill.

She asks him to find her engagement ring, and give it to her son.

Easy enough, he thinks. It’s a bit of a pain to buy the ring from the seedy pawn shop it’s in (he would usually just steal it, but he doesn’t want to implicate her kid in anything, which she seems grateful for), but everything’s going mostly alright.

Then, she tells him who her son is, and wow, no wonder no one’s helped her yet.

He’s Red Hood. The guy who is(/was) the crime lord in charge of crime alley. The title sounds a bit stupid to Danny, but he’s still a genuine threat to a living person.

Good thing he’s not one of those.

And so, the next time he sees Red Hood out and about, he goes right up to him. The man seems mostly unbothered, but Danny does notice how his hand slightly drifts towards one of his many weapons.

He tells Red Hood outright that he’s there on behalf of the man’s mother, then just holds out his hand with the ring inside, dropping it into Red Hood’s open palm.

Then he leaves, not waiting for a response.

—

Jason has a mystery on his hands, and he might just cash in some favors from Babs and Tim to figure it out.

He’s got to find the guy who gave him his mother’s ring, and find out everything he knows.

[pineapplepr1nc3ss888]

HOW TO REVISE:

revision is the thought of rewriting a past event that you wish to have occurred, you immerse yourself in that feeling and you affirm/visualise your desired outcome and act as if it’s true.

do not fear this, you have to remember you are the creator and get yourself out of the victim mentality. revision is changing past events to your desired outcome and it’s nothing to be scared of, whatever you revise will reflect what you have assumed/manifested.

reality as i have said before is completely malleable because it’s fluid. you shift yourself to a state/reality where these events never ever happened. it is extremely easy. you can revise anything you want.

death for example, a loved one died in your reality? you will shift when you immerse yourself in the feeling they’re alive or affirm/visualise they never died then you shift to a reality where this person never died. that is ALL you are doing. revision is shifting your awareness to a reality where it never happened. it can be anything.

these are some success stories from Sammy’s Mermaid Gang, all creds goes to the people who posted them but using these for examples that anything is possible:

I cured my grandpa when he was in his death bed!!!

“So guys I'm so grateful and happy that my grandpa is doing so much better now so what happened was 10 days back my grandpa got very sick everyone around us including my family members n doctors said that he won't survive the day everyone was preparing themselves for his demise but I decided that wasn't fuckin happening i kept revising in my head that he's alright and though he kept getting worse I kept staying positive and I even told my mom to just affirm but she just yelled at me calling me immature and everything so i didn't tell anyone n kept affirming in my mind, even though everyone was so worried at home i kept calm and didn't worry much and now I just went n visited my grandpa after few days n he's almost back to normal he's doing great I'm so happy ❤️”

another:

“I REVISED MY GRANDMOTHER’S PERCEIVED DEATH.

to make a long story short, she was in the ICU on a ventilator and i only had about 3-4 days of rampaging before they would take her off. i persisted and affirmed that she’s healthy and well over 30000 times on the counter app and even more in my head alone. i was anxious and fearful the entire time but persisted anyways. yesterday was the day and there was NO movement or signs that she was doing better. my family and i were in a video chat saying our last goodbyes to her. i was at work and had to hang up, so i was under the impression that she didn’t make it after they took her off the ventilator. i was told that she “lived a long life”. i couldn’t comprehend what happened because i KNEW i was persisting and the law is foolproof, so i affirmed more for her before bed and left it at that.

i woke up to news that she actually survived throughout the night BREATHING ON HER OWN WITH OXYGEN ONLY and that the hospital will be sending her home because there’s nothing they can do for her and she’s completely stable. i called multiple family members CONFUSED saying i thought she died and the responses i got were: no, she didn’t die. who told you that? despite everyone being gathered together in the hospital crying the night before…

the only explanation i have for this is that i shifted realities. because persisted anyways despite the 3d evidence (old story) and perception of her dying, my new assumptions came to pass and everything else before that ceased to exist. i’ve never manifested anything like this before. i’m going to keep affirming until she’s fully healthy.”

this is revising age:

“This is my second time revising my age... First time I did it was I was turning 26 and I wanted to join a certain competition with the age limit of 24! So I revised my age to 23... I kept telling myself that I was born in 1994, even my birthday certificate shows I was born in 1994, and that no body not even my own mother remember my old age...

Here comes the interesting part.. 2weeks before the registration deadline my birthday certificate went missing and I always had it with me... But it disappeared completely, and I couldn't find it so I asked my dad if it was possible to make another for me, since my information was already in the system so it was going to be easy to make a new one so I could finalize my registration... Here comes an interesting part when my new certificate came it said I was born on June 7, 1994.. when in actuality I was born in 1991, I asked my father why is it saying I was born in 1994... He looked at me surprised and told me it's because that's when I was born, I said no dad I was born in 1991, he started laughing and told "are you on drugs or something, I am your father so I Know when you were born"

I swear I couldn't believe it even though I asked for it I was the one who was left surprised

People always love to ask the change of documents... just know If that's what you want your documents will change don't ask how, just know they will change by any means necessary!i The changes can happen naturally just like my school certificate changed on their own, or something will happen that will require the making of new documents with the dates you were affirming”

this one was inspired by someone else who erased a 3p (third party aka someone who interferes in your life” and this 3p was literally her husbands ex wife but she erased them from their reality which meant she shifted to a reality where this person NEVER existed do not ask me about what happens to the old reality stop worrying about it you are the creator what you say fucking goes but anyways:

“So long story short I've been revising to change the past since I saw a comment under Sammy's post, which claims that she erased the 3p like they never even existed in her reality using affirmations. I think well maybe I'll try this shit out with my SP.

The affirmation I used was pretty straightforward:

I am the only person my SP has ever knew online

And guess what happened, after robotically affirming everyday along with some other revision affirmations for some time, my revision has happened. I wavered a lot and the old story kept playing in my mind all the time! But I never gave up, I persisted in my affirmations. My SP got back in contact with me just a few hours ago, when I asked about the 3ps, she said she never knew anyone like those and I'm the only one she has ever knew online.

At this point I was still skeptical about it so I went on Twitter to check about it, to my surprise SP's Twitter account has disappeared into the thin air like she never even on Twitter and all the 3ps' traces are gone too like they never even existed! And SP even confessed her feelings to me saying that she's been wanting me from the moment she saw me (That's my another revision affirmation)

Wow, this revision shit is so powerful, I just get to know loa a couple months back and law of assumption about three or four months and I can still pull this off. I just want to remind y'all we can all make it cuz it's our reality, we literally get to change and delete any shit that doesn't serve us anymore like they never even existed from the first place!”

this is health revision:

“YEAHH! Health revision success story here!

Last week I had my right knee swollen and couldn’t move so that I went to hospital to take a MRI image. The doctor said that there was a tumour in my right knee and in a super deep position, she suggested me to have an operation as soon as possible and gave me cephalosporin for diminishing the inflammation. After I got home, I started repeating affirmations:”My knee works normally, I’m feeling so great, I have never had any health problem.”

Yesterday I took the MRI image for further consultation and turned out that the tumour was GONE and my right knee was fine like nothing happened. The doctor was like:” Your knee is totally fine, why are you here? Maybe inflammation but it’s just fine.”

Revise it if you don’t like the situation! Producing miracles is easy as breathing🪄✨”

and last one, this girl revised being in hospital she shifted from the hospital to her own house:

“I Know I've had my share of big and small manifestations,... But what happened 4 days ago has to be my top tier manifestation, My biggest Manifestation ever! Even as I am writing this, I am shaking! Here we go....

4 days ago I went for a morning walk, on my way back home I was tired and wished someone could offer me a ride to my house, few minutes later a man stopped his bike and offered me a ride and i said sure, as we were about to reach my destination we got into a really bad accident, it was dark really quick and the next thing I know, it's hours later I am in the hospital with a wounded body full of bandages and a fixed broken leg,... I mean now I am so confused, nothing feels right anymore and I started panicking and shouting "this can't be real blah blah blah....." They injected me and I went back to sleep when I work up again, I was about to throw another tantrum but I caught myself and said "Renee(that what I call my Goddess self), You got this, this is just a bad dream, it can't be real how can this be real when you haven't even woken up, you are still home in your bed" I kept telling myself that, with tears in my eyes, deep down I was like I know I can shift realities but can this be possible today... I had doubts but I kept repeating my story to myself till I fall a sleep, I woke up and my mother was there, she was crying 😭💔.. I almost gave up and accept that reality but gathered all my strength and persisted even harder! I went to sleep again and I was awakened by my mom's voice calling me by my name and telling me, "You usually go for a morning walk, why are you asleep till this time"

Now, I think I am loosing my mind like how is it even possible... I asked my mom where are we? She laughed and asked me what do I mean, of course we are home, I asked her surprisingly "not the hospital?" She looked at me confused like "why would we be in the hospital, who is sick?" I hugged her and " No one mom, I just had a nightmare, please just hug me" I am perfectly fine not even a stretch on my body

Happy New Year to me!

Happy New Year to Y'all!”

NOW WAKE TF UP!!

no seriously wake up and fucking learn your own power, absolutely no one can do this except for yourself. stop asking others to shift or manifest for you no one can do this except you! you are the fucking creator of your reality no one else is. YOU ARE A MF GOD!

stop whinging, stop crying, finish your little pity party. you are a god, if you need to cry let those damn emotions out and once you’re done then get your ass back on to affirming.

no more complaining.

no more victim mindset.

if you want something then you need to persist in that assumption that desire is already true, affirm it’s true, visualise its true. this year is yours, you just have to step into your mf power. work on your self concept, affirm you are a master at manifesting, you manifest instantly etc it’s that simple.

stop accepting things you don’t want. you don’t like something that’s happened? revise it. you don’t like this 3p? revise them cos 3p who? 🙄 and no you don’t have to revise they never existed just revise whatever the situation is like they never dated your SP or they were never your friend. whatever you want!! REVISE REVISE REVISE!!!!!!!

ps. stop glorifying the void as the answer to your problems, sure it’s instant but you can also just affirm you manifest instantly you just have to have the concept or belief you manifest instantly and your subconscious will make whatever you manifest instantly happen.

act like a god, be the god you are, claim back your power from the 3d, revise shit you don’t like, work on your self concept. just be the fucking god you are and say this is my reality bitch and make that 3d your fucking bitch💋

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Twenty

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, strong language, racing accident (spa 2021 q3), fuck the fia basically, autistic shutdown, angst (!!!!), brief mention of a life-ending accident.

Notes — Ok. Prepare yourselves. This one might hurt.

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

Chapter Twenty (Spa—Italy) 

The circuit is underwater.

Amelia sits on the low wall in front of the garages, glancing over at the track. Puddled, she thinks. Flooded was probably a better word, but nobody wanted to say it out loud.

A thousand stubborn fans in the grandstands spot her and call her name, undeterred by the downpour. She waves and flashes them a quick smile before hopping down and heading back toward Max’s garage, pulling the sleeves of her hoodie down over her hands.

“They’ll red flag it,” she says, shrugging as she steps inside. “Even if it means postponing qualifying. It’s not drivable out there.”

Max sighs and glances at his dad, who just gives an unhelpful shrug in return.

GP pops his head around the corner, his expression flat. “Just heard from race control. We’re heading out in twenty minutes.”

Amelia stares at him, aghast. “Are you serious? I mean—do they have a set of working eyes between them? It’s awful out there!”

GP shrugs like it’s out of his hands. “They want to give the fans something. Don’t want the complaints. Plus, some of the teams are pushing, saying it’s just a case of slicks.”

She narrows her eyes at him, unimpressed. “Which teams?” she demands.

GP opens his mouth to answer, but Max cuts him off. “No. Don’t tell her. She’ll only cause a scene.” Max turns to her, giving her arm a squeeze. His touch is meant to be calming, but it feels too light against the storm brewing in her chest. “It’s fine. We’ll all be careful,” he promises. “We’ve driven in worse conditions.”

She blinks, and all she can see is a boy—too young, too trusting—spinning out on this very track, his life taken away from him because someone said it would be fine. “Two years ago…” she starts, voice catching.

Max doesn’t let her finish. “Don’t. Don’t do that to yourself, zusje.”

She presses her lips together, closing her eyes for a beat, sucking in a trembling breath. When she opens them, she looks past Max—at Jos, then GP. “Christian thinks this is okay?” she asks, voice low.

GP shakes his head immediately. “No. He was one of the team principals against it.”

Oh. That was pleasant surprise.

— 

The rain only got worse once there were cars on track. 

Amelia paced like a caged animal just behind the line of Max’s engineers, arms folded so tight across her chest it felt like she was holding herself together by force alone. The spray was impossible. Drivers couldn’t see five meters ahead, and the aquaplaning was awful. 

Her stomach twisted tighter with every sector.

They were not driving anymore — they were guessing. Hoping.

She bit her lip hard enough to taste blood. 

A car twitched through Eau Rouge and saved it. Barely.

She shot a furious look at GP, who lifted a hand in her direction like he was expecting her to throw something at him and needed to defend from it.

“I swear to god,” she hissed under her breath, “if anyone gets hurt—”

“Amelia,” Jos said sharply. He didn’t look away from the screens. “Don’t.”

She clenched her hands into fists at her sides, breathing hard through her nose.

—

Lando thrived in the wet.

Where other drivers hesitated, he attacked, carving through the standing water like it was nothing more than mist. He looked alive out there. 

He was flying.

By the end of Q1, he was at the top of the timesheets, Max just a few hundredths behind him.

Amelia watched from the back of Max’s garage, heart pounding harder with every sector split. She barely registered the noise around her, engineers discussing, the pit wall scrambling as Max came back in for a fresh set. 

By the end of Q2, he was still there.

Still leading. Still flying.

Amelia didn’t even realise she was holding her breath until the session ended, the screen freezing with his name at the top.

Still at the top. Ahead of both Mercedes, ahead of Max. 

She pressed her knuckles to her mouth to stifle a noise she didn’t even recognise — part pride, part awe, part something else, raw and endless.

— 

“Did that McLaren make it around the corner?” 

It happened fast. Too fast. A flash of a McLaren on the big screen, the car snapping sideways through Eau Rouge, spinning into the barriers with a violence that made the garage gasp.

The monitors flickered to the crash site. Crumpled carbon. Shattered wings.

No movement.

Amelia didn’t move either.

She stood dead still. Silent. 

And then she started whispering under her breath. "Oversteer mid-corner. Hydroplaned. No visibility. No grip. No correction possible." It wasn’t emotion — it was fact. Cold, clean, merciless.

Someone called her name.

She didn’t react.

Jos appeared a second later, hand reaching for her arm, voice low, concerned, "Amelia—"

She ripped away from him so violently he took a step back. "Don’t touch me!" she snapped, voice too loud, too sharp. "I'm thinking!"

Silence snapped over the garage like a taut wire. Eyes everywhere.

She didn't care. She just stared at the monitor, at the wreckage, at the nothingness.

Then… a voice, through a sudden crackle of radio static. GP had shoved a headset onto her head, barely sliding it into place, as Lando’s voice filled her ears, grainy but alive. "—I’m okay. Sorry about that, boys. Big crash."

She blinked. Stared at the screen. Saw Sebastian pulling up next to him in the Aston, saw Lando wave from inside the cockpit — a shaky, unmistakable sign of life.

Another voice filtered in, maybe GP’s, maybe Will’s. “Driver’s talking. He’s moving. All good.”

Lando again, winded but alive, alive, alive, "Make sure Amelia’s okay. She didn’t see, did she? Fuck, mate, that was bad. Go make sure she’s okay—"

She couldn’t seem to form a coherent thought. 

She just stared at the footage as it played over and over on the feed, the spray, the blind corner, the sudden absence of the car where it should have been, the brutal, sickening impact against the wall.

Her nails dug into her own forearms hard enough to leave crescent moons.

Her mind blanked.

Detached.

Facts and figures and split times. Angles and force vectors and hydroplaning coefficients.

If she thought about it clinically, if she could just keep it mathematical, then maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much. 

— 

They let her into medical after twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes where she didn't move. Twenty minutes where she counted every breath she took and tried to keep her body from violently trembling. 

When she finally crossed the threshold, Lando was sitting up on the stretcher, hair soaked and matted down from the rain and sweat. His race suit was still zipped up to his neck, damp and dirty from the impact. His left hand was flexing repeatedly like it hurt, but he was smiling at the doctor. A crooked, too-wide smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

When he saw her, the smile vanished.

“Baby,” he said, voice rough.

She stopped halfway across the room.

He looked her over once, quick and assessing — and she knew he saw it. The stiffness in her posture. The emptiness in her eyes. The way she was standing like she was still waiting for a second crash, a worse outcome.

He pushed off the stretcher, wincing a little but moving anyway, stubborn and alive, and crossed the room to her.

She didn’t move. Didn’t lift her arms. Didn’t even reach for him.

Lando didn’t seem to care.

He wrapped his arms around her anyway, wet and shivering and still so real, pulling her into his chest. His hand found the back of her head, cradling it against him. "Hey," he murmured, soft enough that only she could hear. "I’m here. I’m okay. You can touch me. I'm real."

She stood frozen for a second longer, and then, slowly, she pressed her hands to his ribs. Felt the rise and fall of his breath. The heat of him under her palms.

"Physics said you should have flipped," she said into his chest.

"Yeah, well," he said, smiling against her hair, "physics can suck it."

She let out a single, sharp breath, not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob.

Lando's arms tightened.

"You can be mad," he told her, still that same soft, low tone. "You can be scared. You can even punch me if you want. Just... don’t disappear into that pretty head of yours, okay?"

She closed her eyes, finally letting her forehead drop against him, anchoring herself to the solid, beating proof of him.

"I’m trying," she whispered.

"I know," he said. And he just held her

— 

The door cracked open again, and suddenly Max was there.

Still half in his race suit, soaked through from the rain, his hair dripping into his eyes.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask. Just crossed the room in three long strides and dropped to his knees in front of Amelia.

She turned her head slowly. 

Max’s eyes flicked over her quickly, assessing, calculating. "Hey," he said, voice low, controlled. "You’re alright?”

Amelia didn’t respond. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t doing anything, really, just sitting there in Lando’s lap, stiff, her hands still twisted in the fabric of his fireproofs like she was the one holding him together and not the other way around.

Max exhaled, long and slow. Then, without asking, he reached out and cupped the back of her head, pulling her gently forward until her forehead bumped against his.

"Listen to me," he said quietly, his voice rough with feeling. "You did everything right. You are alright. Lando is alright. I'm here. We’re all still here, okay?"

She squeezed her eyes shut, her breathing finally hitching a little.

Max just held her there, forehead to forehead, grounding her with the solid weight of his presence.

"You’re safe, zusje," he murmured, almost too softly to hear. “And so are we. Everyone made it out alive, okay? Is that what you need to hear? Nobody died today.” 

A shaky little sound escaped her, halfway between a sigh and a sob.

Lando tightened his arms around her from behind, his chin pressing into her shoulder, anchoring her.

Max pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes. “I got pole.” 

She manages a tiny, proud smile. “Well done.” 

— 

@/f1girlies: Amelia not even flinching when they showed Lando's crash... just staring at the screen like she's trying to solve it. There is a terrifying amount of love between them. 🥲💔 #F1 #BelgianGP

@/landozluvbot: idk what broke me more. Lando's crash or seeing Amelia looking like a ghost in the garage after. she didn’t even cry she just shut down 😭😭

@/redbullmax: Max asking if Amelia was okay over the radio after the red flag… this fcking team is going to kill me #BelgianGP

@/McLarenUpdates: The way Amelia was repeating technical data out loud after the crash... pure survival mode. That’s an engineer trying not to lose it over the boy she loves getting hurt 😭 #BelgianGP

@/softforf1: Seb pulling up next to Lando to check on him. Max worrying about Amelia. Everyone looking after each other. F1 can be brutal but it’s a family too 🧡 #F1Family

@/verstappencharts: “don’t touch me, i’m thinking!” amelia shouting at jos verstappen 😭😭 girl was fighting for her life. i was genuinely in tears watching her. my fellow neurodivergent girlies understand that she was fully shutting down 

@/mclarensun: saying "make sure amelia’s okay" while he's still in the car wreckage was the most heartbreaking thing i’ve ever heard no i'm not okay

—

She feels broken.

A shell of herself.

Curled up on her side in her dad’s hotel suite, knees tucked against her chest, face buried in the pillow that still smelled like him — his shampoo, his aftershave, something warm and familiar and safe.

Lando was sleeping.

Bruised, sore, but breathing. Alive.

She’d left him there, in their hotel room, the weight of everything pressing too heavy on her chest to stay. She couldn't hold herself together, not even for him.

Her dad had found her at the rooftop bar, sitting alone in a corner, staring blankly into a glass of Sprite. He hadn’t said anything, just crouched down, touched her hand, and guided her gently to her feet.

He’d led her here, to his suite. Set her down on the bed like she was something fragile. Like if he said the wrong thing, she might shatter completely.

Then he’d stepped outside into the hallway.

She pressed her face deeper into the pillow, breathing in the scent of him, wishing she could crawl into her childhood and never have to leave again.

She felt selfish.

Selfish for making this about her when Lando was the one who’d crashed.

Selfish for being weak.

Selfish for needing someone, when Lando needed her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, her body stiff and aching, and tried not to think.

Tried not to feel.

Tried, and failed.

— 

Her dad returned, a quiet figure in the doorway before stepping inside. He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed with a soft sigh. “Fernando is here, sweetheart,” he said, his voice gentle, trying to ease something too big for him to handle alone. “I thought he might be able to help.”

Fernando sat beside her, his presence grounding, steady. He didn’t rush into conversation, simply waiting. His eyes softened as they met hers.

After a long, thoughtful pause, he spoke, his voice low, weighted with experience. “I’ve had a lot of crashes, niña,” he began. “Big ones. Ones where I didn’t know if I was going to make it out alive.”

Amelia, still frozen, slowly turned her head to look at him.

“In 2010, I crashed in Canada,” he continued, his hands folded in his lap. “The wall hit me hard. The car was destroyed. I remember seeing the barrier coming and thinking, ‘This is it. I’m not going to get out of this one.’”

Amelia’s breath hitched. She searched his face for any sign of what he’d felt, but his expression was calm. 

“I remember sitting there afterward,” he said, “and not feeling pain at first. It was like everything just shut down. I was alive, but I couldn’t process what happened. I didn’t know what came next.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in the room.

“Then, in 2016, another crash—this time in Baku. The impact was hard, but what scared me the most was the silence. After the crash, there was this stillness. I didn’t know if I could move, if I could breathe properly. And all I could think was, ‘What if I can’t get out of here?’”

Amelia’s lips parted, her hands trembling in her lap as the emotions she’d buried began to rise.

“I’ve been through a lot, niña,” Fernando said, his voice steady but compassionate. “But every time, you trust that the team, the doctors will pull you out. Even when you can’t feel it. And when it’s over, you’re just thankful. So thankful.”

He looked at her with intensity, his gaze warm. “Lando will feel the same. Thankful he made it out. Thankful he can return to you.”

Amelia’s walls cracked. Her breath quickened, uneven, as emotions she’d kept buried threatened to break free. Her voice trembled as she whispered, “Nando, I was so scared.”

Fernando pulled her into a tight hug, his voice soft yet firm. “Ah, niña... fear is part of this sport. You know that. You know about all the crashes I’ve been through, probably with more detail than I can remember. Use that smart brain of yours. Let yourself feel the fear. But don’t feel shame for it.”

Amelia clung to him, then turned to her dad. She managed a small, broken smile, a silent ‘thank you’ for bringing Fernando to her.

— 

She tiptoed back into their hotel room, shedding her clothes and slipping into bed in just her underwear. She pressed herself against Lando's warmth, inhaling a shaky breath.

His arms instinctively wrapped around her, pulling her closer. “Where’d you go, baby? You’re freezing,” he murmured against her ear, tucking the blanket around them both.

“Just needed to talk to Fernando,” she replied softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Go back to sleep, Lan.”

She watched him sleep for a while, his breathing steady and calm. Her fingers gently brushed his neck, resting there, feeling the steady pulse beneath her touch. With a quiet exhale, she let herself drift off, comforted by the rhythm of his heartbeat.

— 

“They should’ve suspended the session the second the aquaplaning became a problem and the drivers started to make it clear that the conditions were too dangerous,” Amelia said, her voice low but firm.

Sebastian nodded thoughtfully. “I agree.”

Amelia crossed her arms, leaning against the table as she glanced down at the papers in front of them. They were in a small, quiet back room in the Aston Martin hospitality, away from the noise of the paddock. Sebastian had been working on the official complaint for the GPDA, and Amelia had come in to help finalise a few things.

“I really appreciate you checking on Lando after the crash,” Amelia told him, after a lapse of silence. "It meant a lot. To him and to me.” 

Sebastian gave a small nod. “Of course. And how are you doing? You have had a rough few races, huh.” 

She nodded, itching the back of her neck. “Yeah. It’s— it’s been a lot to deal with. But yesterday could’ve been prevented. That’s why I’m so mad, I think.”

Sebastian leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “That’s why the GPDA matters. We have to keep pushing for better safety measures, for the drivers to be heard." He paused, glancing at her with a thoughtful expression. "You’ve got the right mind for this, Amelia. I’ve been meaning to ask for a while now, but how would you feel about joining me on the panel? You’d bring a fresh perspective, especially with everything you do behind the scenes. You’d make a real impact."

Amelia raised an eyebrow, a bit taken aback by the offer. "I don’t know…”

“Of course, I get it,” Sebastian said quickly, giving her a reassuring smile. “No pressure. But think about it, yes?”

Amelia nodded. "I will. I just— I already feel like I’m being split in a million directions.” 

Sebastian gave a knowing smile. “No pressure. The offer will still be there if you ever change your mind.” He glanced down at the page. “So, you think we’ve got the final draft ready to send off?”

Amelia glanced at the papers again, nodding. “Yeah, I think this should do it. We’ve got a strong case. Now, we just need to make sure it’s heard.”

Sebastian gave a small smile, satisfaction flickering in his eyes. “Alright. Let’s get it to the drivers then. Thank you for helping out, Amelia. This wouldn’t be as strong without your input.”

She smiled back, feeling a little lighter. “Of course.” 

— 

They suspended the Grand Prix after one lap.

Amelia was selfishly relieved. She left GP with a quick smile and made her way across to the McLaren garages.

She waited as Lando climbed out of the car, got weighed, and finally spotted her — standing there with a cookie she’d swiped from the hotel breakfast, held out like a peace offering.

His face lit up, the disappointment of the day forgotten in an instant.

“God, I love you,” he said, grinning as he took the cookie.

She just grinned back. 

—

WhatsApp Groupchat — 2021 F1 Grid

Sebastian V.

Please can everyone sign this document and send it back to me? Thanks!

Max V.

GDPA?

Sebastian V.

Yes, mate.

Lando N.

Wait, did Amelia help you with that Her name’s at the bottom

Sebastian V.

Your girlfriend is very smart, Norris. She also believes that driver safety should take precedence over the entertainment value of a dangerous session.

Lewis H.

She’s a good kid. @Lando I tried to talk to her after Silverstone, but she brushed me off.

Lando N.

Yeah mate, not being funny, but you were part of the reason the guy she sees as a brother ended up in the tyre barrier You can’t be surprised she’s a bit pissed

Max V.

She ignored you, Lewis? LOL

George R.

Alright, let’s not do this here. Groupchat is for racing talk only. And Amelia, if necessary. This is not necessary.

Yuki T

.I have signed! I didn’t read it first. What did I just sign?

Esteban O.

Contract extension.

Yuki T.

HOLY SHIT, REALLY?

Esteban O.

No. Start reading things before you sign them.

— 

Max wins his home race.

The Dutch fans go insane for it. Orange smoke suffocates the track before he even crosses the line — it’s like a living, breathing thing, filling the air, staining the sky. The stands are roaring, a wall of noise and cheers that doesn’t seem to let up.

She can’t stop smiling.

This will mean everything to him.

The whole weekend had been madness; the crowd, the pressure, the constant buzz that hummed around Max like static. She’d worried, in a quiet, gnawing way, that it would be too much. That the expectation would crush him.

Instead, he rose to meet it, higher and higher, like he’d been made for this. He had, probably. He was controlled. Fast. Untouchable.

In the paddock after the race, everything feels a little magical. 

She and Lando are making their way toward the exit, half-holding hands, half-dragging their feet because nobody really wants to leave the energy behind yet, when a member of the Dutch media steps in front of them.

“Are you proud of Max’s win?” the reporter asks, microphone shoved toward her, as if there’s any possible answer but the obvious.

She beams; can’t help it, even if she wanted to. “I’m incredibly proud,” she says, heart in it completely.

Behind her, Lando chuckles low in his throat. She feels his hand tighten around hers, warm and steady. When she glances back at him, he’s looking at her like she hung the stars, his smile fond, just for her.

— 

There’s no time between leaving the Netherlands and travelling straight to Italy, but somehow Amelia still manages to carve out enough of it to throw together a Pinterest board titled ‘Monaco Apartment’.

She shows Lando every phase she goes through — minimalist, then eclectic, then back again — and he just laughs, indulging her with amused commentary and the occasional veto when something was just a bit too extreme.

Eventually, she settles on something halfway between bohemian and modern; clean lines and light, natural colours, but still full of texture and life. Cozy, but grown-up.

She picks out paint colours while they’re waiting in airport lounges, scrolling through endless swatches. Lando gives his opinions on furniture when she nudges her phone under his nose — usually something like, “That’s too white, I’ll spill something on it,” or “I like that, it looks comfy.”

He has only one real request: that the spare room be turned into a streaming room for him, and she could take the bigger office.

It’s a no-brainer.

The office is huge, the window overlooks the street below, and she can already imagine herself there; late nights, sketching out ideas with music playing softly in the background.

He grins at her when she agrees without hesitation, bumping their shoulders together as if to say 'teamwork.'

The new chapter of their life together starts to take shape, little by little, through swatches, and wishlists. 

In a few months, they’ll move in for real.

Maybe then it’ll finally feel like something tangible.  

— 

WhatsApp — 2021 F1 Groupchat

Lando N.

Quick question

Max V.

Already found it, mate. She left it in the strat room.

Lando N.

👍

George R.

That was quicker than usual.

Charles L.

I see Lando’s name pop up and immediately start looking for an iPad. Is that Pavlovian?

Checo P.

Yes.

— 

On the jet, she finishes it.

Not just a rough sketch of the chassis — the whole package.

Every line, every angle calculated. Suspension geometry, underfloor shaping, cooling architecture. Aero efficiency balanced with mechanical grip.

She closes the sketchbook slowly, fingertips brushing the page like she’s sealing a secret inside.

A complete concept. Theoretical, but sound.

She glances at Max across the aisle, wondering briefly if he’ll resent her for it someday.

But she’s already done it for him. Designed the core philosophy that would carry him through 2022 and 2023, championships won before the seasons have even begun.

She isn’t thinking about just the next two years, though.

She’s thinking beyond that. She's thinking about evolution, dominance. . . legacy.

A future she could build, one millimetre at a time.

NEXT CHAPTER

[chaoryn]

𓏲 ʚ pick a pile: 𝓦hat makes your s/o go feral for you ɞ

disclaimer: this reading is for entertainment purposes ONLY so take it all with a grain of salt. this is a collective reading for the shifting community!!

take a deep breath and choose the kitten that catches your eye the most or that your intuition tells you to.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ masterlist | paid services | tips

୨ ⏜ ︵ · • ᨦ ♡ ᨩ • · ︵ ⏜ ୧

୨ ⏜ ︵ · • ᨦ ♡ ᨩ • · ︵ ⏜ ୧

˙ ᩠୨ ⌢ ⁺ pile one ੭୧ ₊ ⌢ ୧ ᩠ ˙

your s/o’s are literally your personal bitches. they are down SO BAD for you, and this is NOT an exaggeration!!! seriously, they are obsessed with everything about you, and they would do ABSOLUTELY ANYTHING for you. and when i say anything, i mean ANYTHING. they would lie, steal, kill – hell, even die for you if they had to. so, honestly? there's nothing that doesn’t make them go feral for you because the simple fact that you exist is already enough. they might struggle to put their feelings into words, but what they can’t deny is that THEY LOVE YOU SO F*CKING MUCH. seriously, their communication skills are kind of a mess, and it's hard for them to express what they feel or think, but they are this close to telling you the truth because they literally cannot keep this bottled up any longer.

for some of you in this pile, you and your s/o aren’t together yet, but something tells me you love playing hard to get (or maybe some of y’all are in a whole enemies to lovers situation LMAO). either way, your behavior is driving your s/o INSANE. but like, in the best way possible (you're in the "enemies" part, and deep down they're in the "lovers" part LMAOO). what’s hilarious is that they do not want to deal with these feelings, at all. they don’t even wanna deal with the concept of love itself, so much so that they keep searching for reasons to convince themselves why you two shouldn't be together. but it’s all a waste of time because, deep down, they think you’re perfect. you are someone they see as worth it. so yeah, they can fight it all they want, but they’re not going anywhere. LMFAOOOO. even if they don’t show it much, they miss you when you’re apart, and they HATE seeing you cry/sad. what’s even funnier is that YOU’RE NOT INNOCENT EITHER, PILE ONE. especially those of you who aren't with your s/o yet (or are in an enemies to lovers dynamic), you’re also in denial. deep down, you’re scared of being alone, and you’re stuck in your own internal battle too. so now BOTH of you are out here pretending you don’t care about each other when literally the entire multiverse knows you do. except you two. lol.

but your s/o doesn’t blame you for feeling this way, and they hope you don’t blame them either. love is complicated as hell. honestly, they are gathering the courage to confess because they cannot take the pain of holding it in any longer. these feelings are eating them alive. they’ve tried to forget you, tried not to smile when they think of you, tried to act like they don’t care, because if they tell you how they feel and you don’t feel the same way… they know they’ll be picking up the pieces of their shattered heart for the rest of eternity.

and if you are in an enemies to lovers situation, it’s like… they’re ASHAMED that they don’t hate you. like they want you to give them a reason to hate you because you’re not supposed to have feelings for your enemy, right? 🙈 but idk, things don’t always work like that lol. they literally wonder if you’re going through the same internal crisis they are lol. listen. years could pass, and your s/o would still be head over heels for you. nothing will change their mind because they are 1000% sure they’re the right person for you. (cocky much?)

also, their favorite physical feature of yours? your eyes. oh, and they are possessive over you, which is hilarious because a lot of you aren’t even in an official relationship with them and they’re out here like, “you’re my wife/husband 😠.” another thing that drives them crazy is that you’re not like the people they’ve been romantically or sexually involved with before. usually, their charm, looks, or player energy (LMAO) gets them what they want easily, but you? you’re like, “nah, i'm not your doll 🫸.” you don’t just let them have you, and that’s what makes things interesting. many of you have spent your past molding yourselves to please others, but you’re not doing that anymore, and that challenges them in a way they love.

oh, and both of you are jealous as hell. i can't even tell if they’re worse or if you are LMAO. some of you are out here side-eyeing your s/o just for looking at someone else 🤨 and vice-versa. my gods… your s/o needs therapy. they overthink EVERYTHING. like, they’ll sit there and analyze a situation to death until they convince themselves of some wild conclusion that only exists in their head. example: you mention you don’t like XYZ (which happens to be something they like). a normal person would just be like, "oh, they don’t like XYZ." your s/o? “they don’t like XYZ? or do they just not like ME? am i the problem? am i an inconvenience in their life? is that why they avoid me?” ...yeah. good luck with that lol. or this could be you, if that's the case for you, i say this with all the love in my heart, seek therapy!! <3

୨ ⏜ ︵ · • ᨦ ♡ ᨩ • · ︵ ⏜ ୧

˙ ᩠୨ ⌢ ⁺ pile two ੭୧ ₊ ⌢ ୧ ᩠ ˙

what makes your s/o go feral for you are the little details that make you who you are (it can be as silly as like your taste in music, your favorite drink, your perfume etc.). it’s like they feel they shouldn’t know this much about you just from observing you lol. but at the same time, while they notice these tiny things about you, they also want to get to know you on a deeper level, to know who you are when no one is watching. do you even know that yourself? that’s the real question. honestly, this could even be an invitation to self-discovery lol. overall, they think you two are a perfect match, and they just want you to go ahead and kiss them already (especially for those who aren’t official with their s/o yet). funny enough, this pile gives me the impression that you’re the one making more moves than your s/o.

okay, this was supposed to be a fun and lighthearted reading, but your s/o's are lowkey depressed in this pile, and i’m not gonna sugarcoat it. some of them could be seen as villains or just deeply misunderstood, struggling with low self esteem, and feeling like their mind isn’t in the best place because of all the heavy baggage they carry in their chest. it's a whole mix of unresolved trauma that therapy could actually fix!!! it’s like they’ve had their heart broken before, faced multiple disappointments, so when something (or rather, someone) good comes along, they assume there’s a catch, that it’s too good to be true. but honestly, they’re so tired of all this bullshit, and it’s like they want to take the initiative for once in their life… but instead, they just wait around, hoping you’ll randomly walk up and kiss them lol. it’s funny because they come off as the "dark and brooding" type *emo emoji meme*, the whole "my hEaRt iS bLaCk 🤪" aesthetic, but in reality? you know what they actually want? FOR YOU TO DEVOUR THEM, TO DOMINATE THEM, TO PIN THEM AGAINST A WALL LMAOOOOO I LOVE EXPOSING YOUR S/O’S BECAUSE AT THE END OF THE DAY, THEY’RE ALL JUST YOUR LITTLE BITCH!!!! they love when you take control like that, which is another reason they go absolutely feral for you. it’s like they can’t wait, even if it means getting knocked out by you (especially those with an enemies/rivals to lovers dynamic lol). if you hit them, they’d say thank you. if you told them to shut up, deep down, they’d love it. they like provoking you just to get a reaction out of you. in a way, this might be their version of affection, or maybe they interpret your resistance and toughness as a sign of love, yk? very much childhood trauma lol.

they know how you see them, or at least they think they do. in their mind, you either see them as “too much” in the overwhelming sense, or as “TOO MUCH” in the damn, they’re hot way. but if they’re being honest, they’re confused! because they lowkey think you’re just toying with them, even though you’ve raised their expectations so high that it irritates them. I SWEAR, THEY’RE SO FUNNY LMAO. they’re like: "you think you can win me over with your charm?fuck, you’re right." also, your voice?? yeah, that’s another thing that makes them go feral. they think it’s beautiful, attractive, and if they could, they’d listen to you talk all day, even if you were just saying the dumbest shit. your voice does things to them, though they’d never admit it out loud.

for those of you who are “just friends” (yeah, sure), your s/o is starting to realize that… oops, maybe you’re not just friends. some of you might’ve even been this close to kissing, but it didn’t happen 🤡. so now there’s this huge feeling of missed opportunity, like you can’t take that step because it would ruin what you already have. (but we all know you do want to ruin this friendship for a good reason cough cough kiss your each other cough cough but you won’t, because a lot of you are scared to take that leap of faith.) your s/o feels way more than just a simple crush on you, and while that makes them all warm and fuzzy inside, it also terrifies them. like… what if you don’t feel the same? what if they get crushed? OMGGG THEY’RE SO IN LOVE AND YOU HAVE NO IDEA!!! seriously, they love spending time with you, even if some of them would never say it out loud, especially if you two are rivals/enemies, or they’re just not the type to express their feelings.

they basically want to breathe you in, to know what’s going on in your mind. they look up at the stars thinking about you and wondering what it all means (it feels like both of you are on some kind of journey). you make them feel incredible, and they wonder if you even have a clue how deep their feelings run for you. BUT THEY’RE ALSO OBLIVIOUS!!! IT’S SO OBVIOUS THAT YOU LOVE THEM, BUT THEY IGNORE ALL THE SIGNS 😫. gods, this is so frustrating LMAO.

୨ ⏜ ︵ · • ᨦ ♡ ᨩ • · ︵ ⏜ ୧

˙ ᩠୨ ⌢ ⁺ pile three ੭୧ ₊ ⌢ ୧ ᩠ ˙

your s/o literally sees you as some kind of fallen angel or divine being. no one compares to you in their eyes. literally NO ONE. they’ve put you on this pedestal so high it’s actually insane. just the mere fact that you exist is enough to make them absolutely feral for you. like fr, even if you were the walking embodiment of a red flag (which hopefully you're not 👀), they would still go blind to all the signs just to be near you. if you two are in a relationship or even just friends (but like, come on now) they lowkey believe that no one else out there is on your level. like it’s giving partners in crime, ride or die, us-against-the-world type beat. they are OBSESSED.

also? for some of y’all, there’s a celebrity/public image/ glamorous lifestyle vibe coming through. but with that glam comes chaos.it’s giving burnout, haters, no stability, relationship struggles, the whole "famous but dead inside" thing. and someone here (and idk if it's you or your s/o, the energy is messy) is running from their problems like it’s an olympic sport. there’s this self sabotage loop of relying on unhealthy coping mechanisms (like alcohol or smoking), and it’s just… a lot. but for real, whoever this is: YOU NEED A BREAK. like, go easy on yourself for once. if you’re the one going through this, please get help. seriously. whoever this is might not even wanna admit how broken they are just so they don’t have to deal with it. but babe… it’s gonna get worse if you don’t.

this pile is giving DEPRESSION™. like, darker than the other piles. pile three, are you okay? no? didn’t think so. you or your s/o are out here shattered, probably tried to live up to some fairytale or expectations and got hit with the brutal reality of life instead. now you’re like “f*ck it, hope you suffer” to whoever hurt you and honestly? valid. being good vibes all the time doesn’t fix sh*t, lmao. so now it’s “head up, pain in the chest, tears wiped, still sexy” energy and your s/o? they’re eating that up, it’s that “i may be dying inside but i’m still hot” attitude, and they’re OBSESSED. some of y’all are hiding how bad it is just to keep up appearances, and if that’s you? please take care of your mental health!!! seriously. seek help. this isn’t something you have to face alone.

this was supposed to be a fun reading and now it’s a damn funeral, i’m screaming, BUT I REFUSE TO SUGARCOAT IT. it’s hard to tell who’s going through it more (you or them) but what’s clear is that they want you close. like, BAD. being apart from you messes with them. your s/o might pretend they’re fine too, but babe, they're NOT. they’ve got walls up so high, they don’t even know how to express themselves properly, which leads to major communication issues between y’all. they wish they could tell you what’s really on their mind. they’re scared to lose you and hate themselves for not knowing how to love you the way you deserve.

the idea of you with someone else? oh god. that’s their villain origin story. the thought of you kissing or even smiling at someone else while they’re lying in bed thinking about how dumb they were for letting you go?? yeah, it haunts them. they play it cool but they would absolutely mentally self-destruct if they ever lost you.

if you're involved romantically or platonically they crave more from you. more calls. more messages. more effort. they want to feel like you’re choosing them as much as they’re choosing you. some of you might’ve even been their childhood friend or first love, and you helped them survive a dark past just by being there for them. they remember that. they hold onto that. random but some of you were literally their first (iykyk).

© 2025 chaoryn

[lilianne-tarot]

PICK A CARD: What Kind of Love Story Will You Have with Your Future Spouse? ✮⋆˙

˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁ ˖

˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁ 𖥔 ݁ ˖

Hey there loves! Welcome to another PAC reading on my blog page—I hope you all enjoy it! Comment down what you felt about the reading and if it resonated with you and please show some love, Your support means everything to me!<3

How to Pick Your Pile: Take a deep breath, clear your mind, and look at the images below. Which one pulls you in the most? Trust your gut! Once you choose the image, The number below your chosen image is your pile. If more than one catches your eye, that just means there’s extra tea for you, go ahead and read both!

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⊹₊⟡Pile I

TROPE- The Love Trope: ‘Second Chance, Destined to be’

If your future spouse and your relationship were a fanfic, it would be tagged under: Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Lovers Energy. The Queen of Pentacles reverse tells me this love story doesn’t start in the most stable way. Whether it’s meeting at a time when one or both of you are still healing from past wounds, struggling with self-worth, or feeling like your life isn’t entirely together, this connection starts on rocky ground. Maybe one of you is too focused on work, personal struggles, or still in the aftermath of a past heartbreak. Or, plot twist, this could even be someone you already have a history with, whether that means past life connections or literal "it didn’t work out before but now the timing is right" vibes.

Either way, this is not a simple meet-cute. There’s tension, hesitation, and a fear of making the same mistakes as before. This relationship starts with less of a slow burn and more of a why is this so intense already. Babes, let me tell you, this is the definition of a magnetic, can’t-stay-away, undeniable chemistry kind of connection. When I say passion? I mean fireworks exploding in the dead of night kind of passion. This is the relationship that wakes you up, the one that makes you feel alive. This person? They get under your skin in a way that’s both frustrating and exahusting(Aww😭) One moment, you’re side-eyeing them, thinking, this person will be the death of me. The next? You’re pulled into this whole lot of emotions. Physically, the attraction is off the charts. The kind of touch where a simple brush of hands feels like it sends electricity through your entire body. The way they look at you? Intense. Like they’re memorizing your every expression. There’s a heat between you two that makes other people around you uncomfortable because they can feel the tension without either of you saying a word.But, this fire can either be the kind that fuels something lasting, or the kind that burns down a house if not handled with care. And that’s where the challenges kick in. This is the love that forces both of you to confront your deepest insecurities. It’s transformational love, the kind that breaks you open just to rebuild something even stronger. Think of it like the "before" phase of a glow-up, messy, uncomfortable, full of self-doubt. But once you get through that? Chefs kiss.

And let’s be real, the make-up moments in this relationship? ICONIC. The kind where words aren’t needed because one look says I’m sorry, I need you, we’re in this together. You're A Couple Who Choose Each Other, Again and Again.

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⊹₊⟡Pile II

TROPE- Slow-burn; softie who pretends they’re too busy for love but will drop EVERYTHING for you. (Grumpy x Sunshine energy.)

Alright, babes, let’s get into it. The energy of this pile, Whew. this one is complex, and it’s giving "we need to talk" but in a deep, soul-revealing way. This is not your fluffy, love-at-first-sight, rom-com-type romance. Oh no. This is a slow-burning deeply transformative type of love. If your love story were a fanfic, it would be one of those "we went through hell and back to find each other, but damn, was it worth it” sagas. So, let's break it all down. Imagine this: One of you (probably you) is the 8 of Pentacles person, the dedicated, hard-working, "let me get my life together first" type. So in your self-improvement era, focus on your career, and goals, and maybe even tell yourself "I don't have time for love right now." But love? Oh, it's coming, and it’s about to throw a level of emotional depth you're not prepared for. Now, enter your future spouse, The Emperor reversed energy. And this person? Not easy. They are powerful, charismatic, and naturally dominant, but they are struggling with control. Think: someone who’s used to being in charge, but when it comes to emotions? Hot. Mess. Maybe they were raised to believe that feelings = weakness, or they have serious trust issues, but either way, they are not used to vulnerability. They crave structure and order (probably a little bit of a perfectionist), but their heart? Total softie. And that’s where your dynamic gets spicy. Because while you're busy building something stable (your career, your self-worth, your goals), they are learning to surrender, to trust, to actually feel, and you're the one teaching them that. Does this already sound like a fanfic with a slow-burn "grumpy vs. sunshine" vibe? Because I swear, this is the kind of connection where the frustration, passion, and eventual devotion are off the charts. Your relationship might start off with misunderstandings, power struggles, or even a sense of "this is too much work.” (Lowkey, you might even write them off at first.) Your future spouse, despite their struggles, has deep emotional intelligence (King of Cups), they just don’t know how to show it in healthy ways at first. This relationship is going to test you. There will be moments where you’re like, “Why am I the only one putting in the effort?”, and that’s because your person is still learning how to step up emotionally without relying on control. when they finally let their walls down? Oh, it’s over for you. This is the type of person who, once they commit, they are ride-or-die, forever-loyal, protect-you-with-their-life type of love. They just need time to unlearn their bad habits first. The King of Cups energy in the mix tells me that they actually feel everything so intensely but have spent years repressing it. You are the one who teaches them how to be soft without feeling weak, how to be strong without needing control. And in return? They offer you a love that is stable, protective, and deeply emotional in a way that even you didn’t see coming. (This is that “strong arms, soft heart” kind of love, I just know it.)

This Love Story Is Worth It Because it’s real. It’s not some fairytale, effortless romance,it’s built on growth, deep emotional work, and trust. And that makes it unbreakable. they will be your fiercest protector. Once this person commits? It’s game over. No one messes with you.

So, Pile 2—tell me, does this feel like the kind of connection you’re ready for? Because if so, strap in. You’re about to experience a love that will change you forever.

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⊹₊⟡ Pile III

TROPE-"THE CHARMING FLIRT WHO SECRETLY HAS A ONE-SIDED CRUSH ON YOU" TROPE

My cards just laid down a story a K-drama writer would be jealous of 😭🫶🏻 Here i mean, the lind of love story where you go "Wait… Do I like them?" This is the kind of love story that sneaks up on you, the one where you don’t realize you’re catching feelings until they hit you like a ton of bricks. And honestly? It’s giving "I was blind, but now I see" energy. The Cards Are Screaming: “WAKE UP, THIS IS LOVE” With 9 of Cups, Ace of Cups, and 4 of Cups sitting pretty in your pile, You know those rom-coms where one character is literally manifesting their dream person, but when they finally show up, they’re like, “Nah, this isn’t it”? Yeah, that’s you. (lol this cracked me up😭😂) Your future spouse? They’re exactly what you need, exactly what you’ve probably been subconsciously hoping for, but for some reason (probably emotional unavailability, let’s be real), you won’t notice it right away.9 of Cups is the ultimate “I got everything I ever wanted” card. This is a wish-fulfilment type of love. But here’s the catch, you might not realize this person is your wish come true until you’re deep in it. (Like, this is “friends-to-lovers but make it oblivious” energy??) Ace of Cups is the fresh start, the new love blooming, the emotional realization that oh crap, I actually have feelings. But because 4 of Cups is right there third-wheeling this spread, the universe is literally shaking you by the shoulders like, “HELLO?? ARE YOU EVEN LOOKING AT THIS??” What I’m seeing here is a dynamic where one of you (probably you, let’s be honest) is lowkey rejecting the idea of this connection at first. Maybe you’ll convince yourself that this is just a casual connection, or maybe you’ll be too focused on some irrelevant situationship (bestie, please let that go🫠). The 4 of Cups is like that meme of the guy ignoring the angel handing him a literal blessing, while he sits there all moody looking at his meh options. Like, do you want the love of your life, or do you want to keep entertaining people who don’t even know your Starbucks order??

There will be a moment, and this is key, where something shifts. maybe they pull away, and suddenly you’re panicking because WAIT why does it hurt?? ) The Ace of Cups guarantees that the emotions will flow once you finally open the damn door to them. But will you? Or will you let this be a “what could’ve been” type of situation? This person is love in its purest form, but love isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s quiet, waiting for you to notice it. While doing this reading i remembered that one quote from insta which was “I Thought I Was Fine Until They Stopped Talking To Me, Now I’m in Shambles”

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Thank you so much for reading all the way through! I hope my reading resonated with you and that you had a lovely time going through it. If you enjoyed it, please like and reblog, it really means a lot! Let me know which pile you chose; I absolutely love hearing your thoughts and feedback on my readings! ♡

Note: tarot cards provide guidance and possible insights into what could happen based on current energies, thoughts, and actions. the cards can highlight potential paths or outcomes, but they do not predict the future in a fixed way. this is a general reading so take what resonates!

[loveunt0ld]

warm - bang chan

when his side of the bed is cold, you find yourself craving his warmth. so what better way to find it than from the man himself?

a/n: was listening to ariana’s album and warm made me think of chan… oh my sweet channie ㅠㅠ i love that little guy so bad

—

it was late, too late for the city to be alive. not a single sound could be heard, except for a few crickets chirping, a couple of stray barks here and there. overall, a quiet night.

you began tossing and turning in bed, only to find the spot next to you as cold as ice. where is he you wonder. you stand up, making your way down the stairs. you see a sliver of light peeking through the door of the guest room-turned-studio. the light enough to quell your previous worry. there he is you think to yourself.

before you walk to the studio, you make a pitstop in the kitchen. you make chan a nice, warm peppermint tea. just something to help him relax a little more, you thought to yourself. you know he’s been stressed preparing for future releases and with shows coming up, every second counts for him.

with the mug of tea in your hands, you carefully make your way towards the studio. the soft click clack of the keyboard becomes slightly louder. you peek through the door to be greeted with the curly mop of hair. chan is up working late again.

you always admired how dedicated he was to his work. chan never failed to amaze you. he loved what he did, he never felt like it was a burden. he loved making music and he loved performing on stage with his members. this was his passion.

however, there were some days he would get lost in his work. he’d give his all for his members. for him, they deserve the world. you know just how much he loves his kids, like they’re his own flesh and blood. it was times like these when all of you would band together to show chan just how much all of you appreciated him. you, as his partner. the kids, as his members. you loved your boyfriend and they loved their leader.

you find your knuckles lightly knocking at the door before you could think. “channie? it’s me.” you announce, waiting to see if he’d let you in.

“come in~” he answers as you open the door just enough to let yourself in. you were greeted with his cute dimples and the warmest smile. the most prettiest smile exists because i get to see it everyday is what you think to yourself.

“hi my love. whatcha up to?” you ask him as you slide onto the sofa just behind his studio chair. you set the tea down for him on the table as you slide it over to him. you make yourself comfy while waiting for his response. he turns himself around to see the tea on the table. his eyes widen a little as he rolls his way over to you. he grabs your hands while looking at you with his twinkling eyes.

“i’m just working on some demos that i need to turn in by the end of this week. and you? what brings my baby here to my lair?” chan questions you while lightly giggling. you looked so cute to him, all bundled up. your sleepiness so clearly catching up to you before you could run from it.

“just wanted to bring you some tea and i missed you in bed channie.” you mumble, not really able to keep your eyes open with how tired you are. you feel his rough fingers brush away your loose strands of hair. afterwards, his hand caresses your cheek.

through a blurry haze, you see his head tilt while he looks at you. he’s wearing his love goggles again. chan looked at you with an adoration that could light up a whole continent. your brightest star channie. oh how you loved him. this man meant everything to you. a chuckle from his end broke you out of your train of thought.

“thank you for the tea my love. let me drink this and finish up this last demo. then we’ll head to bed, how does that sound baby? hm?” chan suggests while actively caressing your cheek with his thumb. he gives you a lopsided smile, a dimple popping out from that side only. you place your hand over his much larger one to hold it.

“i’d like that channie.” you respond, with your head snuggled into his hand. you close your eyes once more to bask in the warmth that chan provides you. he leans forward to land a kiss on the top of your head. then he plants another one on your forehead, another on your nose, and lastly a soft kiss to your lips. he could kiss you for a lifetime and that would never be enough for him.

about 20 minutes later, you feel yourself being lifted from the couch. your first instinct is to wrap your arms around him while he carries you to bed. he holds you tighter, scared of dropping you. however, you know that he never would.

he lightly kicks open the door to your shared bedroom. he approaches the bed and lightly puts you down on your side, making sure to tuck you in. he climbs into his side of the bed and then he snakes his arms around you. his arms were your home. it was a reminder that wherever you two were, as long as chan wrapped his arms around you, you two were always home.

you hear him so close to you, his breaths while he’s getting comfortable. “thank you for loving me so well baby. im the luckiest man alive.” chan whispers into your ear while he wraps his arms around you tighter.

“loving you is so easy channie. i’ll love you forever.” you mumble back, but chan can pick it up so easily. he closes his eyes and leans his head against the back of yours.

“i love you y/n. for an eternity if you’ll let me.” chan declared. you were his everything. if you asked him for a star, he’d give you the galaxy. his most beautiful moments are spent loving you.

you nod, finally letting sleep interrupt the sweet moment you two shared. chan felt himself smile when he could tell you had fallen asleep. his safe place would always be with you. the love you two had for each other was the loudest thing happening in the quiet city.

[wonderlandwalker]

The promises we cling to | Finnick Odair x reader

thg masterlist / inbox / part two

summary: this is basically just me starting with the "people are watching / then lets give them something to look at" prompt and maybe getting a little lost in the process

word count: 3.6k

tags / content warnings: angst, fluff, violence, blood, injury that whole shebang, I actually proofread this one but that doesn't mean I spotted everything sorry in advance

a/n: apparently the only time I'm capable of writing is when im less than a day away from my constitutional law final and delusional because i've been awake for 38 hours so hopefully this will give me enough dopamine to actually get a passing grade

Finnick knows how this works; he’s known it since he was fourteen years old and first stepped foot in an arena. Since the moment he lost sight of you, since the bloodbath separated you, Snow’s words haunt him with every cannon he hears: "She is just another thing I can take from you."

And yet—

He still dares to believe you’re alive.

Not because the Capitol hasn’t tried. Not because the odds are kind. But because you promised. You swore you’d fight. And Finnick clings to that vow like a prayer, even as the arena’s cannons rattle his bones. Last night, he’d counted the fallen—your name absent from the sky’s grim ledger. But three more cannons have split the air since dawn, and now—

Now he’s not sure what to believe. The rational part of him—the part carved into survival by years of Capitol cruelty—knows the truth: They’re playing with him. But the other part, the raw and bleeding thing behind his ribs, doesn’t care. The rebels’ plan echoe in his head, "Stay put. Wait for extraction." But he’s itching to move, to act, to do something besides sit here and wait. Every muscle in his body is filled with restless energy, his fingers tapping a precise rhythm against his trident. The inaction is worse than any challenge the arena could give him. He wants to run back into the jungle, to tear through the branches until he finds you, but he knows you. That's the cruellest part.

He knows how you think, the way you map escape routes before you even enter a room, the way you always have a back-up plan for your back-up plan. And right now, this beach is your plan. It’s the rendezvous point you had all agreed on before the Games even began, a secret strategy the rebels had managed to lay out. If he leaves, he risks missing you. If he stays, he risks leaving you to die alone. The dilemma claws at his ribs, and around him he can hear the others strategise, but their words blur into static. All he can hear is the phantom echoe of your voice in his head as you tell him it will be okay. Johanna catches his eye from across the beach, her glare sharp enough to cut. “Stop pacing. You’re making me twitchy.” He forces himself to let out a deep breath, focusing on the movement of the water in front of him. He needs to put himself back together; he needs to stay here.

But then—your scream. It tears through the jungle, a sound so visceral his body moves before his mind catches up. He’s already sprinting, the grip on his trident tight as his instincts kick in.

"Finnick, stop—!" Johanna’s voice is lost to him over the rushing of blood in his ears. The trees blur as he runs; he doesn't think about the careers that could be close by, the traps that he could trigger or the fact that he’s doing the exact opposite of what he’s supposed to. The flicker of movement to his right catches his attention, and he’s about to change directions when the jabberjays descend. They’re a swarm of wings and needle-sharp cries as they surround him, their voices stitching together into an illusion of you: your gasps, your sobs, the way you’d whispered his name before being forced apart. He stops moving and staggers to his knees. It’s not real. He knows it’s not real. Knows that Snow’s fingerprints are all over this new form of torture. But logic means nothing when his hands are shaking, when his lungs refuse to work, when every instinct screams to run, find, save—

Johanna grabs his shoulder, her nails biting through his skin. "Breathe, Odair."

The jabberjays' cries fade into the jungle's chorus, leaving Finnick hollowed out and raw. Johanna's grip on his shoulder remains, her fingers digging into muscle like she's the only thing keeping him from splintering apart.

"Get up," she hisses, voice low and urgent. "We need to move before those things lure anyone else here." Finnick's hands still tremble as he pushes himself to his feet. The phantom echoes of your voice cling to him, sticky as blood. He wants to argue, to plunge back into the green hell after you, but Johanna's right—the sound of the jabberjays could be a beacon for every tribute left in the arena.

The walk back to the beach is a blur of snapping branches and Johanna's muttered curses. When they break through the treeline, Beetee's head jerks up from the makeshift radio he's been tinkering with, his glasses flashing in the sunlight. "Did you find—?"

"No," Johanna cuts him off, shoving Finnick toward the water. "Go clean up before I toss you in the water myself.” Finnick's gaze drifts to the treeline, his fingers twitching at his sides. You promised you'd fight. He just needs to believe you're still fighting.

You wake to the taste of copper and dirt. The world swims into focus slowly—first the ache in your ribs, then the sticky warmth of blood matting your hair to your scalp. Somewhere in the chaos of the bloodbath, a blow to the head had sent you sprawling into the undergrowth, separating you from the others. The jungle hums around you, deceptive in its tranquillity. Every rustle of leaves could be a mutation, every snapped twig a Career hunting for stragglers. The beach is your only chance—you know Finnick will be waiting there, even if it kills him. You press your back against a tree, lungs burning, and your ribs scream where a Career’s boot found its mark yesterday, but you know you need to keep moving; too much time has passed already. You know the way his voice cracks when he’s trying not to beg, the way his hands shake after nightmares, you know he’s counting cannons, just like you are—each one a fresh wound. So you bite down on the pain and move.

The arena doesn’t kill you quietly; it creeps in through the cracks—the stench of rotting foliage, the too-sweet tang of tracker jacker venom lingering in the air, the way your own sweat stings the cuts on your palms. So you move in bursts, pausing to listen between steps. The arena's traps are everywhere.

When the jabberjays come, their shrieks weaving together your name in Finnick's voice, you almost believe it's real. Your chest cracks open with want, but you bite your tongue until you taste blood. The jabberjays' voices fade, but their poison lingers in your bones. You press a trembling hand against the rough bark of a tree, counting breaths until the phantom sound of Finnick's screams stops echoing in your skull. Every rustle of leaves sends your pulse skittering. The wound on your ribs throbs in time with your footsteps, a fresh bloom of pain with each misstep. You try to focus on the memory of Finnick's hands steadying you after nightmares – his thumbs brushing your wrists in slow circles. Breathe. Just breathe.

The first hint of salt air cuts through the jungle's rot. Your knees nearly buckle at the scent – it smells like Finnick's skin after swimming, like promises whispered against damp hair. The ground begins to slope downward. Somewhere beyond the trees, waves crash in a rhythm you'd know blind. You're close now. So close. A twig snaps; you freeze, muscles coiled.

Then—a sound. Not a cannon. Not a mutation. A rhythmic tap, too precise to be accidental. You know that sound, like you know the hitch in Finnick’s breath when he wakes from nightmares. Like you know the way his fingers drum against your hip when he’s impatient, when he’s afraid, when he’s trying to pretend he isn’t either. The beach is close. You know that rhythm, the way his hands move when his mind is racing, when the nerves he’d never admit to are fraying his control. And just like that, you’re running; you’re reckless. You can smell the sand now; you can almost hear their hushed voices. But the arena has one last cruelty in store.

You feel it before you see it, that split-second prickle at the back of your neck, the sudden hush of the jungle like the arena itself is holding its breath, and you know the fatal mistake you’ve just made. Memories crash over you like a riptide. The bouncing of his knee under the kitchen table on the morning of the reaping, the way he’d flinched when your fingers brushed his wrist, then clung to you like you were the only anchor in a storm. You remember the Tuesday he’d shattered a teacup at 3 a.m., his breathing coming out in jagged bursts. You hadn't asked him why; it didn't matter why. You had just slid down beside him, pressing your forehead to his temple until his lungs remembered how to work.

And that damned peach pie, the memory of flour dusting his lashes as he’d laughed at your frantic perfectionism, only to turn pale as a ghost when you’d yelped at the oven’s burn. His hands, so careful, always so careful, cradling your blistered palms while his voice stayed as steady as the tide. “Breathe, sweetheart. It’s just pie.” It had been his mother’s recipe, the first thing he trusted you with that hurt to share, and you were more upset over messing it up than the burn on your hands. And that night on the beach, salt air clinging to his lips as he whispered “Promise me” with a desperation that carved itself into your bones. The version of Finnick the Capitol moulded was gone; there was only the raw, trembling truth of him.

It had reminded you of the first time you met. The way Finnick’s laugh had faltered when your eyes locked across the room years ago—like he’d been sucker-punched by his own heartbeat. The Capitol’s golden boy unravelled in an instant. The sun was starting to rise over the water, the soft light showcasing the tension in his shoulders.

You’ve seen Finnick Odair wear a hundred masks, but this—this restless hesitation, his fingers worrying the edge of his sleeve—is new. You open your mouth to ask him, but he speaks first. “I know you like to tease me about the clichés I tell you.” His voice is rough, like he’s been screaming into the tide. “But I need you to know I mean every fucking word.” When he turns, the look on his face steals your breath. This isn’t the polished charmer from your early days or even the fractured man who once sobbed into your collarbone after a Capitol party. This is something rawer. Something terrified.

Your fingers find the nape of his neck on instinct, threading through sweat-damp curls. He shudders, leaning into your touch like a dying man offered water. “I know,” you whisper. “No.” His hand clamps over yours, pressing your palm flat to his pulse. It’s racing. “When I say I’d die for you, I mean it. Let me mean it.” The words are a blade between your ribs. “Finn—”

“We’ve both known what will happen at the reaping, even if we pretend we don’t.” His thumb traces your knuckles—so gentle, so at odds with the fire in his eyes. “You’d walk into that arena alone just to spare a stranger. That stubbornness is why I—" He chokes. “But you have to let me be selfish too.” A tear slips down your cheek, but he catches it before it can fall from your face. “Promise me.” His voice cracks.“Promise you’ll survive, even if I don’t.”

You want to argue. To shake him until his teeth rattle. But the plea in his gaze is a mirror of your own soul. “I promise.” His exhale is a seismic thing, like he’s been drowning for years. You seize his wrist before he can pull away. “Promise me too. That you’ll fight, no matter what.” There’s a flicker of agony in his eyes, but just like you had known, he knows you need to hear him say it. “I promise I’ll try.” There are so many unspoken words as he looks at you. So many more clichés you know he wants to give to you, so many reassurances you wish you could give him, but the one promise you have always shared is louder than ever: you won’t let them have the satisfaction of knowing they can break you.

So maybe this is how it was always meant to be. The thought comes to you with eerie clarity as Brutus enters your line of vision and his fingers crush your windpipe. You’ve kept your promises, you’ve fought like hell, and now—now you’ve made it back to him, even if only for a final heartbeat. Your vision tunnels, and every gasp is like a knife being dragged through your lungs, but you don’t stop moving. Your fingers reach for the blade embedded in your palm — the one you’d taken from another tribute hours ago, the one still slick with your own blood. Brutus snarls as you drive it into his wrist, and for one glorious second, his grip loosens. You suck in a fractured breath, but then his other hand slams you against a tree. “Is that all you’ve got?” His breath is rancid, and stars burst behind your eyes, the world around you fracturing into fragments as he lifts you off the ground, once again stealing your breath from you.

You think of Finnick, the real him, the one who kissed you like he was starving as he trailed a path all over your body, who whispered against your thighs like he was reciting a prayer. Just as you’re about to give in to the memories, throught the static in your ears, you hear it, and Brutus’ head snaps toward the sound.

"Get your fucking hands off her."

The voice is raw with fury, edged with something worse—terror. Brutus actually flinches. It’s a voice you’d recognise anywhere; you’d know it underwater. In a hurricane. At the end of the world. Finnick.

You hit the ground hard, your lungs screaming as they try to reclaim the air you’ve been gifted once more, but all you can process is him. The unmistakably feral look twisting on his face as he slams into Brutus like a tidal wave, the sickening crunch of his fist meeting jawbone—once, twice—each blow precise and vicious, the way his trident lies abandoned behind him; he didn’t even bother using it. This isn’t combat; this is butchery. Your vision swims as you stagger upright, only to collapse again. Every gasp feels like swallowing broken glass, but you have to get to him—

Crack.

The sound isn’t just heard. You feel it in your bones. Brutus’ head snaps sideways, his knees buckling as Finnick drives an elbow into his temple. There’s no finesse, just a boy who’s spent too many years sharpening himself into a weapon, finally cutting loose.

A wet cough wrenches from your throat, and Finnick’s head whips toward you so fast it’s a miracle his neck doesn’t break. For one fractured second, his rage falters. You’ll remember that look forever. How his eyes went wild, how his breath hitched—like he’d just watched you die. The sound of your wheezing seems to snap him out of his trance. Though he’s covered from head to toe in blood spatter—none of it his—he has never looked more fragile to you. He rushes to your side, dropping to his knees as one hand cradles your face while the other takes yours, pressing your palm against his ribcage to help you steady your racing breaths. His thumb strokes your cheek in slow, uneven sweeps—a nervous habit. The blood smearing your skin is thick, still warm, but you can’t bring yourself to care, not when Finnick is looking at you like this, like you’re dawn breaking over the ocean after the longest night of his life.

Despite the ache in your arms, you lift your free hand and catch his—the one that had been tracing restless patterns against your skin—and press his palm to your chest. You know the steadying rhythm of your heartbeat is one of the few things that can anchor him now. A spark flickers to life in his eyes as they roam your face, as if he’s memorising the proof that you’re here, alive.

“I’ve missed you.” The words are too small for the weight in your chest, but they’re the only truth you can grasp. His chuckle is rough, warmth bleeding into the sound, and it reignites the dull ache in your heart—then fans it into a wildfire when he murmurs, “I missed you more.” You can feel the want boiling inside him—the way his adrenaline sings for him to crush you against his ribs, to kiss you like he’s pouring every unsaid vow into your lungs. But he hesitates, fingers twitching against your collarbone. Still afraid, still fragile.

“I’m okay, Finn. I promise.” A smile ghosts his lips, but his next words are barely audible. “Everybody’s watching.” He doesn’t need to say anything else. You remember the first oath you ever swore to each other: Don’t let them in. Don’t let them twist this. Your relationship was never just yours—it was a stage play for all of Panem, a performance where even you sometimes forgot where the script ended and the truth began.

Yet here he is, clinging to another promise—the one where he swore to shield you, even from himself. You see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his hands hover like he’s afraid touch might shatter the illusion of control. He’s trying so damn hard to be what you need: steady, selfless, safe. But the irony is delicious. His restraint is the proof you crave. It screams what the cameras will never understand—that this, right here, is the most real thing either of you has ever had. So you tilt your chin up, your voice a challenge and a dare as you scan his face: “Then let’s give them something to look at.”

Your words are another whisper, so quiet you fear they might dissolve before they reach him—but then his head snaps up, his gaze scouring your face like a man reading a map in the dark. And then he breaks. He lunges forward, lips crashing into yours with a desperation that steals your breath. It’s overwhelming, it's perfect, the familiarity of his mouth against yours is everything you had been craving since you last saw him. You kiss him back like it’s the only language left to you, pouring every unsaid ‘I love you’ into the press of your lips. His touch is featherlight yet feverish, hands tracing your arms, your spine, as if trying to memorise you through his fingertips. And in this fragile bubble of shared breath and tangled limbs, you find it—the truth you’ve been starving for.

Finnick kisses like it’s his salvation. His teeth catch your lower lip, tugging gently, insatiable, while his arm bands around your waist, hauling you flush against him until not even air separates you. You feel the frantic thudding of his heartbeat where your chest meets his, a wild counterpoint to your own. When he groans into your mouth, it’s a sound you want to bottle. It’s not enough. Even now, with his skin against yours and his pulse thundering under your palms, you’re already aching for more—more of him, more of this, more of the way he makes the world vanish.

A very deliberate cough shatters the daydream you’d been lost in, and the two of you spring apart like kids caught making out behind the gym. “You two never fail to disgust me.” Johanna’s voice is flat, devoid of even her trademark sarcasm, and the heat that floods your cheeks is embarrassingly familiar. “If you’re done trying to swallow each other’s faces, we’ve got shit to do.”

Finnick snaps back to reality first, hauling himself upright before pulling you up with him. His hands linger, like he needs the contact to convince himself you’re really here. Johanna rolls her eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t stick, already stalking back toward the clearing—but not before you catch her gaze flickering over you, her lips twitching like she’s fighting a smile. Of course she cares, she's the one who introduced the two of you to begin with.

“I think she might actually be glad I’m not dead.” You murmur, and his laughter is warm against your ear. The sound settles something in your chest, a reminder: You’re here. You’re together. Maybe, against all odds, things will be okay.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he jokes back. “She’s just relieved she won’t have to suffer through my moping anymore.” The lightness in his grin tells you everything—he’s found his footing again. And so have you. But as Finnick’s thumb brushes your wrist, you both hear it: another cannon in the distance. The Games aren’t over yet.

[prequel: The masks we wear]

[sirazaroff]

Lil question(that you don’t have to answer) but what did morrible do to Glinda?(with your head canons ofc)

Hmm, what didn’t Morrible do?~

I’m still trying to work out the details of this but…

Short Answer: she fucks that girltwink up.

Long Answer:

At Shiz, Morrible was working hard to build Elphaba up so that she would go along with her hidden agenda, and it was working very effectively too.

Then things changed and now Morrible has Glinda to train instead. The nurturing and encouragement Elphaba received? That’s not needed here, no. What Morrible attempts to do to Glinda is break her, because someone that high up will only listen if they’re ‘humbled’.

So her plan goes as follows:

1. WITHER:

Morrible only has one agenda in mind for Glinda. She needs to break everything about that woman, and break she does. It’s not just mentally and emotionally, it’s physically as well with long days spent practicing sorcery. Every failed spell is swiftly dealt with until Glinda is left with battered hands and frustration welling behind her eyes. Weeks and weeks of this eventually numb her to any comforts of this new life.

2. FEAR:

Because she’s the beloved Good Witch, Glinda feels a sense of value. That she can eventually be irreplaceable and in turn, protected. Morrible works very hard to let her know that with every waking moment they spend together is but a living nightmare for the Upland woman. A lesson turns into a deliberate assault with no one around to bear witness, nor anyone to care to investigate the screams that echo in the hallways. The Wizard needs Glinda alive, not well.

3. SNAP:

Years and years of this and Glinda never fully relent, testing Morrible’s patience of all things. As long as Elphaba is out there, Glinda holds out hope. By now the sight of Glinda will set Morrible off and in one occurrence she doesn’t realize her emotions have caused a storm to brew outside, a single bolt of lighting breaking through the windows to strike Glinda. She survives, the Wizard is very inconvenienced, and Morrible decides to simply just keep her distance from the Good Witch from then on.

Glinda gets the last laugh in the end. The Wizard is gone and Morrible tries to have Glinda executed in an attempt to grab power before she could. She learns far too late what Glinda shares with the Wizard; popularity. The people rebel and Morrible’s reign ends as quickly as it starts, left to rot in the dungeons of the palace while Glinda becomes the new ruler.

——————

As my favorite tag ever once said: Madame Morrible is never seeing heaven :)

Hopefully this made sense. I didn’t trust my words so I made some pictures to go with it. Anyways ask me about my scarecrow au.

[radlovesfics]

ok but what if the Variants had their own version of childhood best friend reader where they DID meet and fall in love (somehow bc we freaky like that) except in every reality besides mainstream you:

Die to Nolan/ Get mercy killed/Eaten bc u know cannibalism and love metaphor or u die before he can do that/ get a terminal illness/ overall just something horrible happens and ur gone and it’s BC OF THAT the variants go “fuck it we ball” cuckoo bananas then after going to mainstream marks world are like “wtf u get to have her but alive???? naw that’s not fair “ and just basically it’s a free for all or with their collective crazy caveman brain they decide some sort sharing custody agreement LMFAO

OR LIKE ANOTHER SCENARIO WHERE U

still fall in love with mark in every reality but mainstream Mark is the only one where he pushes u away for ur own safety and won’t tell u the reason why (if he’s just not told u about his powers) or if he decides to be like fake mean and nasty and pulls a “you’re just a distraction and make me weak” *cut to him flying away sobbing like a baby bc he didn’t wanna do it but felt like he had to* so u hate him and love him but also hate him so much and now all these variants are pulling up and mainstream mark realizes he’s FUCKED when all these other assholes are obsessed and hellbent on finding u bc why would they not love u to their fullest ability?? they’re too selfish for that so queue funny/horrible interactions with all of them bc you’re still so mad and pissed at mark but also so in love with him it’s insane

Same scenario but kinda different: let’s say like u had ur own powers and could actually go toe to toe with mark and that shit he pulls pisses u off BAD bc u can take care of urself!! like mark gets u angry enough to attack him/make u hate him bc he’s such a martyr ofc and u fuck him up!! u both never interact again in any positive form and idk if he still gets with eve here but there’s def still pinning on his end for u anyway ofc the variants invade and reader gets sent out to deal with them while mark is MIA and maybe the variants’ reader was weak/powerless in every reality except the mainstream one so this is like. hard drugs for these crazy marks who are like “oh my god you’re so hot please beat me” u know?? and ofc u do bc u hate mark here and take out ur aggression on them

but I’d like to think (for added drama) ur superhero costume involves a mask to hide your identity and since ur were weak/dead in their realities, as these variants are fighting u they have no idea who u are and are not going easy or pulling punches and are being just awful but u know!! one sends ur mask flying or breaks it somehow and suddenly everything comes to a dead stop and whichever one ur fighting will freeze in disbelief bc wtf this is the loml??? the last person they expected ?? and she’s so strong?? and even more amazing than they remembered ??? u however will not give an actual shit and continue beating their variant asses as they all immediately change their attitude when fighting u and it’s just a LOT of flirting/ snarky compliments/ actually mark being gross and horny on main but this obvs sets u off and they realize mainstream mark never ended up with u and u in fact HATE him as they witness u literally crush one of themselves and well obvs they see themselves as better to the mainstream mark so they’re like “ok we can work with this :)” and blah blah blah run a train on u, kidnap u, lotta hate sex, whatever

and for the mainstream mark (to those that love him including myself): the above scenario ends with him trying over and over to save u and finally some epic and dramatic love confession with lots of yelling and then y’all fight together and have ur cute wholesome reunion and then fuck like crazy LMAOOO

I need to be sedated

[moody-alcoholic]

On a Wing and a Prayer

Part 1 - Innocence

My weekly helping of hurt with no comfort. Enjoy. CW: dead dove don't eat, torture, suicidal thoughts. poly 141 x reader who is accused of being a traitor... you know the drill.

Previous parts - masterlist - next

It hurts. There’s two types of pain.

The physical pain, the sting of your lungs as a cloth is placed over your mouth and water is poured over your face. 

The burn as your lungs beg for a beak in the relentless cycle. If you could speak you would beg them to stop. 

They won't listen, you know that. Maybe that makes it worse. 

Maybe that makes it harder to understand why they would do this to you. 

‘What’s your connection to Makarov?’ It's John. He always asks the questions. Gesturing at Simon to give you a break so you can answer. 

That's the second type of pain. You’re innocent, they don't know that. Right now you’re guilty in their eyes. The mental torture-your friends, your lovers, whatever you want to call them- they’re hurting you. And they’re not going to stop until they’re satisfied. 

That's never going to happen because they don't know yet.

They don't know you’re innocent. 

‘I have no connection to Makarov,’ you say between breaths. 

They don't know you’re innocent.

You can't blame them, they’re doing their job. For queen and country.

The rag is pressed back over your nose and mouth and more water is poured over it. 

You can't breathe, they won’t let you. 

Simon… 

Simon who has held you in his arms letting you pour your heart out to him is there, his hands around your face making sure you suffer.

Making sure you live.

Suffering is not enough, you need to live. 

They need you to live…

Kyle watches from the window. He refused to participate. He got a bollocking from Price. This is messy work. 

They keep you updated on Johnny's condition. Almost like that's supposed to change your mind. 

‘He’s in a coma, fighting for his life because of you!’ John snaps. 

Nothing you say can change their mind. No amount of begging or pleading. 

You tried to keep it together. You didn't last long. John and Simon know what they’re doing. 

The rag is removed from your face again.

‘How did Makarov know about the raid?’ John's voice is harsh, angry, loud and commanding. 

‘I don't know.’ you say. It's the truth, it's not you. You would never hurt them. 

They don't believe you.

Why should they believe you? 

You don’t know what evidence they have against you. Not that they would tell you, they’re keeping that information close to their chest.

They want to break you first.

You don’t stand a chance.

You don’t know how many days it’s been. Maybe that’s the worst. Physiological torture, is sometimes more effective then physical torture. They keep going for what feels like hours, until you’re vomiting back up the water that escaped down your throat. 

That’s when they stop, leaving the room in silence, your stomach raw, your body shivering. At least you’re alone now. That’s when you cry, pray, whatever you want. You get a few hours of loneliness before they start again. 

How could they do this, the people you love? 

Then you remember the shot ripping through Johnny’s chest. The screaming, the blood. The crack of his ribs under your hands as you pumped on his chest trying to keep him alive. 

Then the confusion. The data, the plans, Makarov knew everything, and according to all the evidence that was your fault. 

No, you know how they could do this. Because in their eyes you’re a traitor. In their eyes you might as well have shot Johnny yourself. 

Maybe that would have been better, then at least they would have given you a quick death.

next Hey, I kind of hate this trope but I do love writing it! IMO 141 would never just jump straight to torture of someone they loved without irrefutable evidence... Its fantasy though and that's what I love about fanfics! Banners by firefly-graphics

[shanastoryteller]

Apocalypse Never

They help Dad into the cabin, more coherent than he was when they first broke him out, and Sam heads back to the car for their bags, for the Colt, and tries not to think about how everything has gone so quickly to shit. Mom and Jessica’s killer got away, again, but they’re all alive. That’s not nothing, that’s –

The pain hits him so completely and suddenly that he has no chance to brace himself for it. Usually it builds, first prickling pain then greater, but this is something else. It feels like nails are being shoved into his skull, images coming almost too fast for him to follow. He doesn’t realize he’s screaming until it stops, until he comes to with his head in his brother’s lap, Dean’s arms pinning him down and his face white and terrified above him. “Sammy? Sammy, you’re bleeding. What’s wrong?”

His throat is too raw and tight to speak even if he wanted to. He does want to, but he can’t, he can’t say a goddamn thing.

I saved the world for you, he thinks wildly, and I didn’t even get to keep you. How fucked up is that?

~

He doesn’t know if his future self couldn’t send it all back any further, or if he thought that this would give Sam less time to fuck things up.

For a couple terrifying minutes, Sam had taken control of Lucifer. For a couple exhilarating minutes, Sam had the power of an archangel.

That sending the knowledge of the future back four years in the past was the best thing he could think to do with it leaves Sam with a poor opinion of the man he became. Then again, he had saved the world, so. There’s that.

He doesn’t want to think of the him that had fallen into the pit with Lucifer and Michael. He hopes he can save him by making different choices, but maybe he can’t. Alternate universes, or parallel ones, or whatever. Maybe that Sam is damned for good and the best he could do was save a different version of himself, a different version of his brother.

There’s not much point in wondering about it. He’ll never know either way.

It’s memories with no emotions, thank fuck, because just the knowledge of it all is enough to drive him to his knees, to edge him to weeping and whimpering and slitting his wrists if he lets it.

He’s not going to. He has work to do. There will be time to fall apart after, when the world is safe. When Dean is safe.

Dean after Dad had died and given him that ultimatum had been bad enough. Dean after forty years in hell had been nearly unrecognizable.

He wipes the blood from his face, ushers Dean back inside, and tries not to think too hard about what he’s about to do.

Dean figures out it’s Azazel in Dad’s body and they’re pinned to the wall and Sam waits until Azazel is hovering over him, hand next to his head as he tilts his head back and breathes over Sam’s lips. It’s a torture and a powerplay, to let the want in his eyes come out in his father’s face, to make it John’s body that’s pressed so nauseatingly close to his own.

Sam isn’t the same person he was four years ago, ten minutes ago.

Breaking out of Azazel’s hold is easy. He’s using the equivalent of a single finger to keep them down, like pinning down a butterfly, and it's only enough until it isn’t.

He grabs Azazel’s face and pulls him close, hears the beginning of his laughter before Sam seals their mouths together. He’s making a deal here, selling his soul sure as anything, just not with Azazel.

Azazel leans into it, just like Sam knew he would, shoving his tongue in Sam’s mouth and getting off at his instinctive flinch of disgust, of the way Dean’s screaming bloody murder behind him. Azazel hasn’t hurt Dean yet. Sam’s going to make sure he never will.

He bites down hard. Blood fills his mouth and he sucks on his tongue, drinking as much as he can. It doesn't tase like iron, not like it should, instead it's sweet and thick like honey. He thought Azazel would pull back now, but he’s still laughing into Sam’s mouth, even bites the inside of his cheek to add to the blood from his tongue, and he just lets Sam drink his fill. Of course, he doesn’t know what Sam knows. If Sam had done this the first time, the only thing the blood would have done would be to get him high and useless.

It means he gets more than a mouthful, that it’s long minutes of keeping his eyes closed and swallowing and trying not to think too hard about how it’s Dad’s hands on him and Dad’s hard on at his thigh and Dad’s tongue he’s sucking on. He’s already got four years’ worth of nightmares in his head. No need to add more than necessary.

His skin is buzzing, feeling stretched out over him like his body is too big for it suddenly, almost like the aches of growing pains but more electric. Azazel pulls back and licks up the side of his face, leaving blood and spit behind, and breathes into his ear, “If you missed me feeding you, boy, all you had to do was ask.”

Yeah, that’s enough of that.

He shoves Azazel back without moving his hands, hard enough that he stumbles, and he has to move fast, before he gets a smart idea like snapping Dad’s neck or bursting his heart. He raises his hand and he’d settle for an exorcism, but power is lying heavy and thick in his veins. Destroying Lilith nearly killed him and Azazel is more powerful than Lilith and the blood he drank shouldn’t be nearly enough.

But fear sparks in Azazel’s yellow eyes and he starts choking, black smoke leaking from his ears and out his mouth. “How-”

Sam doesn’t let him finish. He remembers killing Samhain, killing Alastair, killing Lilith. He knows what to do.

Azazel dies screaming. Mom and Jessica are avenged. It’s not as satisfying as he thought it’d be.

Dad is on his hands and knees, taking in deep lungfuls of air. Sam knows from experience that being possessed isn’t pleasant.

“Sammy?”

He forces himself to look over, sees his brother approaching him with hands outstretched. The fear hasn’t gone anywhere even with Azazel dead, even with Dad alive, even though he doesn’t have any of the devastating injuries he sustained last time.

He doesn’t have the emotions to go along with the memory of the first time Dean saw him drinking demon blood, but he imagines it was something like this. “I’m sorry.”

“Sammy,” Dean says again, but Dad’s getting to his feet, Dad’s looking at the Colt, and Sam can’t die yet. He still has work to do.

It’s not a conscious thought, not something he actively tries to do, it’s just one minute he’s there in a cabin with his father and brother and the next he’s in the middle of a field, the night air crisp and clear and a million stars shining above him.

He couldn’t do that before.

There’s something wrong, he thinks, because he doesn’t remember what drinking demon blood felt like, but he remembers describing it, and this isn’t right. He should be drained after that, should feel almost normal again, but instead it’s like there are bees pinging around inside him, like there’s molten lava in his veins, like he’s dying.

He’s dying, he realizes suddenly, the power threatening to eat him alive. He looks down at his arms, like he’s expecting to see them crisping up beneath moonlight, but they look normal, like skin. Of course it’s not killing him, no matter what it feels like. He’s Lucifer’s perfect vessel. There’s no power his body can’t contain, none except God’s, maybe, and it looks like he’s long past making house calls.

It won’t kill him, but it hurts like hell, and he can’t think, he needs to burn it off somehow. He’s never had this problem before, not even when he drank all that blood for Lucifer.

He’s standing in Bobby’s living room and he doesn’t understand why until he sees the body on his kitchen table wrapped in a white sheet. He doesn’t know how Bobby got rid of the paramedics, if he’s maybe holding the body for her family, but Sam thinks he knows how to get rid of some of the itching along his skin.

Sam died a lot, in those weeks he and Dean were apart. Lucifer was true to his word. Sam came back every time.

He pulls down the sheet, sees the ways Meg’s face has settled into death in the past day, how decay has started to take hold and left her blue and cold and her skin slack. He leans down, presses a kiss to her cheek, and thinks that this is the least he owes her, for what she endured because of him, for trying to help him even at the bitter end.

She gasps to life beneath him, warmth flooding her skin and air stuttering into her lungs. “Sam?” she asks, fear and confusion and a pain that’s not physical.

Maybe she won’t want to live, considering everything she’s been through, but at least now the choice is hers and not a demon’s. There are footsteps and he turns to see Bobby standing in the doorway, gun pointed to the ground and mouth open in shock. Sam doesn’t have time to worry about it, instead he’s gone, the same burning still clawing its way out of his bones.

Caleb lies slumped in the chair Meg had tied him to, throat slit and eyes empty. Sam puts his hands on his shoulders, presses his lips to his bald head, and feels the moment his heart starts beating again. He sends the ropes falling with barely a thought and he’s gone the moment he hears his first confused groan.

Pastor Jim is laid out in his home, church workers Sam vaguely recognize huddled around him in prayer, his final send off. He’s just glad he got here before they burned him. They start screaming when they see him but he leans down, internally wincing at how Jim’s going to explain his way out of this one, and kisses his forehead, a reversal of the paternal tenderness Jim had shown him as a child.

His chest rises and his eyes open and his eyebrows push together. “Sam, what-“

He doesn’t stick around to hear the end of that question, figures it’s not anything he can answer anyway.

It takes him a long moment of staring out at the snow covered peaks and too close sky and the brilliant sun hitting his face even though it was just the middle of the night for him to place himself, even though it shouldn’t be enough, but he knows where he is even though he shouldn’t.

The air’s too thin and he’s going to give himself altitude sickness if he lingers and he should probably be freezing to death but his blood is still running too hot. Not burning, not like it was before he brought three people back from the dead, but still far from comfortable.

Still. He can’t say he ever thought he’d ever get to see the view from Mt. Everest.

“Castiel,” he says. “It’s Sam Winchester. We need to talk.”

Nothing. Typical.

“I know about God’s plan, about Lucifer and Michael, about my role as his vessel. I know about you, Cas. You’re going to want to hear me out.”

There’s the rustle of wings behind him and he turns to see Cas, younger than he looked before. Jimmy Novak younger than he’d been before. He wonders about that for a moment. He’d half expected Cas to show up as a sherpa rather than nip to America for a vessel, but Cas had kept the shape of Jimmy Novak even after his physical body perished, so maybe there’s a deeper preference there than just convenience.

His face is as cold as their surroundings. “You have strayed from God’s light.”

“Yeah, well, what good has he ever done me?” he asks tiredly. He used to believe. He believed yesterday. He prayed this morning. Even when he met Cas the first time, he believed. “I can’t explain. Can you just read my mind? We don’t have time.”

His eyebrows push together, but Cas has to be curious, otherwise he wouldn’t have said anything. He steps forward and presses two fingers against Sam’s forehead. He doesn’t feel any different, but when Cas lowers his hand, he’s lost his stoicism. Shock, despair, and anger chase themselves across his feature and Sam can’t blame him.

He’s not the only who lost his faith in the future.

“You said there were thousands of seals,” he says. “How many exactly?”

His eyes snap to Sam’s. “What?”

“God loved Lucifer,” he says. “It’s why he imprisoned him rather than destroying him. It’s why he left him a way out. Maybe it’s why he set up the apocalypse in the first place. I don’t know, I don’t care. All I know is that I’m not letting him out, ever. So we’re going to destroy every seal we can.”

Some can’t be undone, like the first one, a righteous man torturing an innocent soul in hell. But there are plenty that can, hopefully enough, hopefully most. If there are less than sixty six seals available, then Lucifer is never getting out of his cage.

“There were originally ten thousand seals,” Cas answers and Sam gets lightheaded for reasons that have nothing to do with thin air. “Only two thousand and thirty four seals are still viable.”

Okay, that’s better. Not great, but better. “Let’s get that number down to sixty five.”

“You are different,” Cas says.

Of course he’s different. His father’s alive. His brother never went to hell. Sam has never known the utter desolation of being completely alone, of grief and guilt so heavy he’s surprised it didn’t break his spine as surely as Jake’s knife in his back. He doesn’t actually remember feeling it, which is no small mercy, but he saw the effects of living with it, which is almost as bed. He'd thought what he’s feeling because of Jessica is as low as he could get. It’s not even close.

He wants to dig up her bones and breathe life into them, but at almost a year dead he thinks that’s beyond even this strange new power. Even like this, he’s failing Jessica one more time.

“Got any ideas?” he asks. “It wasn’t like this before. With the blood.”

He’d drank Ruby nearly dry more than once. It had been a high and then a crash and never did it give him access to this type of power.

“Azazel is – was a prince of hell,” Cas answers.

Sam frowns. “I thought he was king?”

“He was regent,” he corrects, “but to be a prince is separate from being ruler of hell. Lucifer created Lilith from bone, as Adam and Eve were made. The princes were created from his blood. Azazel’s blood is, in a way, Lucifer’s.”

Lucifer’s blood. Sam, his vessel, drinking down Lucifer’s blood, as a baby and now. Except as a baby he’d only had a few drops. He’d consumed a lot more than that back at the cabin.

Demon blood always wore off. The few drops of Azazel’s blood he’d gotten as a baby never had. He probably should have taken that into consideration, but there hadn’t been any time.

“Lucifer is evil but he is not a demon,” Cas continues.

Sam realizes suddenly that he did have power like this once. When he locked away Lucifer inside of him and took his power for his own. It’s not the same, not even close, but it’s similar. “This is what angel blood does?”

“No,” he says. “This is what Archangel Lucifer’s blood does to his perfect vessel. I believe. This has never happened before, so I cannot be certain. You are, as always, one of kind, Sam Winchester.”

It’s not quite a compliment, but it’s not as combative as he remembers Castiel being in the beginning. He’ll take it. “Guess we’ll figure it out together, then. If you’re sticking around to help prevent the apocalypse.”

If he’s not, this is going to be more than difficult. Tracking down all the seals without an angel on his side isn’t going to be impossible, but pretty damn close. And he doesn’t know how much time he has. Hell is going to be pissed about him killing Azazel. Heaven is probably going to take notice once he starts destroying seals so they can never be opened. Not to mention, he’s definitely going to be on hunters’ radar. Even if Dad can keep his mouth shut about him drinking demon blood, which he knows better than to rely on, him bringing back people from the dead is going to spread quickly. He’s going to be hunted at all sides, just like last time.

At least last time he had Dean, even broken, even when he was broken himself. He still had his brother.

But this is the price for saving him. For making sure that Dean is never in the position to kick off the apocalypse in the first place, to make it so Lucifer never again walks the earth even if heaven and hell reincarnate him and Dean and try and start this all over again.

He’s going to be killed for it, he knows, by demons or angels or hunters. But that doesn’t matter much in the grand scheme of things.

“Yes,” Cas says. “It is better for us all if the future you saw never comes to pass. I will help you.”

He grins, clapping Cas on the shoulder, and only laughs at the glare he receives in return. They have to get out of here before the altitude makes him loopy. Maybe it already has.

He’s going to save the world for his brother and he’s not even going to get to keep him.

How fucked up is that?

[maxlarens]

CL: guess the heat drives people crazy

pairing(s): charles leclerc x artist!reader

summary: you’re not used to having a boyfriend, let alone having a famous one. though you’d like to think you’re taking your new found status as a wag in your stride. charles certainly thinks so. [smau] [part 2 to this fic]

fc: faceless and some alexandra saint mleux

a/n: sorry this took so long! i was honestly kinda unsure how i wanted to do this. i wasn’t sure if i wanted to do a little storyline but i basically ended up just doing a bunch of little snapshots of their relationship 😇

@ynusername just posted…

liked by @rowan, @charlesleclerc and others

ynusername wildflowers, the waves where we met, on the way to our first dinner

chloegarelli i did that!☝🏻☝🏻

⤷ ynusername okay 😐 dont get too big for ur britches

user1 is that……..?

⤷ user2 CHARLES RIGHT?

⤷ user1 yes wtf!?

⤷ user3 you are delusional you can only see his hands

⤷ user2 AND?? he is in her likes

rowan we did it joe‼️

⤷ chloegarelli four years in the making iktr

⤷ chloegarelli i’d like to thank the american people and i’d like to thank democracy for this win

⤷ ynusername we are MONEGASQUE?

⤷ ynusername anyway u guys are the most insane couple i have ever met

⤷ rowan and you’re stuck with us foreverrrr

user4 no one is talking about how adorable this is. the waves where we met like UR KIDDING!

⤷ user5 if she is actually dating charles then he is literally the luckiest man alive

@f1wagupdates just posted…

tagged @ynusername @charlesleclerc

liked by @chloegarelli, @ynusername and others

f1wagupdates ‼️🚨 new wag alert 🚨‼️ monegasque painter yn yln has been spotted getting cozy with charles on his yacht. it’s believed they met while on holiday in italy several months ago🥺

user1 fell to my knees in the grocery store

⤷ user1 THAT SHOULD BE ME

⤷ user1 but if it had to be anyone else im glad its her

user2 oh i KNEW that was him on her instagram three months ago. vindication.

user3 stop she is so pretty

⤷ user4 like attracts like

rowan cats out of the bag @chloegarelli

⤷ chloegarelli WE DID THIS EVERYONE SAY THANK YOU

⤷ user5 thank you oh my god

⤷ user6 THANK YOU

⤷ charlesleclerc thank you😁

[❤️ by f1wagupdates]

user7 need to see them together at a race

⤷ user8 CHARLES GET HER ON THE PADDOCK

⤷ charlesleclerc 🫡

ynusername oh my god. not the picture of him pushing me into the water😐

⤷ user9 OH i love her ur honour

⤷ f1wagupdates I’M SORRY!

⤷ rowan don’t apologise its so perfect

⤷ charlesleclerc Stop I tripped!!!!!!!!! I told you!!!!!

⤷ ynusername u did NOT trip!!!!

⤷ user10 they are my everything wtf

@ynusername just posted…

tagged @charlesleclerc

liked by @charlesleclerc @f1 @scuderiaferrari and others

ynusername charles, the week we met we talked about what the monaco gp meant to you. the place your dreams took root, the one race you wanted so badly it hurt, the city you wanted to love you back. i could feel your yearning for that win as deeply as i feel for my own ambitions. i knew then that we understood each other like i have never understood anyone else in my life. and i knew, somehow i knew, that you would be on the top step of that podium. charles, i am endlessly proud of you and all the hard work you did to get here. you deserve this. i love you. and monaco loves you.

user1 charles monaco gp win you are everything to me

user2 they’re in love in love!!! WTFFFF

scuderiaferrari ❤️

user3 god let me have what they have i cant handle this

chloegarelli im tearing up yall are like my babies

user4 HE DID IT!!!!

charlesleclerc oh I love you I love you I love you

⤷ charlesleclerc How would I have done this without you?

⤷ ynusername I am so proud of you baby. I love you ❤️

⤷ user5 this interaction changed lives

⤷ user6 how do i reasonably find love after this. how am i supposed to be satisfied with anything less???

🎨 i just KNOW her caption would make the rounds on tumblr

[lologoinsolo]

Minds Us All Masterlist, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 TW: Mentions of blood! Non-con sedation And kidnapping!

“Make her off…” Kyle murmurs under his breath. That annoying smell of something far too clean and sterile has kept him up. Everyone has been taking time to sit besides Johnny in the hospital bed. “Make her off,” he jolts a bit when the door opens. John’s not looking his best but he’s trying to keep himself strong. Johnny took a bullet and nearly died for him after all.

“What’s that?” John says, tiredness etched into his features as he takes his seat besides a sleeping Johnny. The doctors worked relentlessly to keep him alive, now he just needs to wake up from his coma. “Heard you muttering, do you need a break?”

Kyle merely scoffs, he and Simon’s been sitting here the most. He still can’t get how devastated Simon sounded when Johnny was laying in a pile— he shakes his head and breathes deeply. “You remember that girl,” he says offhandedly, “the one that acted weirdly around Johnny.”

John’s beard crinkles slightly, “yeah? Johnny mentioned it once. Gave a report and everything.” He leans a bit forward, “why?” The gears in his head starts to grind.

“She told him that sunshine can’t go down the tunnel.” John freezes and Kyle continues, “I don’t get it. She was clearly frightened and confused.”

“She said sunshine?”

“Yeah,” Kyle sighs, “said it like a prayer.”

“I called Johnny, sunshine, before we went in the tunnel.” At that Kyle sits up. “I told him that we wouldn’t go down easy”.

The man’s eyes widen. “Make her off, make her— Makarov!” He shouts and the nurse makes a shushing noise, Kyle doesn’t seem to care as he stands up. The realization crashed down on him. “She knew,” she had to. “John, she knew.” How else would she have known that Makarov would’ve been there before anyone else?

The tiredness ebbs from John’s face and the Captain shows up. “Get Laswell on the phone right now, Gaz.”

…

You watched the news repeatedly after you left the hospital. You couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, everything felt wrong. Those blue eyes haunt you every time you blink. Your left side of your head throbs and aches, an itch on the inside of your brain. You hate it. You hate him. You hate that you can’t help but wait for a sign. A sign that you’re not as crazy as the doctors have made you out to be.

A week passes and nothing, another and nothing. You give up hope till the news recounts a ‘gas leak’ in a tunnel. Causing multiple problems and a near casualty. You drop your remote when your vision shakes your world and you see the man with familiar blue eyes being rushed on a gurney. Voices shouting at you, voices you’ve never heard giving commands. Your hands claw at your hair and you feel bile coming up your throat from the intensity of the sight. He’s bloodied up and his left side of his head looks at though it’s been cracked open with the blood gushing out.

You scream and fall to your knees when you manage to pull out. Your stomach lurches and you struggle to stand. You grab your keys, your wallet, and anything useful and drive off. You don’t know where you’re going but you're running. You never stay long when the visions come true, you can’t risk yourself. You won’t.

So you move, move around quickly and find a job. You found a hole in the wall apartment, no one would come looking for you here… at least you hope. Weeks turn into months, months turn into a year and you feel like maybe your life is coming slowly back together. Your visions have been weak but consistent, the only one that’s ever shaken you was blue eyes but he’s probably okay now. Hopefully…

Getting off of work, a job at the gas station. Something easy to blend into and no one bats an eye when you don’t look okay. Everyday has been feeling weirder. You’ve been writing more, visions are starting to stay longer. They’re getting worse again, the left side of your head throbs more every day. You’re tempted to run again but you don’t have the funds to do that. Taking a deep breath you push the apartment's creaky gate open, trudging along up the stairs to your place. You pull your keys out and as you do a warning flashes through you.

A man with a beard is sitting at your table, holding a gun, waiting. Waiting. He’s— you don’t open your door and you take off down the stairs. Your panic is rising with every stomp of your foot. You are near the gate and a flash of a hand goes through your mind's eye but not quick enough when you’re grabbed roughly. Can’t even scream when a hand clamps right over your mouth.

“Shut it,” a voice as deep as the ocean growls out. Your arms are forced behind your back as you cry and flail. You try to move them back but your assailant cuffs you quickly before slamming a hand back over your mouth before you can even call for help. Something cold is then pushed against the center of your back and it doesn’t take your curse to see that it’s a gun. “Walk. Now,” you hear a click and you tremble a step. Your arms are painfully tight against your back as he shoves you forward.

You walk up the steps and tears run down your face when he doesn’t even turn the knob, the door just opens for him. Meaning it was already unlocked. He shoves you once more to your kitchen table, the man with the beard that your curse showed earlier is sitting there. Waiting with a gun on the table. “Sit,” beard says, the one behind you gives a sharp nudge from his own gun and you sit.

“Pl-Please, I— I don’t have,” beard raises his hand and you try desperately to not whimper. “Please,” you beg, hoping he doesn’t kill you. You don’t know what they want or who they are.

“We need to talk.” Is all he says, he leans forward. The chair groaning under his weight and you blink back your wet eyes to see that he’s wearing a fishing hat. “You’re not hard to find, you know? Never stay in a place for long though.” His eyes squint and your struggle to breath when says without saying that you’re being tracked and watched. “Why are you running?” He doesn’t ask, he expects an answer from you. That gun on the table won’t allow you to deny him that.

“I…” you swallow, you can’t seem to stop your tears or the snot. You rub your face as best as you can against your shoulder. “Am I in t-trouble?” It’s not the answer he wants and his hand moves to his gun. “Please!” You shout suddenly, “I don’t know what I did wrong! Tell me, please— I don’t have any money. I’m sorry, please.”

He says nothing as you plead and beg, the one behind you doesn’t even make a gesture. You didn’t even recognize that he was wearing a mask, a skull one at that. A grim reaper that’s come to reap.

“Don’t kill me,” you blubber, you’re trembling so much that you’re surprised you haven’t vibrated off the chair. “Just— just tell me what I did wrong.”

He stands and you flinch, his hand trails as he walks around you. Shrinking under his hard gaze even more, “how did a girl like you work for Makarov, hm?” He chuckles mirthlessly, “could spill your bits out easily,” the one behind you grunts in agreement.

“I don’t,” you shake your head repeatedly side to side, “Makarov? Who? I don’t—“ beard grabs your chin and squeezes tightly making you whimper.

“Don’t play dumb with me.” He sneers, “one of my best nearly died but you told him to not go into that tunnel.” His thumb shifts harder against the fat of your cheeks. “Why?” That’s what confuses him in the entirety of tracking you down. If you did work for Makarov, why did you tell Johnny about it?

“Tunnel?” You murmur, tears rolling down your face and he does you the single kindness of flicking them away. It dawns on you now. “I-I,” you start hyperventilating, your anxiety through the roof as you try to breathe. The visions come flooding back and you scream.

…

10 minutes prior.

Gaz searches through your computer. Searching for something that could prove that you work with Makarov. It’s the only thing that makes possible sense, you’re practically normal. Your records scream ‘normal’, Laswell couldn’t find anything save for the fact that you’re an only child that went through numerous foster homes.

“Son of a bitch,” he slams his fist against your desk. Your search history is useless save for everything else. Sourdough starter, flower pots, seeds, gas, kitchenware, gas, star lights, dresser, gas. He sighs after looking at all of it, he hears a woman crying and he knows that Price is already interrogating you. He’d feel bad but they all need answers, “what are you hiding?” He mumbles when he sees gas, floor, and dresser typed in repeatedly. Almost like it’s important but why would you type it so many times. “Maybe she wanted new flooring?”

He leans back, taking a breath and he rolls his neck. “Gas…” his eyes move towards your dresser, “gas,” it starts to click, “Gaz, floor, dresser.” He pushes off and runs to your dresser. He opens it and digs through your clothing for something, anything. He lets out a gritted curse when there’s nothing.

He runs his hand down the sides, “floor,” a light bulb flickers to life in his head and he gets on his knees. His hands tap on the floorboards and he hears a hollow sound. “Gotcha,” he pulls the floorboards back and he sees numerous journals. Some old and some new, he grabs the newest one and he flips it open. Flicking through the pages and most of the dated entries makes no sense. Some are singular words to full on spirals of paragraphs. The latest one that’s dated today brings him to a stop.

Gun, man with gun, home, no safe. Run, run, mask, grab, gas will read, gas is read. Read. Read. figuring out, knowing. He knows. Knows. Knows. Scream.

Just as he reads that last word he hears a scream and he comes running downstairs with his gun in hand. He sees you screaming as Ghost shoves a needle into your throat. You flail and flounder, tears staining your cheeks and you manage to get off the chair. Ghost stands over you as you try to crawl away but there’s no way to escape. You hold out for as long as you can but eventually you give in. The sedative works quick and Ghost gives a nudge to your soft side but you make no movement. “Out like a light,” he hears the big man say. He crouches down and turns you on your back.

“Sir,” Gaz says, holstering his gun, “you need to see this.” Price glares down at you but he follows after Gaz upstairs to your room. “She—“ he doesn’t even know where to begin, “she knew we’d come.” He pushes your room door to open more. The journals he rummaged through is sprawled out on the floor.

“Makarov?” There’s a tight look on his Captain's face when Gaz shakes his head, “then how, Garrick?” Ghost is probably taking you to their van right now. Everything’s off record and he’s sure someone is bound to call the police with how you screamed. Just what he needed, he sways to move his weight to one side as Gaz looks bewildered, confused, and shaken up.

“Here,” he passes off your journal with the entry written before the one Gaz had read. It’s dated yesterday.

Man. 1, no, 2. Gun, man with gun, home, no safe. Run, run, mask, grabs. Grabbing you. Men, 3. 3 men, 3 total. Blue eyes. Blue. Same Blue. Hurt? Are hurt you? Will hurt they you? Scared. No. Stop, stop. Needle! Taken. Dark, van dark.