#it was one of my oldest prints

[polararts]

it's kinda a redraw

[astranauticus]

Reader's Interpretation

[star-stimz]

M BLASTOISE EX STIMBOARD

1--2--3--4--5--6--7--8

◇ day 5 - event post ◇

[chiropteracupola]

...I think I may have a problem.

[britneyshakespeare]

I love AbeBooks bc you can absolutely tell who is trying to rip you off

[pocketramblr]

You'd think making charts or characters to explain it in world would make it easier but no

making up oc lore: fuck yes a little guy just for me

writing down oc lore: what the fuck

[avatar-aaang]

ah its been awhile but this is a day I could have stayed home for lol

[queerromancerecs]

Non Amazon book resources

Look, I know Amazon is a sensitive topic. It has been allowed to dominate the market, and for indie writers, it is a huge (if not their main) source of income. Personally, as an indie writer, I have tried to always keep my work available elsewhere (because you can't trust Amazon not to screw you over, I mean just look at Audible. For those who don't know, Audible royally fucks over authors, and the narrators don't do that great either). But even for me, the loss of Amazon sales would highly affect my ability to keep going without getting another job or three. So I get it. Nonetheless, they cannot be trusted not to drop queer writers and readers, so it's best to have alternatives now.

If you are a reader or an indie author looking for different platforms to buy and/or sell books, even if only to start branching out a little, here is a list.

I doubt it's comprehensive. Feel free to reblog with more.

Kobo and Kobo Plus -Kobo is the biggest online 'Zon alternative. Kobo Plus is sort of like KU. On either one, you get points for buying books and can use the points to get more books. Works for ebook and audiobooks. (And, if you have a non-Kindle ereader, it works for Kobo but it also works for like, fanfiction. I'm just saying. I got a refurbished Kobo a while ago and it's lovely.)

Bookshop.org -print as well as ebooks (authors, make sure you click "expanded distribution" on your bookselling platform of choice if you want your stuff for sale with Bookshop--which also benefits local bookstores!)

Smashwords/Draft2Digital - mostly ebooks but D2D does have a print option

Itch.io - ebook only (but gives a larger chunk of profits to authors than 'Zon does. Authors take note.)

Gumroad

Rainbow Crate -special edition print queer books. (I know there was some controversy with them but I am out of touch and don't know what it was, and most people who use them seem happy with them??? but if you know other queer/romance book crate services, lemme know)

The Ripped Bodice -brick and mortar stores but you can also shop online

Check out your local bookstores---many will order print copies for you if you request them

The authors' websites if they do direct sales

Barnes & Noble- yeah, it's a corporation and they are not great either, but it's not Amazon and sometimes a well-meaning relative gets you a gift card. And, for the moment, they do in fact sell queer romance and queer fiction. I know because I just used a gift card to get a paperback of The Prince and the Assassin. lol

Powell's Books- Portland's famous book store sells new and used books (and you can browse the stock online) --print only. They sell queer romance as well. I got a copy of Drag Me Up by RM Virtues there. That's not super relevant, but I was pleased :)

New link: Queer Books Weekly-- free and affordable books with queer protagonists

Tubby & Coos Bookshop: curates pocket bookstores featuring underrepresented voices

And from user @bobthebenevolentpirate (thank you!)

Giovanni's Room in Philadelphia was founded in 1973 and is “The Oldest & Very Best LGBTQ & Feminist Bookstore in the Country.” They ship to US addresses, but you can also email them about international shipping. The people who run it are lovely humans and have started providing harm reduction supplies/info to people to respond to the needs of the community! They deserve all the support

Also consider library books!

And for those in America--you can use library apps to read books. Yes, the authors still get paid! Libby is a big one. You can get audiobooks too, AND it can connect you with the Queer Liberation Library.

Also there is Hoopla - digital content

In Europe, I know there is Vivlio, which is French and I believe sells ereaders and also ebooks.

[binisainz]

does this feeling go both ways ? ⸻ lando norris x reader ⋮ part two .

“you were a dick last night.” he sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “yeah. i know.” “do you?” “i do.” he pauses. “i just—i don’t know. i was already in a shit mood, and i saw you, and i thought—” you raise an eyebrow. “you thought what?” he hesitates. and then, finally: “i thought you’d make me feel better.” or, the amylaurie au fic.

part  one,  two,  three,  four,  epilogue. word  count.   4.9k a study on.   non-linear  storytelling,  even  more  egregious  little  women  references,  childhood  friends  to  strangers  to  friends  to  eventual  lovers,  stem  major!reader,  the  gifted  kid  burnout  trope, author pretending to know anything about mechanics / engineering . author's  note.   i  yapped  too  much  about  this  chapter  so  you  can  read  about  my  thoughts  HERE.  generally  treat  that  as  the  author's  notes  after  an  ao3  fic  I  LOVEEEE  talking  if  u  didn't  notice  !!   very  similar  disclaimer  that  i  put  in  my  previous  post,  though.  y/n  operates  from  a  result  of  gifted  kid  burnout,  which  is  very  much  explored  in  this  chapter,  so  i  guess  there's  a  content  warning  for  that.  that  being  said,  there's a lot of josie mention here... sorry streaks u can't tell an amylaurie story without the jo i fear !  i  promise  again  this  fic  has  a  happy  ending  we're  getting  there mixtape.   do  i  wanna  know?  cover  by  hozier,  the  bolter  by  taylor  swift,  orange  show  speedway  by  lizzy  mcalpine,  this  is  me  trying  by  taylor  swift,  chinese  satellite  by  phoebe  bridgers,  supercut  by  lorde.

THEN, 2014.

the day starts early— too early— the kind of early that feels like your body isn’t fully awake yet, your limbs heavy and your thoughts slow, swimming through freshly made molasses. your mum nudges you up from the cramped back seat of the car when you arrive, and you blearily take in the early morning light over hampshire, the sky still tinged with the last hints of dawn.

beverly is already sunburnt, despite the fact that the sun has barely been up for an hour. she’s got her earphones in, the wire tucked into the pocket of her shorts, and she doesn’t even react when josie calls her name. your mum sighs.

(bev hates the heat. hates racing, too. when you asked her why she even came, she just shrugged and said, "maggie said i should."

and, well. maggie is twenty-two and the oldest. she always knows best, so no one questions it.)

the drive to hampshire was long, sat all cramped between mags and bev, because josie called dibs on the third row all to herself, and while that would usually annoy you, you didn’t mind it much today. the whole ride, you kept turning over the ticket in your hand, running your fingers over the raised print, tracing the letters like they might disappear if you don’t.

lando’s family gave you tickets. they wanted you there.

you wonder if lando wanted you there.

you don’t know what to expect, because you’ve never seen a real racecar before. the first time you saw one up close, really up close, was probably in one of da’s magazines, glossy pages filled with detailed photos of engines and sleek bodies and captions that explained, in smaller words, what made them special. and they are special, because the way they move, the way they are built—everything is made to be the fastest, the most precise.

you know all this, but it��s different seeing them in person.

you aren’t meant to be loitering near the garages, but you keep sneaking glances, gaze darting over mechanics hunched over machinery, engineers discussing statistics on screens. this is what you love.

"you’re nosy.”

you turn so fast you nearly trip.

lando is grinning at you, hands stuffed into the pockets of his race suit, looking—well, kind of like he always does. but different, too. he’s taller now, lankier, his hair curling a little more wildly at the edges. he has that same teasing glint in his eyes, though.

"i just wanted to see," you say, a little defensive, but his grin doesn’t waver.

"want to take a proper look?"

your eyes widen. "i can?"

"i’m letting you, aren’t i?"

you nod, swallowing the excitement bubbling up in your throat. and then—

then you are inside, standing just a few feet away from a real, actual race car, and your heart is in your mouth.

“it’s a ginetta g40,” lando says, watching your expression carefully, like he’s waiting to see if you’re impressed. “junior spec. one-point-eight-liter engine, 100 brake horsepower.”

you stare at the car, at the fine lines of the chassis, at the way it sits, poised, elegant. “it’s light,” you murmur, running through the numbers in your head. “like, really light. that’s why the power-to-weight ratio makes it so—”

“fast?” lando grins.

“agile,” you correct. “fast is just a given. but if you were just fast, you wouldn’t be able to take corners well. you need the balance.”

lando blinks.

“what?” you ask, suddenly self-conscious.

he shakes his head, looking impressed. "you’re twelve. how do you know that?"

"i read," you mutter.

there’s a pause as he studies your face, and then: “you're scary smart, kit-kat.”

heat rises to your face, and you look away, embarrassed, unsure what to do with the compliment.

but lando keeps talking, and you keep listening, and for a while, you forget about everything else— about your too-tight shoes and your awkward limbs and the way you sometimes feel like you don’t fit into your own body anymore.

then the race starts.

you don’t know what lando is thinking when he climbs into the car, don’t know if he’s nervous or excited or both. but you know that when the lights go out and the cars launch forward, your breath catches, because there he is, in the thick of it, weaving through the chaos, pushing forward.

it’s fast, faster than you expected, and your fingers dig into your seat as you watch the laps tick by. you don’t remember what place he finishes. you only remember him crossing the line.

you only remember the way he jumps out of the car, the way he runs to his parents first, grinning so wide it could split his face in two, and then he turns and sees you and—

he hugs you.

it’s quick, barely a squeeze before he pulls back, excitement buzzing off him like static.

"did you see that?" he says, breathless.

"you absolutely obliterated that last turn!" you say, and his grin widens.

"i know!"

and then you are talking, rambling about the car, about the way he handled the braking zones, about how you could hear the engine struggling in the mid-corner but he still managed to keep it stable. and he listens, nodding along, eyes bright, because he knows you know what you’re talking about.

you are twelve years old, and you are in love—not with a person, not yet, but with the way things work. you love machines, love knowing how they fit together, how they break, how they can be fixed. you love understanding things, love seeing the world in bolts and gears and schematics.

lando laughs, bright and unrestrained, and for that moment, it’s just you and him and the machine between you.

NOW, 2024.

the first thing you feel when you wake up is nothing at all.

and then, slowly, something like sadness settles into the empty spaces.

it’s quiet in the flat, just the hum of the heater kicking in and the faint drip of last night’s rain off the eaves. the curtains are drawn, but you know it’s gray outside, that kind of dull, lifeless morning where time feels suspended, like the day hasn’t quite decided to begin yet. you shift under the covers, the fabric of your too-old pajama shirt soft against your skin, and exhale slowly, willing yourself to feel something else. anything else.

but there’s nothing pressing to do, nowhere urgent to be, and you are alone, which means there is nothing left but to sit with it. you grab your phone from the nightstand, half expecting— half hoping— for nothing, but there it is. a text from an unknown number, sent thirty minutes ago.

from: unknown number i’m sorry. can i make it up to you?

you don’t answer immediately. you get up instead, pad into the bathroom, brush your teeth, wash your face, stall as long as you can. when you check your phone again, the text is still there, staring back at you, insistent.  you don’t have his number saved. haven’t, for a long time. haven’t needed to. but the moment you open up the message again, your thumb hovers over the contact, and before you can stop yourself, you’re typing in his name.

no. nope. no. why do you do this to yourself?

why? you type. delete it. type it again. delete it again. stupid.

you lock your phone, breathe in deep through your nose, and then—before you can think too hard about it—type back:

to: lando n how?

the reply comes faster than you expected.

from: lando n coffee? pastries? i’d offer a full english, but i know you hate the fried tomatoes.

you hate how that makes something warm and stupid curl in your chest, hate even more how he remembers.

to: lando n woking park, one hour.

⸻ 𐙚 ⸻

the walk to woking park is cold, your breath curling in the air like smoke. it’s the kind of winter day where the sky is a uniform, dull grey, the kind that makes you feel small, like the world is pressing down on you. the streets are quiet, most people preferring the warmth of their homes, but you walk anyway, hands shoved deep in your pockets, jaw tight against the wind.

you don’t see him at first. you’re halfway down the path, watching the way the frost clings to the edges of the benches, when you catch a glimpse of him—hood up, head down, hands stuffed into the pockets of his puffer jacket.

you stop.

he sees you first. stands as you approach, a paper bag in one hand, two coffee cups balanced in the other.

the moment stretches between you, just long enough for you to wonder if this is a mistake, if you should turn around and go home, if you should put more distance between yourself and the boy who has always, always had a way of slipping through your fingers.

but then the corners of his lips curl upward as tilts his head slightly. “you look like you’re about to bolt.”

“i should.” you say, carefully, definitively. but you walk toward him anyway.

there’s coffee in his hands, a bag of croissants. "this supposed to be my compensation?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

"trying to impress you," he says, offering you one of the cups. "not working, is it?"

"not even a little." you take the coffee anyway.

you walk. the park is quiet, just the sound of your footsteps on damp pavement, the occasional rustling of bare branches in the wind.

"i'm sorry," lando says after a while.

you glance at him. he's looking ahead, jaw tight, like he's bracing himself. "for what?" you ask, even though you already know.

he exhales, shaking his head. "for being a dick. for not picking you up last night."

you shrug, taking a sip of your coffee. "it's whatever."

"it’s not."

"it is."

lando shifts beside you, glancing at you from the corner of his eye, like he’s waiting for you to say something. so you do.

“you were a dick last night.”

he sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “yeah. i know.”

“do you?”

“i do.” he pauses. “i just—i don’t know. i was already in a shit mood, and i saw you, and i thought—”

you raise an eyebrow. “you thought what?”

he hesitates. and then, finally: “i thought you’d make me feel better.”

it’s honest. too honest. you wrap your hands tighter around your coffee, letting the heat seep into your palms.

“and did i?”

lando exhales, breath curling in the air. “no.”

there’s something about the way he says it, something raw and unguarded, that makes you press your lips together, eyes flicking away. because what the fuck does that even mean? he thought you’d make him feel better? is that all you are? some sort of safety net? some kind of comfort object? a childhood relic he pulls off the shelf whenever it’s convenient? you almost say something about it. almost. but then—

“josie would be a better conversationalist.” you say instead, because it’s easier. because it’s safer.

lando’s quiet for a beat, then, “why do you always do that?” he gestures semi-wildly at you, hands flailing slightly, drops of coffee spilling from his takeaway cup onto the gravel, seeping into the stone.

you frown. “do what?”

“deflect,” he says simply. “i asked you to meet me. you.”

that throws you off more than it should. you take another sip of your coffee to buy yourself time. “… she’s fine, you know.” you say after a moment. “busy. writing. she has a novel coming out in the summer, apparently it’s really good.”

lando nods, like he already knew that. maybe he did. maybe he still keeps tabs on her, in whatever distant, half-removed way he allows himself.  “and you?”

and you?

you hate that it feels like a loaded question.

because the thing is, josie is a better conversationalist. she always has been. she’s whip-smart and well-read and funny in a way that makes people want to listen. she has always known what to say, how to say it, when to say it. she’s the kind of person people orbit.

you don’t resent her for that. not really.

but when you were kids, when it was always lando and josie running ahead, and you— three years younger, three years too late, still catching up— when you were left behind more times than you can count, it had been impossible not to feel like you were somehow less than. not because of anything she did. your sister never made you feel small on purpose. she was always kind, always patient in the way that older sisters are, looping an arm around your shoulder, ruffling your hair, letting you tag along when she could. but you were the little sister.

not the best friend. never the best friend.

and lando— he had been different with you. not in a bad way, just in a way that had always made it so fucking clear where you stood.

because even if he talked to josie about everything— about school and friends and whatever cool thing they were obsessed with at the time— when it came to cars, to machinery, to racing, he had always turned to you. always sought you out. and maybe it was pathetic, but you’d lived for those moments, for the times he looked at you like you were worth paying attention to.

so maybe you aren’t jealous of josie. but there’s still something ugly curling in your chest, something that’s been there since you were six years old, always struggling to keep up. you swallow, push the feeling down.

lando is watching you now, eyes sharp, expression unreadable. like he’s waiting. "and you?" he repeats, like he actually gives a shit, like your answer is worth hearing. maybe he does. maybe it is.

you swallow. shift in your seat. “oxford’s good,” you say, finally. “stressful. but good.”

lando hums, not looking convinced. “you like it?”

you hesitate. “yeah.”

"liar."

you scowl, shoving him lightly. he laughs, a quiet huff of air, shaking his head.

"no, really," he says, more serious now. "i just—I dunno. i feel like you always wanted to be doing things, not just reading about them. i guess i just figured you'd be in a garage somewhere, fixing things, not stuck in a classroom."

you let out a dry laugh, more so a huff than anything else. "i'm getting the best of both worlds, aren't i?" you say. "i’m at oxford, and i’m at mclaren. probably the best thing that’s ever happened to me, if i’m honest.”

lando tilts his head, studying you. “you know, i always figured you’d end up there one way or another.”

that surprises you, eyes widening slightly, focusing then on your cup of coffee, not letting him see that you had a reaction to that. “figured?”

lando shrugs, like it’s obvious. "you were always gonna go, weren’t you? you were always brilliant, kit-kat."

there’s something about the way he says it that makes you pause. something that makes your chest tighten.

because, yeah. you were always gonna go. you were the little girl who thought she knew everything, who thought she was built for something bigger, smarter, greater. and now—

now you think about the days spent staring at coursework until your vision blurred, about the moments in the mclaren garage where you felt like an imposter, about the creeping, awful realization that maybe you were never as brilliant as you thought. maybe you’re just ordinary. maybe you’ve just always been good at faking it.

just another small fish in an impossibly large pond. swimming, sinking, drowning.

lando watches you carefully, like he can see the thoughts flickering across your face, and maybe he can. maybe he’s always been able to. “when are you gonna fix my car for me?” he asks suddenly, motioning for you both to sit on a nearby bench.

you scoff, rolling your eyes. “fix it yourself.” you follow him, sitting down, making sure to keep a respectable distance.

“we made a deal when we were kids,” he reminds you, all mock-serious. “you were six, had that stupidly big toolkit, told me you were gonna be just like your dad. and i told you i was gonna be a driver.”

“and now you are,” you say, quiet.

his smile falters slightly, just for a second. then he shrugs, like shaking something off: “and now you’re gonna be an engineer. my engineer, by the way. don’t get any ideas about other teams poaching you.”

you don’t reply. neither of you acknowledge the soft blush blooming on your cheeks, though. perhaps it's just the cold. perhaps it's for the better you don't.

but still, it’s easy. sitting here, like this, eating croissants in the cold, talking about nothing and everything.

you forget, sometimes, that it can be like this. that you don’t have to keep your guard up all the time.

but then his phone buzzes. you glance over as he checks it, sees whatever’s on the screen, sighs. "what?"

"uh, my management team, actually," he says. "season starts in a little over a month. lots to do before that."

you nod, swallowing down the disappointment before it can settle. "right."

he looks up at you, something unreadable in his expression. "i’ll keep in touch."

you don’t say anything. not because you don’t believe him, but because you do. because you know he’ll try. he always tries. he’s not a bad friend, not intentionally. he’ll text when he remembers, when the world slows down just enough for him to think of home, of the people he leaves behind in it. and when he does, you’ll reply. you always reply. even when weeks pass, then months. even when the messages become sporadic, spaced further and further apart, when they turn into half-hearted apologies and late-night voice notes, you will still reply.

it’s pathetic. you are pathetic. you tell yourself you won’t fall for it again, won’t let yourself be swept up in the inevitable cycle of lando comes back, lando leaves, lando comes back, lando leaves— but you know better than anyone that you are a fucking liar.

you finish the last of your coffee, let the heat sear against your tongue, grounding yourself in the bitterness of it. he does the same, crumpling his cup in one hand before shoving it into his pocket, stretching his arms over his head in that loose, easy way of his. and then he shifts on his feet, rocking slightly, like he doesn’t quite know how to end this, like there is something else left to be said but neither of you know what.

"i should—"

“yeah,” you cut in, too quickly. too eager to get this over with before you do something impulsive. “yeah, me too.”

there’s a beat of hesitation. and then he moves, stepping into your space, and for one stupid, ridiculous, impossible second, you think—

but no. he doesn’t kiss you. he hugs you. it’s quick, fleeting, the kind of embrace that shouldn’t mean anything at all, except it does. his arms curl around you, solid and certain, his chest against yours for just long enough that your breath catches. long enough that your fingers tighten against the fabric of his jacket before you can stop yourself. long enough to make something in your chest ache.

and then he pulls away. smiles like nothing happened.

"see you around," he says, easy, casual. and then he’s gone.

THEN, 2014.

it starts with the laptop.

the one you and josie share, the one with the crack on the hinge and the spacebar that sticks when you press too hard. the one where she writes all her stories— half-finished, scattered across folders named new draft and new draft (2) and new draft (REAL ONE) because she never thinks anything is good enough. the one she guards with her life.

it isn’t your fault. not really. you just wanted to download a simulation— a mechanical software, a model of a car’s engine, something you read about in autosport and f1 racing, something you thought would be so freakin' cool. you should have been more careful. should have checked the source. should have seen the warning signs, but then the screen freezes, glitches, and the entire system crashes before you can stop it.

you try everything—restarting, booting in safe mode, pressing every key in frantic succession—but it’s too late. everything is gone.

including all of josie’s drafts. she doesn’t talk to you for a week.

⸻ 𐙚 ⸻

lando is home. sometimes. in flashes, in bursts, in stolen days between races, between tests, between whatever it is he has to do now that he’s growing more and more distant, quicker than you can keep up with. always on the move, always somewhere else. but sometimes he finds the time. when he does, he’s with josie.

you try not to let it sting. really, you don’t even know why it stings.

(it’s whatever, you’ve come to realize. your mum laughs and says it’s your new catchphrase. whatever. whatever! josie can hog up all his attention, for all you care.)

josie’s been mad before, but this time it’s bad. she won’t look at you, won’t say your name, won’t even respond when you tell her you’re sorry. you are sorry. but she doesn’t care.

and then lando shows up in a chauffeured car, leaning out the window with a lazy grin, calling josie’s name. “c’mon!” he says. “we’re going to the lake.”

there’s always an open invitation for you. always a space next to him, a do you wanna come? thrown in your direction. but josie is still mad, and when you turn to her, hesitant, she gives you the look.

“can i come?” you ask, anyway.

josie crosses her arms. “no.” it’s the way she says it. sharp. final. like she’s making sure you know you aren’t wanted.

“come on,” he says, lightly, like he’s trying to diffuse the tension. “don’t be mean.”

josie crosses her arms. “i’m not being mean, lan.” she doesn’t look at you when she says, “i just don’t want her to come. not today.”

lando had looked at you again, uncertain. but josie was already getting in the car, and he always follows josie. so he does.

you watch them go. and then you grab your bike.

you don’t know why you do it. maybe it’s the anger, all hot and stinging at the back of your throat. maybe it’s the way your hands shake, fingers tightening around the handlebars, pushing harder, faster. maybe it’s the way the car gets smaller and smaller, like you’re losing something, like something is slipping away from you before you even have the chance to hold onto it.

the wind is sharp against your face. your breath comes fast, too fast, and your legs burn with the effort, but you don’t stop.

not until the back tire wobbles. not until the bike tips. not until the ground is rushing up to meet you and you don’t have time to catch yourself.

the impact is instant.

pain spikes up your arm, all white-hot and blinding. water rushes over you, soaking through your clothes, seeping into your skin. the ditch is deeper than you thought. not enough to drown you, but enough that when you try to push yourself up, something sharp and wrong jolts through your wrist, and you can’t breathe, and you can’t move, and—

you think— no, you know— it’s josie.

the sound of her voice cuts through the haze, high and frantic, breaking against the dull roar of blood rushing in your ears. you can’t see her at first, only hear the way she stumbles over her own feet, the way she skids down the slope, half-falling, half-running. and then she’s there, crashing to her knees beside the ditch, hair coming loose from her braid, eyes wide and terrified.

“oh my god,” she gasps, breathless, voice teetering on the edge of hysteria. “oh my god, i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m so sorry— i didn’t mean to— i—” she whips around, looking up, and then she’s yelling. “lando! get down here and help me!”

you want to tell her you’re fine. you want to tell her it’s okay, even though it’s not, even though your right arm is bent at a weird angle and your left ankle pulses in sharp, jagged bursts of pain. but your throat feels tight, squeezed shut by panic, and the words won’t come out.

there’s movement above you, fast and urgent. another voice, sharper— lando.

the world tilts. the water is cold, seeping through your clothes, clinging to your skin, but your head feels hot, dizzy. you blink hard, trying to focus, but everything is too much. too bright. too loud. the pain makes your breath hitch, coming out in shallow, uneven gasps.

and then—hands. steady. careful. a solid weight beneath you, lifting you up, pulling you out.

you look up. he calls your name. your vision swims. you don’t know if it’s from the pain or something else entirely.

⸻ 𐙚 ⸻

the hospital is white. sterile. too bright.

they say your arm is broken, your ankle twisted. one week of bedrest for the leg, and three weeks with the arm cast. nothing serious, but serious enough. the doctor smiles at you like that makes it better, like knowing the exact number of days you'll be stuck in a cast will ease the discomfort, the frustration, the humiliation of it all.

josie stays by your side that first night. she doesn’t say much—she doesn’t need to. she just sits there, curled into the old, soft lightning mcqueen-themed sleeping bag on the floor beside your bed, arms wrapped around herself, eyes trained on you even when you pretend not to notice. you tell her you’re fine, that she doesn’t have to stay, but she just shakes her head, brushing you off like it’s ridiculous to even suggest it.

a day passes, and then another. then lando is in your room, and it’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to you, even worse than falling into a ditch— and that's how you got into this mess in the first place!

you’re in your pajamas, the ones with the stretched-out collar and the dumb little cartoon gears and cogs that felt soooo cool when your da got them for you last christmas but now feel like the most childish, humiliating thing ever. you think about changing, but your arm is stuck in a cast, and your ankle’s in a boot, and lando is already here, standing awkwardly at your door like you’re the one intruding.

“kit-kat,” he says, tilting his head at you, like he can sense the mortification rolling off you in waves. he grins. “you always go to bed looking like that?”

you grab the nearest pillow and chuck it at him.

he dodges, laughing, and then, because he’s so unbelievably annoying, he drops into your desk chair, spinning once before settling, all casual, like he doesn’t have better places to be. “i’ll take that as a thank you, lando, you’re so thoughtful.”

“shut up.” you cross your arms, sinking further under the covers. “what do you want?”

he scoffs. “you wound me.” but then he lifts the stack of magazines in his hands and plops them onto your bed. thick, glossy issues of f1 racing and racecar engineering and even a few autosport weeklys, their covers gleaming with high-speed shots of cars mid-corner, of engine cutaways and pit stop breakdowns. you skim lazily through the pages. “brought you these. figured you were losing brain cells just lying here doing nothing. you must be bored out of your mind.”

but then you catch sight of something— a technical deep dive into the new 2014 power unit regulations— and all at once, the irritation is gone.

“holy shit,” you say, forgetting everything else as you flip through the pages. “did you know the new energy recovery system increases efficiency by like, sixty percent? the hybrid system is so much better than kers— like, the thermal efficiency alone—”

lando raises an eyebrow, amused. “you really need to get out more.”

you ignore him. “and the turbo— look at this thing, it’s insane—” you tap the diagram of the split turbocharger, excitement spilling into your voice before you can stop it. “they moved the compressor away from the turbine to reduce turbo lag, and it’s so smart because now they can use a smaller intercooler and—”

lando leans back, watching you with that stupid grin. “you sound like a mechanic.”

you scoff. “i am a mechanic. or, i will be. one day.”

he doesn’t laugh. doesn’t tease. just shrugs, like it’s obvious. “yeah. you will.”

you hesitate.

because lando, with his races and his big ambitions and his already being on the path— he doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean. your face feels hot. you look back at the magazine, trying to focus, but your brain won’t stop buzzing.

lando kicks his feet up on the edge of your bed. “so, what’s the verdict?”

you clear your throat, using your free, not-injured leg to push hit feet off the bed. “it’s… cool,” you say, because you refuse to let him know just how much you appreciate it.

but lando just rolls his eyes, grinning. “you’re welcome, kit-kat.”

your stomach flips. you hate him. you hate him so, so much.

⸻  𐙚  ⸻

lando doesn’t stay.

he has to leave again—more races, more training, more things pulling him away, just as they always do. he says he’ll keep in touch, promises, even, and maybe he really means it, but you know better. you know how this goes. he’s always going. always leaving. always slipping through your fingers like water, something impossible to hold onto no matter how tightly you try. in and out, in and out, like the tide, like clockwork, like something you should be used to by now.

but the entire summer, every week, without fail, a fresh stack of racing magazines appears at the door.

(you know your da doesn’t order them.)

[bestanimal]

Round 3 - Chondrichthyes - Orectolobiformes

(Sources - 1, 2, 3, 4)

Orectolobiformes are an order of sharks sometimes known as “Carpet Sharks.” They include the families Brachaelurus (“blind sharks”), Ginglymostomatidae (“nurse sharks”), Hemiscylliidae (“bamboo sharks”), Orectolobidae (“wobbegongs”), Parascylliidae (“collared carpet sharks”), Rhincodontidae (“Whale Shark”), and Stegostomatidae (“Zebra Shark”).

Orectolobiformes have five gill slits, two spineless dorsal fins, and a small mouth that does not extend past the eyes. Many species have barbels: tactile whiskerlike sensory appendages near their mouths. Grooves known as nasoral grooves connect the nostrils to the mouth. A spiracle occurs beneath each eye which is used in respiration. Orectolobiformes are commonly called “carpet sharks” due to their flattened appearance and often ornate patterning, with many species spending most of their time resting on the ocean floor. However, this order also contains the Whale Shark (Rhincodon typus) (image 2), the largest chondrichthyan, whose record holder had a length of 18.8 m (61.7 ft). The smallest of the order, at up to about 30 cm (12 in) long, is the Barbelthroat Carpet Shark, (Cirrhoscyllium expolitum). Orectolobiformes are a diverse order of sharks with differing sizes, appearances, diets, and habits. Most are nocturnal. Most carpet sharks feed on the seabed in shallow to medium-depth waters, detecting and picking up molluscs, crustaceans, and other small creatures. Wobbegongs (image 1) are ambush predators, camouflaging on the seafloor and swallowing prey that swims too close. Whale Sharks are filter feeders.

Reproduction methods among carpet sharks also vary. Some species lay eggs directly into the water column or enclose them in horny egg cases. Some will push their egg cases into crevices for protection. Other species are ovoviviparous and give live birth. Pups are born relatively advanced and independent.

Orectolobiformes first appeared in the Early Jurassic. The oldest known orectolobiform genera are Folipistrix and Annea.

Propaganda under the cut:

Nurse Sharks are nocturnal and largely solitary at night, but they spend the day resting in groups, often piled on top of each other for safety.

The largest confirmed individual Whale Shark (Rhincodon typus) had a length of 18.8 m (61.7 ft), though 14 m (46 ft) is a more likely upper limit. Their lifespans are estimated to be between 80 and 130 years. Along with the Basking Shark and Megamouth Shark, they are the only other filter-feeding shark.

Blind Sharks have fully functioning eyes, but were named so because they would close them when caught by anglers

The Zebra Shark (Stegostoma tigrinum) was named for the black and white stripes of juveniles. As adults, their zebra stripes fade and are exchanged for cheetah print. Early taxonomists thought that juvenile zebra sharks were a different species due to how different their patterning looked!

In Madagascar, Whale Sharks are called Marokintana in Malagasy, meaning "many stars", after the appearance of the markings on the shark's back.

The Epaulette Shark:

As an adaptation to living in tidal pools and shallow coral reefs, the Epaulette Shark (Hemiscyllium ocellatum) moves by seemingly walking, bending its body from side-to-side in a salamander-like gait, pushing off of the substrate with its paddle-shaped pectoral and pelvic fins. The shark is capable of swimming, but often prefers to walk along the sandy or coral bottom even when the water is deep enough to allow it to swim freely. This mode of locomotion even enables the shark to crawl out of the water to access isolated tidal pools as it hunts for worms, crustaceans, and small bony fish, and it can cope with oxygen depletion in these conditions for over three hours.

[measuredandslow]

Every year for their birthday I let my kids pick whatever they want for me to make, no limits. This year my oldest is turning 7 and asked for a new rainbow sweater to replace the one he outgrew, and also that his bestie Bubbles the (Stuffed) Robot have his own matching sweater. I couldn’t find buttons I liked in the right size, so I designed and 3D printed some, which turned out to be perfect because then I could also print tiny versions for the little sweater.

So here is Bubbles modeling his brand-new sweater, and the big kid version which will be gifted tomorrow ☺️.

(ETA the very happy birthday kid 🥰)

[archaeologicalnews]

90,000-year-old human footprints found on a Moroccan beach are some of the oldest and best preserved in the world

Two trails of ancient human footprints pressed into a beach in Morocco form one of the largest and best-preserved trackways in the world.

Researchers happened upon the footprint site near the northern tip of North Africa in 2022 while studying boulders at a nearby pocket beach, according to a study published Jan. 23 in the journal Scientific Reports.

"Between tides, I said to my team that we should go north to explore another beach," study lead author Mouncef Sedrati, an associate professor of coastal dynamics and geomorphology at the University of Southern Brittany in France, told Live Science. "We were surprised to find the first print. At first, we weren't convinced it was a footprint, but then we found more of the trackway." Read more.

[yeah-melon]

Agni Kai

A redraw of one of my oldest prints

[gay-otlc]

I remember the day I first saw the word "butch" in print. How it stuck out of the sentence I found it in, like a purple-black thumbnail, like a blood smear on a hammer head. I was twenty-three years old, standing in the cramped and steamy space between shelves at the old Little Sister's bookstore in Vancouver, holding a freshly inked copy of The Persistent Desire: A Femme-Butch Reader. Butch. The word seemed somehow simultaneously archaic and revolutionary. Lost as I was at the time in an androgynous sea of second-wave lesbian feminists, the word butch seemed so... dangerous, so not what my lover and her Women's Studies separatist friends would approve of, so... male-identified. I had learned a lot since leaving my small=town northern working-class roots and moving to the big city five years earlier. I had come out of the closet everybody but me had always known I was in, and found community in Vancouver's activist scene. I had learned Robert's Rules of Order, non-violent peaceful resistance, and ways to smash the patriarchy. I learned that men were the enemy, and that being male-identified was counter-revolutionary at best- and at times, tantamount to treason. I had also learned to remain silent about what I fantasized while fucking my lovers, silent about what I really felt when I stepped into a strap-on harness, silent about why I avoided mirrors when naked. We were going to change the world. I was a good queer. A good feminist. How could I be butch? How could this word feel so good when I lifted it onto my shoulders? What would Andrea Dworkin think? Still, I bought The Persistent Desire and secreted it home, stashed it right between my 1992 edition of Practical Problems in Mathematics for Electricians and The Complete Guide to Reparing and Maintaining your Ford Engine. Twenty years later, "butch" fits like my favourite boots, like my oldest belt. Other words have been thrown about, and some even stuck for a while, but butch persists. It is the only thing I have always been. I have been out for twenty-four years and a butch for forty-one.

"Stumbling Onto Butch" by Ivan E. Coyote, from Persistence: All Ways Butch and Femme

[mrsbuckybarnes1917]

9.1: STEVE & BUCKY

Previous chapter < MASTERLIST > Next chapter

Steve tries to convince his oldest friend that he is making a mistake.

Word count: 666

Warnings: Bucky being dumb and oblivious.

Steve found Bucky hidden away in the gym the next morning. He cornered Bucky while he was aggressively curling his biceps with a couple of dumbbells.

“Buck?”

Bucky ignored him, focusing on his weights in his hands.

“Bucky, will you stop for a minute?”

“What, Steve?” he snapped, face softening slightly after seeing Steve’s disappointed expression.

“Bucky, what’s going on with you and Cricket?”

“Nothing, nothing‘s going on with me and Cricket.”

“What happened to your birthday gift?”

“Which one?” Bucky moved to the punching bag, motioning to Steve to secure it for him.

“You know what I mean.” Steve held the bag securely in his hands as Bucky put his weight into the first punch.

“She didn’t get me a gift,” he grunted, throwing his fist at the bag again.

“What?” Steve was surprised by his response. “Cricket. I was talking about Cricket.”

“Yeah, so was I,” he answered, punching the bag again.

“Bucky, didn’t you talk to her in the kitchen? I saw you follow her there. Didn’t she explain?”

Bucky stopped punching the bag, his chest heaving with exertion. He looked at Steve, his eyes filled with uncertainty and conflict. “Yeah, she explained exactly what she thought.”

Steve frowned, not understanding Bucky’s responses. He watched Bucky’s expressionless face as he repeatedly struck the bag he was holding. He knew his best friend well enough to know that things hadn’t gone well between the two of you. “She didn’t tell you about-”

“She was perfectly clear, Steve. She made it crystal clear about how she feels about Priya, and I’m done. I’m done trying to act like everything’s normal. She’s constantly judging her, making me feel like Priya isn’t good enough for me. What does she want from me?”

Steve could see the pain and frustration in Bucky’s eyes as he continued to vent his feelings. He knew that your feelings towards Priya were causing a strain on your relationship, but he also knew that Bucky loved you deeply. 

“Buck, Cricket loves you.”

“Then why doesn’t she support me?”

“Bucky, are you really this dense? Do you really not see what’s right in front of you?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “What’re you talking about Steve?”

“Cricket loves you, Bucky. She supports you in her own way. Are you too blinded by your own insecurities to see it?”

Bucky scoffed. “She has a funny way of showing it.”

“Bucky, maybe you should talk to Cricket again. Try to understand where she’s coming from.”

“I’ve tried, Steve. I’ve tried to talk to her, to make her see things from my perspective. But she’s so stubborn, so set in her ways. She just can’t accept that Priya is a part of my life now.”

“Bucky, maybe it’s time to make a decision,” Steve suggested, desperately. “You can’t keep living in this limbo, caught between two people you care about. You need to figure out what’s truly important to you.”

“Don’t worry Steve, I made my decision.”

Steve frowned. “What do you m-”

“Oooh, so is this where the boys wonder are hiding these days? Cap,” Sharon interrupted the conversation, nodding at Steve before turning to Bucky with a small smirk. “Sarge.”

“How’re you Sharon?” Steve asked amiably.

“Stark sent me down here with this intel, he suggested we check it o- hey!” Sharon exclaimed as Bucky snatched the mission brief from her outstretched hand.

He flipped open the file, balancing it on his vibranium palm, scanning the printed words and wiping the sweat off his furrowed brow.

“Buck?” Steve questioned.

“I’ll take this one.”

“You and Cricket?”

“No, I’ll go with Sharon. You don't need to get Cricket involved.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Now why don’t you let me finish up here and I’ll join you,” Bucky glanced pointedly at Sharon, “in the hangar bay in two hours.”

Steve sighed, staring at Bucky’s back for a few moments before following Sharon out of the gym, knowing that he wasn’t going to be successful with his conversation today.

Previous chapter < MASTERLIST > Next chapter

Tag list: @samodivaa @scoonsalicious @noonespecial90 @browneyedgrli @vicmc624 @cjand10 @capswife @julvrs @ordelixx @sashaisready @sebastians-love @belleofthebooks @missvelvetsstuff @angelbabyyy99 @rabbitrabbit12321 @love-isnt-greed @hhiggs @winters1917 @blackhawkfanatic @calwitch @learisa @daybleedsintonightfa11 @lillianacristina @mostlymarvelgirl @wintercrow @buckitostan @crist1216 @bisexualnikkisixx @robynjasp @brairslair

[ivystoryweaver]

What a Mother Can Be

Pairing: Moon Dads! Steven Grant x mother!reader, Marc Spector x mother!reader. (Jake is mentioned). The story does not state that this reader has given birth to these children, nor the reader's gender, so anyone who could ever feel like a mother would be included here.

Word Count: 1.7k

Content: MOON DADS!! fluff, domestic fluff, kids, married life, it's Mother's Day, kissing, mentions of food and eating, there is a tinge of angst-ish, as Wendy Spector is mentioned, but this is not an angsty fic. This story is what I wish for the Moon Boys IF this is what they would want. They deserve to heal and they deserve a family if they want one - whatever that may look like. not beta'd

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

He finds you in the kitchen early Sunday morning, standing over a hot griddle, pancakes sizzling.

Your babbling toddler wiggles in the high chair, pinching one Cheerio at a time in her chubby fingers and stuffing it into her mouth, making a kind of weird mush as she entertains herself.

You back is turned to him so you don’t realize he’s there until his arms wind around you from behind.

“You can’t cook today,” he breathes on your ear, stealthily removing the spatula from your hand.

You giggle and pretend to shrug him off. “Why not?”

“It’s Mother’s Day,” he declares, with an adoring kiss to your cheek.

“So? We have two boys about to come barreling in here,” you remind him matter-of- factly. “My present to myself is not listening to them demanding to know what’s for breakfast.”

A sliver of shame shoots through Steven's heart. He intended to wake up before you and take care of all this: breakfast and the kids. But Jake was out late last night and he accidentally overslept.

“Dada!” Lockley calls from her high chair, playfully slapping her hands down on the tray.

“Hey, sweet girl,” Steven greets his daughter, bending over to kiss her forehead. “Did you know it’s Mummy’s day?

“Ma-ma, Ma-ma, Ma-ma,” Lockley wiggles back and forth, chanting proudly.

As predicted, two energetic boys burst into the kitchen, their tousled curls an adorable mess.

“Happy Mother’s Day!” the twins shout in unison, holding up a handmade banner, constructed from about 60 post-it notes stuck together.

“Wowww,” you whistle in admiration. “Somebody’s been ransacking my office for supplies.” You wink, kneeling down to inspect their handiwork, and assuming they were unable to locate the construction paper to make this unique banner.

Then you take a closer look as Steven tends to the pancakes, finishing them up and removing them from the heat.

“Oh…” Your eyes mist over instantly when you realize the reasoning behind using such small paper to build a banner.

"There's messages on each one," Grant, the oldest twin by two minutes, shyly murmurs.

"Read 'em, read 'em, Mom!" Your energetic Jakob almost tears the feeble construct apart with his bouncing up and down.

Several of the notes boast simple messages such as, "Happy Mother's Day!" or "We love you!"

A few of them have small handprints - Mother's Day classics. There's even a tiny handprint, with LOCKLEY printed messily underneath.

"We had to write hers because she can't write," Jakob states the obvious. "But she tried to eat the Post-its."

"I'm sure she did," you chuckle, glancing over a few "coupons" where the boys have offered to load the dishwasher, fold laundry, give you a back rub and the like.

Then you notice a rather good drawing of your family under a banner reading, "The Spectors": You, holding baby Lockley. Grant and Jakob are flanking either side of you. And there are three dads pictured and labeled, Marc, Steven, Jake, underneath, "DAD" written in all caps. "MOM" is above your head.

"Grant, did you draw this, bud?" You ask your little artist, ruffling his curls.

"Yeah. It was hard to fit everyone on a Post-it, so I made it on two. So you have to keep them together...okay?" His dark eyebrows shoot up hopefully.

You nod, continuing to inspect each one.

Jake has written a few notes in Spanish and Steven left you a riddle...which led to a second riddle underneath the first one. And a third.

Jakob is giddy, dying to tell you what the riddle's answers are, but Grant silences him.

The bottom post it says, "Turn around."

Curious, you stand back up and turn to find Steven holding a bouquet of your favorite flowers in one hand and a wrapped present in the other.

"One-two-three," you hear Grant coach. Then Jakob joins in. "Surprise!" Your husband and twin sons chorus.

"Happy Mother's Day, darling," Steven smiles at you, handing you your gifts. "These are from Marc and me."

"Thank you, I love them," you accept the flowers and kiss him sweetly on the lips.

"And Jake says he's going to get Frenchie to babysit next weekend so he can take you out in the city and 'show you off.' His words."

You snort, clearly amused. "Frenchie wants to babysit these three?"

"Yay!" Jakob cheers. "Uncle Frenchie! Uncle Frenchie!"

"Fen-he!" Lockley attempts, bouncing in her chair.

"See, everyone loves the idea," Steven grins, nodding for you to open the wrapped gift. "You can wear this."

A moment later, as he places your flowers in some fresh water, you unwrap your gift.

"It's beautiful," you gasp, touching the golden necklace, bearing hieroglyphs.

"It represents motherhood," Steven gushes. "Here, I made sure to get the paper that explains it all."

"Thank you." Wrapping your arms around his neck you hug him tightly. "Will you put it on me?"

Steven obliges, and you turn back to your boys. "What do you guys think?"

"It's pretty, Mom," Grant sweetly replies.

But Jakob has already dropped his half of the banner and is reaching for a pancake when Steven clears his throat pointedly.

The five of you gather around the table for an all too sugary breakfast before heading out to the park to get some fresh air, let the kids play and spend some quality time together.

Lockley can't walk quite yet, so she's rolling and scooting on a blanket on the grass while Grant and Jakob play close by.

Steven has already apologized for oversleeping, but you confess that you heard Jake come home extremely late. Lockley had a fussy night, so you turned off the baby monitor not ten minutes after he fell asleep and spent most of the early morning rocking your sweet, fussy girl.

"The perfect mom, as always," Steven compliments, with a sparkle in his eye. "And the day's not over yet. There's more to come."

You tangle your fingers with his, laying your head on his shoulder. After a brief silence, you ask, "How's Marc?"

You normally don't ask one alter to deliver messages for another. Half the time, they don't know anyway. But this is Marc. On Mother's Day.

"Quiet," Steven answers. "I think he's okay."

You hum a response, handing Lockley the pacifier she spit out.

"And you, my love? How are you today?"

Because Steven lost his mom too. And not simply because she passed away, but because the mother he thought was his was not real. Parts of her were real, to Steven anyway. The parts from childhood when she wasn't drunk, wasn't violent.

Those were Steven's memories to hold.

But he lost who he thought she was, as well.

"I'm better this year. Better every year," he nods, eyes focused on his twins playing together. "Get to spend this day with the best mum there is."

He gazes over at you adoringly.

"Thank you," you whisper, sealing your mouth to his.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Later that evening, after you and Steven have wrangled three kids into bed, you decide to take a quick shower.

When you emerge, Marc is waiting for you with a glass of wine.

"Happy Mother's Day," his dark eyes flicker down the curves of your body and he wets his lips.

"Marc," you breathe, taking the wine glass from his hand and setting it aside so you can throw your arms around him. "I didn't think I would see you today."

His strong forearms flex against your back, pulling you closer. "I'm here. Did you get the flowers?"

"Yeah they're on the dining room table. Thank you, they're beautiful."

"Good." Easing back, he kisses your mouth, before taking your hand and retrieving your wine glass. "Come on."

The sound of the record player drifts faintly down the hall, welcoming you into the den, where Marc has built a fire.

"I know it's May, but I turned the air down low," he explains, answering your quizzical look. "I know how much you love a fire."

You beam at him as he leads you to sit down on the plush rug in front of the fireplace. There's a tray with some adult-worthy snacks, like - the nice brand of cheese and fancy chocolates.

"No kids allowed," he winks, knowing you're always the one to give up the last pancake or slice of pizza for your children, or for him.

"Oooh, okay, this almost feels like an anniversary." You reach for a chocolate as the two of you get comfortable.

"Too much?" He questions, dark eyes focused intently on the way your lips wrap around the candy.

"Owh naw - its puwfect," you mumble, mouth stuffed full of a truffle.

Marc laughs, nodding mockingly, but playfully. "Sexy."

"I know," you humph, finishing your treat. "But today's my day. I don't have to be sexy."

"You couldn't help that if you tried," he smoothly counters, reaching up with his thumb to swipe chocolate from the corner of your mouth.

"You're really racking up the points here, babe, like, this is..." You glance all around you before taking a swig of your wine. "This is good. Really good."

"I thought you could use some kid-free time," he explains, "With your favorite things - without Jakob eating them all first."

You share a laugh, knowing it's true. Jakob is barely a middle child, but he certainly acts like one.

"If you want some alone time, just say the word," Marc adds, a bit reluctantly. "I just want you to be able to relax."

Setting down your wine glass, you pull him close by his t-shirt. "Don't you dare. You're mine."

You surge forward to meet his lips in a hungry kiss, the wine and the pampering treatment truly reminding you of more of a romantic anniversary setting than anything else.

Marc hums against your lips, cupping your face in his hand as you deepen the kiss, licking open the seam of his mouth to taste him. The wine and the chocolate and the essence of your husband soothes and thrills you equally as you melt into his arms.

"Thank you," you whisper, rubbing your nose against his as you part for air. "Thank you for making me a mother."

He touches his forehead to yours and earnestly returns, "Thank you for showing me what a mother can be."

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

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