#no one cares amelie

[lunameimei]

The Burden of the "Good Princess".

[eukrasiancrisis]

Elftober #12: Knowledge

"To knowledge-- the acquisition, the preservation and the sweet, slow decay thereof."

[tulipsnflowers]

I sort of kinda blame @nayvwriter for getting me into Amelie even slightly, so I uh, did the only thing I can do as the resident ghost type and tyrant person:

IN MY DEFENSE - She's the only one /w purple eyes, and she fits the colors scheme(some veriation of white + gold + main element color + another color(usually just darker el. color, but depends) + ribbon(or another color, looking at you n2 nara. why did you mess it up-). So uh, yeah. Design.

[soopysoap]

alr fuck it idc christophe was taught piano as a kid and continued teaching himself in his teen years and playing is a huge mental escape for him

[rustbeltjessie]

I was tagged by @endreal for 7 comfort films + 7 tags. Thank you!

Off the top of my head, and in no particular order…and I know I’m forgetting some…

Empire Records

The Breakfast Club

The Princess Bride

Bringing Up Baby

To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar

The Blues Brothers

This is Spinal Tap

I’ll tag @hthrloooo, @rhymingteelookatme, @neoretrobibliomartini-x, @sandovers, @shakespeareandpunk, @ectoplasmicwyrms, and @ihminen7777 - but don’t feel obligated. And if I didn’t tag you and you wanna play, consider yourself shadow-tagged.

[ninadove]

"He would rather be dead, with her, than alive and caring for his own son."

So, this is very important. Emilie or Amelie?

(Answer: Amelie. But seriously, I'm getting ahead of myself, let's talk about it.)

This is kind of a long post. If you don't want to read all of my ramblings, feel free to skip to the final point. That's the important one.

A mysterious woman who is clearly one of the two Graham de Vanily twins was in attendance of the party at the end of the episode. But is she Emilie (Adrien's dead mom, revived by Gabriel's wish) or Amelie (Adrien's already alive aunt)?

Here's the thing. The answer to this question is actually extremely important. Emilie being alive would be a HUGE deal and would have extreme consequences on the narrative and themes of the show.

Seriously. We need to know whether or not Emilie is alive. So, let's discuss— what do we know?

1. Amelie should be at this party.

Seriously. Amelie would be at Adrien's party.

You know who is in attendance at Adrien's party? Not just his friends, but also adults in his life. Nathalie. Su-Han. Jagged Stone. Penny Rolling.

You know what Penny Rolling's relationship is to Adrien? She's the manager/new girlfriend of his friend Luka's recently-undeadbeated-dad. And she was invited to Adrien's party.

Seriously. This is a party of any significant character. Everyone and their mother was invited and— hey wait, where's Félix's mother? Félix is here, and certainly our favorite mommy's boy would invite his mother along. Surely Adrien's aunt would be invited to Adrien's party.

You know, Amelie's aunt, who had a not insignificant arc in the story? A family member to the Agrestes, who we've seen struggle, who would well deserve a shot of her smiling at a party at the finale?

Amelie, who had some unresolved tension with Nathalie, centered around their respective relationships with Gabriel? Tension that would likely be rectified after Gabriel's demise?

Not only would Amelie be at this party, but I absolutely believe she would be sitting next to Nathalie. (I mean, they do know each other. Who else at that party does Amelie even know?)

If that's not Amelie, then where is she?

Oh, and side note, what was the shot just before the shot of the mysterious woman? Oh, that's right. Amelie's son.

2. She only appears for a brief flash, given no more significance than any other character in attendance.

There's a reason why everyone is using the same shot of the mysterious woman when discussing her. That is the only shot of her. There are more shots of Penny Rolling than of her.

Here's the thing. Either Emilie is alive in this final scene, or she isn't. So, how would you expect this scene to play for these circumstances?

Here is a complete list of everything I would expect if Emilie were not alive:

A brief shot of Amelie.

Here is an incomplete list of some of the things I would expect from a "Emilie, the mother of the deuteragonist and ghost that has been haunting the narrative for 5 Seasons, is alive now" reveal, at the bare minimum:

A shot that lingers on Emilie.

Emilie, seated with Nathalie AND HER TWIN SISTER.

A shot of Emilie opening her eyes during Gabriel's wish.

The newscast, which they watch during the party, having a mention of "... and Parisians are still celebrating the rescue of Emilie Agreste, who was previously missing but recently found!"

Adrien literally acknowledging that his dead mother is suddenly alive at all? AT ALL? Looking at her, mentioning her, literally ANYTHING from him? I mean, seriously, what did he think happened—

3. Adrien's perception of his mother's reappearance would need to be addressed. It was not.

Adrien does not know the wish was cast.

Adrien does not know anything.

Here's the thing. While, yes, Emilie has been described as "missing"/"disappeared" in the show, it is absolutely clear to the audience that Adrien has been under the impression that Emilie is dead.

We know this from the painting in the foyer that depicts Gabriel and Adrien in mourning. We know this from the way that Adrien (correctly) draws the conclusion that "Nathalie has the same illness as my mother, therefore she is dying". We know this from the way that Adrien speaks about his mother in past tense, how he encourages his father to move on and date Nathalie, how he has never once in the show seemed to be under the impression that Emilie could come back.

So, if Emilie suddenly came back........... someone would need to explain it to Adrien. He would need to be fed another lie about it. We would need to be made privy as to what he believes happened.

Examples of how this could have been easily achieved:

Again, the newscast. Nadja acknowledging that the missing Emilie Agreste had been found. Maybe mentioning that "she was found being held captive by Monarch" or something. I dunno, whatever lie that works.

Adrien, during his conversation with Marinette, mentioning what happened to Emilie from his perspective, the same way he vocalized to her what his perception of Gabriel's death was. I mean, seriously, Adrien was already doing this expositional dialogue... why wouldn't he mention his mom during it?

4. Leaked production material does not change the final product.

Yes, scripts were leaked of this season. There are deleted scenes in the storyboards. There are script changes and allusions to certain things and mentions here and there in these materials that suggest that the mysterious woman could have, at some point in production, been Emilie.

... at some point in production.

So, here's the thing. This is the most solid Emilie argument we have. In fact, I'd argue it's the only argument that holds any real ground at all. .......... and it's in content that we aren't supposed to have.

( Actually, it's the only real Emilie argument I've seen... period. The only other one I've seen is the fact her statue is gone, but I'd argue that the removal of her statue has symbolic weight no matter what. It was a symbol of Gabriel's obsession over her, the way that she haunts the narrative, the way she looms over the Agreste household. Alive or not, this is not the case anymore. So it makes sense to remove it. )

If your interpretation of the source material is solely, and I mean SOLELY based off of out-of-context snippets of things that were in the writer's room Vaguely At Some Point, things that now directly contradict the final product, things that the audience was absolutely under no circumstances meant to see...

You're not interpreting the episode. You're interpreting out-of-context snippets of a rough draft of it.

So, here's the thing. I've seen some of these leaks, I've seen a lot of people talk about these leaks, I've seen the rumors and I've heard the gossip. I'm not going to parrot it, because honestly, I'm still annoyed that the leaks exist at all. It feels a bit insulting to the art form, tbh, that incomplete scripts are being passed around and touted as significant and more accurate than the actual completed script.

But I'll say one thing:

If the rough drafts of scripts, deleted scenes, etc pointed to Emilie being alive.......

Why did they remove them?

(The answer is simple: because they changed their minds. And you don't have to stress about or mull over why they did it, because you were never supposed to know that it was changed, because you were never supposed to know about out-of-context rough drafts of the script in the first place. It doesn't matter. It's not the product. Writers are allowed to toss around ideas and scripts and then change them. It's unimportant and you're not supposed to be privy to it. It's not for you. It's not what they made. It's certainly not more accurate to the direction they're headed than what they settled on. )

Point is:

IF THE LEAKS DIDN'T EXIST, YOU WOULDN'T BE CONFUSED.

YOU ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO SEE THE LEAKS.

YOU ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE CONFUSED.

5. So, Astruc on twitter.

Okay, I love perusing Astruc's twitter for snippets of information as much as the next obsessive miraculous fan. I have perused his twitter a lot. Astruc always addresses comments and concerns under like 20 layers of coyness.

People ask him, "is it Emilie or Amelie"? And basically, every time, he responds with some variation on "pay attention and you'll know".

He's been shooting down people presenting the clues they find to him, on both sides of the argument. Some examples (which include the Amelie wearing black and Emilie wearing white thing):

So, what does this mean, beyond the already known fact that Astruc likes to mess with us?

Obviously, I'm not Astruc. I don't know his mind. I also don't have much of vested interest in dissecting everything he says, nor do I take his word at face value a lot of the time (again, he likes to mess with us).

However, I think two things are fairly clear here:

It IS possible to know whether or not Emilie was revived by watching the episode.

It's not the small details he wants us to look at. Admittedly, color schemes and set dressings are small details. It's not the big picture. It's not important. It's not the heart of what he, or any writer in his position, would want us to interpret.

( Side note, but if nearly every single Emilie argument is based off of things NOT ACTUALLY IN THE EPISODE, then doesn't Astruc saying the answer is in the episode shoot that down right off the bat? But hey! I digress. )

So, what is the big picture? What are the things that writers are truly proud of? What is the thing that a writer would want us to pay attention to? What are the details of the show that can help point us to what transpired in the episode? What—

6. The WRITING of the ENTIRE SERIES, INCLUDING within THIS VERY episode, the dialogue, the themes, the character beats, the symbolism— Literally. All of it. Points to Emilie. STAYING. DEAD.

This is actually the heart of my point.

Emilie absolutely was not revived here.

Here's the thing. The themes of grief and loss and mourning are extremely present within the Agreste arc. Throughout the entire series, the following has been hammered in by the writing:

Gabriel is obsessive for wanting to bring Emilie back. His desires are not healthy or sound. He is delusional. He is hurting Adrien and Nathalie by living in this fantasy.

Gabriel should have moved on.

Nathalie wants to move on.

Adrien has already moved on.

EMILIE HERSELF wanted them all to move on.

Emilie is a nearly angelic figure. Adrien is literally the deuteragonist of the series. Nathalie is a morally grey character with a clear redemption arc. Gabriel is the antagonist.

The "better" the character is, the more certain they are that Emilie should not be revived.

The CORRECT choice, if Gabriel and Nathalie chose the "right" path from the start, would have been for Gabriel and Nathalie to focus on parenting Adrien themselves, instead of obsessing over bringing a dead woman who has already come to terms with her death back to life. That's what Emilie wanted. That's what Adrien wants. That's what Nathalie has wanted but was too afraid to say. That's what Gabriel refuses to accept.

Look, if I go in depth into the scenes where this is addressed, I'd be here all day. Instead, have a screenshot compilation, I guess.

Again. That's been a core message of the series this entire time. And while I don't have screenshots of it being spoken so plainly in seasons 1 and 2, Gabriel has always been depicted as sinister, and his obsession has always been framed in the wrong.

Now, if you're one of those people who refuse to analyze the text at all or interpret what the messages of the show are on the grounds of "the writing sucks so who cares, it's probably just inconsistent writing and they forgot about the themes in the final episode" or whatever, then like. Ok. But here's the thing— this theme is even more hammered home in the finale.

Guys. I'm serious. What the hell do you think the scene before the wish was saying?

Gabriel, at his lowest moment, brought down. Gabriel, detransformed and on his knees before Bug Noir. Gabriel, at the final hour of his life, near tears, still obsessing over his wife, still thinking of his wife his wife his wife above all else, as Bug Noir lays out the literal themes of the show to him in all their beautiful glory.

And then literally forces him to watch the very videos that he had tried to force Nathalie to delete. Forces him to face the very words he refused to acknowledge. Forces him, at his lowest, to come face-to-face with the truth he denied.

.... And it hits him. What she's saying hits him. Because how can he deny Emilie's own words? The very woman he's doing it all for? How can he bring her back to life when she would want nothing less? How can he force the love of his life to live knowing that someone had died for her to, when she didn't want that? How could he have lost himself so much in the madness?

And then Bug Noir comes in with THIS

.... And Gabriel says....

.... Note that, he does not continue to deny it. He does not plead his case that Emilie should be alive. He is no longer arguing that. Here, he has seemingly begun to accept the premise that Emilie should not be brought back to life. Instead, he has a new premise:

He does not want to be alive if Emilie is not.

Gabriel is not selfless. Gabriel is not a good man. Gabriel says, earlier in the episode, flat out, that he is more than willing to kill whoever it takes, whatever rando he wants, to get what he wants.

Here's the thing.

Gabriel wants to be with Emilie.

Gabriel is willing to kill anyone, whoever it takes, to make this happen.

Gabriel realizes Emilie does not want to be alive.

Gabriel decides that he will honor Emilie's final wish......... only partially.

Because Emilie wanted both Gabriel and Nathalie to take care of Adrien. But Gabriel does not want that. It's not that Gabriel is above killing someone to save his own life, it's that he realizes that he, too, does not want to be saved. Because he does not want to live in a world without Emilie.

He would rather be dead, with her, than alive and caring for his own son.

Gabriel Agreste's wish is a suicide. I mean, we already knew this— but I mean, literally. It's not a selfless sacrifice. It's not one final act of goodness. It's a suicide. He decides he wants to die, and he decides that he will save Nathalie in the act— because it's what Emilie wanted, and Gabriel is obsessive. The only person who would reason with him is Emilie herself.

And what does Gabriel's wish look like? How is it depicted to us?

Gabriel and Emilie, cast in a white light. Emilie lifts from her coffin, notably still limp, as Gabriel rises up with her.

He rises up with her, notably supporting her limp head with his hand. She is still unconscious. And he is joining her.

One last selfish act. The final nail into his "trying to be a dad" coffin. He doesn't want to be a dad anymore. He only wants to be with Emilie. And he will gladly pass that responsibility, the responsibility of parentage, onto Nathalie— The only character in the show who has been showing an explicit, vested interest in LIVING to take care of and be a parent to Adrien.

Nathalie is alive. Nathalie is well. A life for a life. One life for one life. That's all that's depicted. That's all that's shown.

Is it TECHNICALLY POSSIBLE that more could've been a part of that wish? Is it TECHNICALLY POSSIBLE that the wish could've been more complicated? Is it TECHNICALLY POSSIBLE that some random other person died? Is it TECHNICALLY POSSIBLE that all of that dialogue and that entire scene and the entire buildup of Emilie's recordings were just soooooo lol random and that Emilie just decided that she's totally cool with being revived and alive now and that the entire themes of the series were a lie?

I also think it's technically possible that Marinette has secretly been a hamster wearing a human suit this whole time, and Lila is actually secretly a sentimonster made by Gorilla. And maybe this show isn't a romance, actually, and that Adrien and Marinette aren't meant to be endgame. In fact, maybe the entire series was a big prank. Maybe I'm adopted and my parents lied to me about it.

But how it looks, from what I see, from what I've watched, what just happened is....

Gabriel accepted that Emilie is dead.

This made Gabriel want to die, too. Because he doesn't care about Adrien as much as he cares about Emilie.

So, he did. And he shirked parentage onto Nathalie.

Is this "winning", by the way? By any stretch? Is this "Gabriel getting what he always wanted"? Is this "Gabriel being proved right"? Is this a lack of consequences? Are we really going to call a broken man, who has been slowly turning to ash and rotting away for an entire season, who suffered and was beaten down and, at the very end, had the only people ever in his corner (Nathalie and Adrien) cursing his name and wanting him dead.... him being right all along? Is him committing suicide the series justifying his actions? Is him committing suicide (again, not a selfless sacrifice) him "doing good" and "being redeemed" by the narrative? Is a faux image of him, a false narrative, a complete fictional person that he never truly was being celebrated by ignorant Parisians, him "being redeemed"? I suppose that's another essay altogether. But I'm tired of writing.

also, there was still only one goddamn twin at that party

[miharuki]

𝖄𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖁𝖎𝖑𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖓 𝕻𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖈𝖊 𝖃 𝕽𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗 (𝕱𝖊𝖒)

You were inside an otome game, an old classic that you found while searching for games of the same genre.

Imagine your surprise when you realized you were inside the otome game "My Pure Elegant Love," a medieval-style otome game with nobles, kings, and knights. You had just woken up, finding yourself as the daughter of a duke, any duke. Perhaps for a brief moment, you thought you could have reincarnated as Amelie, the protagonist of this game, but you were far from it.

You quickly befriended Amélie; her sweetness and gentleness were at least forced, but you knew that was the vibe of the game. Perhaps being the daughter of a duke, you could meet other characters, like Claude, the noble and best friend of Amélie in the plot and one of the favorite characters of the small group that played this forgotten game, damn it.

There was also Nathan, one of the strongest and most talented knights in the plot. We can't forget about Kalisto, the protagonist's younger brother who had a crush on her, Luka, one of the princes and also a romantic partner in the plot, as well as the wizard Azrael, and the first Duke Eros, all romantic interests of the protagonist.

Being the daughter of a simple duke, you knew you wouldn't have a chance with those of high status like Luka, the first prince. You weren't the protagonist, but you couldn't help but envy her. Perhaps because she was receiving love from handsome boys? Or perhaps because even in this life, in this game, you weren't loved by your family. You thought that being the daughter of a duke would give you some privileges, but oh, how wrong you were. Neglected by your parents, hated by the romantic interests of the protagonist, and simply having a bad reputation.

You thought you were becoming friends with Claude and that you might even win his love, but that was thrown out the window when they all decided to embarrass you at the prince's luxurious party. You didn't know that wearing a dress that Luka himself gave you would make you the target of everyone's ridicule.

"How could you do this, [name]?" How could you? You didn't do anything wrong! There, in front of the stairs with the prince behind her, was the protagonist, wearing the same dress as yours, but prettier. Perhaps because her perfect protagonist's body and beauty were helping her.

All the protagonist's romantic interests, including the ones you liked on the other side of the screen, were looking at you with anger, perhaps even smiling as if it were planned by them, by all of them, including his highness, who at first seemed not to like you, treating you even like a servant. You envy how they were all around that bitch, comforting her, as if you were the villain, which you never were.

Everyone talked, laughed, and even mocked. "I can't believe Miss Amélie has a friend like that!" You heard a lady saying, looking down. Not even your parents cared about you, at this point, you're probably being disowned by the family.

With tears on your face, after trying to explain the misunderstanding to everyone, after being slapped by his highness and the protagonist, you felt like crap. Pulling on the dress, you turned and ran out of the hall, opening the doors brutally. You couldn't stay in that room anymore, not when everyone was now looking at you with hatred.

Unaware, you came across a balcony, hearing footsteps coming. You were scared; the prince might have sent guards after you after you "lied" to everyone while explaining.

With all your strength, you push through the balcony fence, and as you're about to jump, someone forcefully opens the doors, startling you and causing you to slip, now falling to the ground. Your tears are now stronger, groaning in pain as you try to get up.

It was with pain, dirt, and tears that you ended up behind a bush. You couldn't take it anymore; you were shaking from the cold, crying, your makeup smudged, your hair dirty and messy, your "copied" dress dirty and torn. You've never felt so worthless before.

You cried as if you were carrying all the burdens, thinking about how the romantic pairs and the protagonist were not the best; in fact, they were the worst.

Feeling a headache, you sit down, trying to breathe well and calm down as you think, "And now?"

"What's a maiden doing crying in the middle of the woods?" Looking back, you noticed someone coming, a boy. Turning your head forward, you try to wipe away the tears. You don't like anyone seeing you cry; crying is for weak people.

Then you felt something being thrown over you, a thick, large coat. Lifting your head, you now look at the boy in front of you. His melodic and calm voice speaks as he gently crouches in front of you.

"Can you tell me, fair lady?"

You sobbed, trying not to cry, mocking the nickname the boy gave you.

"Fair lady? The way I am right now, I'm barely even a girl, let alone fair or a lady," you say as you use your own dress to clean up the mess of makeup and tears.

"I don't think that," the boy continues to clean as he speaks. "To be honest, I think you're even more beautiful. You just can't see it."

The boy's hands lift your stained and dirty face. You look and notice the looks he's giving, but they're not directed at the protagonist like everyone else's; they're for you.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" His calm and concerned eyes are looking at you, waiting for your response.

You just look aside before sighing. It's better than nothing.

"His Highness, the prince, had given me a dress as a gift... to wear at the ball today, but my friend - no, Miss Amélie was wearing the same one. Some of her friends started mocking me for trying to 'copy' the girl, but when I tried to explain, His Highness said he would never give me a gift in his life, especially knowing that his 'friend' Amélie would be wearing it today," you almost can't finish without starting to cry again, sobbing as you try to explain.

"They all planned to humiliate me in front of everyone, and His Highness still insists that I'm lying!" You say, already crying again, not noticing the arms going around you. You only notice when you feel being embraced by the boy as you cling to him, crying and sobbing.

"My dear, they don't deserve your kindness or your presence. What they did was extremely awful to a lady like you," the boy says as he strokes your hair and back, comforting you, as you've always wished to be.

You were clinging to the boy, feeling betrayed, feeling used. You didn't even notice the boy raising his hand to someone behind you, to someone dressed in black, a gentleman, but not the prince's gentleman, oh no, not that traitor.

You didn't even realize how the castle was beginning to stir.

"Let's go, I'll take you somewhere else. You might end up getting sick staying here," he says as he watches you cling to him. He could feel your warmth, you were starting to get sick from crying so much. Nomura's heart was breaking at the thought of you falling ill.

"Are you okay with this, miss?" The boy asks before you nod in agreement. Nomura gets ready and picks you up bridal-style, using his own coat that was on top of you as a blanket to protect you as he carried you to his own carriage.

Watching as you had already fainted from crying, he held you gently as the carriage headed towards his castle, leaving behind an important part of the game that was happening, unaware that the game's villain was now holding you firmly.

Do I do a part 2?

[blueblossomrose]

This post is part of the Twisted Parents Series.

Content: Post-canon, marriage, children, household contents, afab!fem!MC, general hcs.

Comments and reblogs are very welcome ♡

Resume HCs [7]

Upon assuming the throne as king of Briar Valley, many things were expected of Malleus.

His marriage to a human was definitely NOT one of those things.

Well, it's not like any of those opinions matter.

Fortunately Queen Maleficia on the other hand doesn't seem bothered about it or about Malleus imminent marriage with MC, Lilia and Silver are happy, also as Sebek.

The royal wedding was an event. For a variety of reasons, you can imagine.

MC and Malleus have a daughter together named Aurora. A few years later they had twin sons: Magnus and Kyrval.

He planned to go far away even before graduation, but something made him rethink it... this "something" is Malleus, Silver and MC.

Of course, he didn't want all the work of Briar Valley to fall on him like it had been all these years. Fortunately, with Malleus taking the throne, changes would come. Good changes, he hoped.

After marriage, he was booking a house in a more remote location, but close to the essential points.

He is a stay-at-home husband, and he is happy that way.

Silver was happy for his father. He believes that Lilia deserves to be happy, and if MC makes him happy, it's everything fine.

MC and Lilia have triplets, all girls: Arista, Aisha and Adela. Lilia said he wanted they all to have an "A". The reason? He said he would say it on their 16th birthday.

He officially became a royal guard after graduation and years of training.

He was fine and happy with it. Following the calling he had been trained to be his whole life. And with that, so was his girlfriend, MC.

He wanted to have a house first and foremost, one he bought with his own money.

When he succeeded, the marriage proposal was the next step.

Lilia was supporting him in every way, and that was enough for him. The same for Malleus.

He and MC have a daughter: Hanna.

Like Silver, Sebek took his post as royal guard proudly.

He introduced his girlfriend to his family. His parents and older siblings were happier than ever, the same could not be said for Baul... but Sebek was already prepared for this. He didn't care. He would marry MC, and that would be that.

After the proposal, he went looking for a house.

He was happy and cheerful to give you the news. He had to get a house closer to the castle to carry out his duties, but valuing MC's safety, he decided to get a little more hidden one.

MC and Sebek have two children: a boy named Ivan and a girl named Amelie.

[neferaskingdom]

♡ From Podiums to Playpens | LN4 & OP81

NEFERASKINGDOM

Summary: Lando and Oscar’s lives take a wild turn when an unexpected baby crash-lands at their doorstep. With zero parenting skills and all the wrong instincts, they bumble through diaper disasters and frantic calls, discovering that the only thing harder than winning a Grand Prix is keeping a tiny human alive!

A/N: Inspired by the fanart @mecachrome did of Oscar and Lando holding the baby, though this is exactly the opposite of what happened in the artwork 😝. Also I can't confirm if this will have a part 2 or not so sorry to everyone in advance for that and the cringey song at the end 🫠.

LANDO NORRIS MASTERLIST | MASTERLIST | OSCAR PIASTRI MASTERLIST

Oscar Piastri had a problem. A big, life-altering, scream-inducing problem.

He was many things: a rising Formula 1 star, a recent Monaco resident, and a man who liked things calm and orderly. What he was not, however, was someone equipped to handle finding a baby on his doorstep.

Yet, here he was.

At 8:00 AM, standing in the doorway of his new Monaco apartment, staring at a very real, very giggly baby girl bundled in pink. She was nestled in a stroller beside what looked like a mountain of baby supplies, completely oblivious to the fact that she’d just detonated Oscar’s entire sense of normalcy.

He stared blankly at the tiny human swaddled in pink, her wide, curious eyes blinking up at him as she gurgled happily in her stroller. His brain was stuck in neutral, wheels spinning but going absolutely nowhere. There was a baby on his doorstep, and not in a cute, ‘aww, how nice’ way. This was in the ‘what fresh hell is this?!’ kind of way.

Oscar re-read the note attached to the stroller for the tenth time.

Oscar blinked, reread the note, then blinked some more. “Tim? Who the hell is Tim?!”

Dear Tim,

I’m leaving the country. You can take care of Amelie now. She’s your daughter too. Good luck.

—Evelyn

This was not Oscar’s baby. Oscar had no babies. Babies did not spontaneously appear in Formula 1 drivers’ lives, certainly not on doorsteps. But there she was, this tiny little bundle of chaos just... chilling. Like she was meant to be there, like this was her grand entrance into his thoroughly unprepared life.

Panic hit Oscar like a sledgehammer. He paced in frantic circles, one hand on his phone and the other on his head, like physically holding onto his hair would stop his brain from leaking out of his ears.

He needed backup. No, he needed a miracle.

Oscar frantically dialed the only person dumb enough to know what to do in a situation like this: Lando Norris.

The phone barely rang twice before Lando picked up, sounding as annoyingly chipper as ever. “Hey, Osc! What’s up?”

“There’s a baby on my doorstep.”

There was silence on the other end.

“...What?”

“A baby. There is a living, breathing baby. On. My. Doorstep.”

Lando laughed, but not the good kind of laugh, the kind that suggested he thought Oscar was messing with him. “Mate, what? You sure it’s not a prank? Did someone send you one of those doll things? Is it like, a fan thing?”

“I’m not joking, Lando! There’s a real baby with a note that says I’m supposed to take care of her. Only, I’m not Tim. I don’t even know who Tim is! She’s right here, staring at me. What do I do?!”

Lando, clearly suppressing laughter, said, “Okay, okay, calm down. I’m on my way. Hold the fort, mate.”

“Hurry!” He said, squatting down, staring at the baby like she was a ticking time bomb, ready to explode into tears, vomit, or... whatever babies did. “Please don’t cry,” he whispered. “I’m not built for this.”

Twenty minutes (that felt like twenty years) later, Lando burst through the door with all the grace of a caffeinated squirrel, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

“Where’s this mystery baby? Let me see the little rascal!” Lando scanned the apartment and spotted the baby, his face lighting up like it was Christmas morning. “Oh my God, look at her! She’s so tiny!”

Lando immediately dropped to his knees and scooped up Amelie without hesitation, hoisting her into the air like she was Simba from The Lion King. “Aw, hi, Milly!”

“Milly?” Oscar repeated, a horrified expression plastered on his face. “You already named her?”

“Amelie’s too formal for a baby, don’t you think?” Lando said, casually ignoring Oscar’s panicked state. He bounced Milly in his arms, pulling silly faces at her. “See? She loves me.”

Oscar stared at him in disbelief. “Lando, focus! We need a plan! We’re not renaming the baby; we’re getting her out of here!”

Milly just let out a joyful giggle, tiny fists batting at Lando’s face. Oscar’s eyes widened in horror as Lando juggled the baby like a sack of flour, his nerves stretched thinner by the second. “Lando, stop! You’re gonna drop her! Babies are fragile!”

“Nah, she’s tough. Look at her! Strong grip. Good potential for karting,” Lando said, wiggling his fingers in front of Milly’s face. “Who’s a future world champion, huh? You are!”

Oscar grabbed the back of the couch like it was his last lifeline to sanity. “This is insane. We’re not keeping her. We need to call someone. Her real dad. Where the hell is Tim?!”

“Oh, relax,” Lando waved a hand dismissively, “it’s just babysitting for a few hours. How hard can it be? The mom even dropped off all the supplies we might need!”

Turns out, it was really fucking hard

By midday, the chaos had reached DEFCON 1. Lando had somehow managed to knock over a stack of baby formula cans in the kitchen while Oscar was trying to decipher the instructions on how to make a bottle.

“This says... 50ml of water for every scoop of formula,” Oscar muttered, staring at the weird spoon-thing. “But how big is the scoop? What the hell is a scoop measurement?”

Lando, who was now wearing Milly in a baby carrier that he had insisted on trying out, leaned over the counter and squinted at the instructions. “It’s like... a baby science experiment. Just add more water, it’ll balance out.”

“That’s not how science works, Lando!”

“Sure it is!” Lando grinned, opening the microwave to heat the bottle, but then proceeded to accidentally set it for five minutes instead of thirty seconds. How someone even manages to do that Oscar will never know.

Inevitably the bottle exploded.

Milk sprayed everywhere, coating the inside of the microwave in an unholy mess. Oscar screamed. “What did you do?!”

“I thought that’s how long babies need it!” Lando yelped, staring in horror at the milk-splosion.

Milly, blissfully unaware of the carnage, was happily chewing on one of Lando’s shirt buttons.

Oscar stared at the ceiling, praying for strength. “We are going to kill this baby. We’re going to accidentally kill her.”

Lando, ever the optimist, patted Oscar on the back. “Nah, babies are resilient. They’ve got, like, soft heads, right? So they can handle stuff.”

“That’s the opposite of what soft heads mean, Lando!”

Lando grabbed a spoon and casually scooped up some of the spilled milk, giving it a taste. “Hmm. Tastes weird.”

“STOP EATING THE BABY’S MILK, LANDO!”

After the bottle fiasco, they decided to tackle diaper duty. Or rather, Oscar decided, while Lando found new and creative ways to not help. At one point, Lando was making airplane noises with Milly’s pacifier while Oscar sat cross-legged on the floor, furiously Googling “how to change a diaper without gagging.”

“This can’t be that hard,” Lando said confidently, grabbing a diaper and attempting to strap it onto Milly’s squirming body. He failed. Multiple times.

“You’re putting it on backwards,” Oscar muttered, half in disbelief.

“Am I? Wait, which side is the front?”

Oscar was too stressed to even respond, choosing instead to help flip the diaper the right way around. But Milly had other ideas. She kicked her tiny legs, laughing as both boys fumbled with the diaper tabs.

After several failed attempts and at least two accidental kicks to Oscar’s face, they stood back and admired their work. The diaper was barely holding together, half askew and duct-taped in place because Lando thought duct tape “solved all problems.”

Oscar looked like he was on the verge of a mental breakdown. “We duct-taped a baby.”

“She seems cool with it!” Lando pointed at Milly, who was now rolling around happily in her makeshift duct tape diaper. “Duct tape solves everything!”

Oscar grabbed his phone. “This is not sustainable. I need to call someone. We can’t keep doing this. I need to find Tim.”

Several hours later, after a very frustrating call with his real estate agent, Oscar finally got a number for Tim—the previous tenant, who, as it turns out, had moved to America. 

Oscar punched in the number, already bracing himself for the nightmare conversation ahead. Lando sat cross-legged on the floor, Milly in his lap, reading her a book that was upside down?

Tim picked up after a few rings, his voice groggy and irritated. “Hello?”

Oscar wasted no time. “Timothy?! It’s Oscar. I live in your old apartment in Monaco. Listen, there’s a baby here. Your baby. Evelyn dropped her off with a note and now she’s... well, she’s here, with us. What do we do?!”

There was a brief silence, followed by a sound like a man whose soul had just left his body. “Oh, fuck,” Tim groaned. “Evelyn left her? Again?”

“Again?!” Oscar sputtered. “This is a thing that she does? she just goes around... leaving the baby lying around like a sack of potatoes?”

Tim let out a frustrated sigh. “Listen, man, I’m in New York, okay? I got stuck with this job, corporate America’s been eating me alive. I’m lucky if I can get ten minutes of daylight. I haven’t even unpacked yet and now you’re telling me Evelyn just dropped Amelie off without a heads-up?”

Oscar’s jaw was clenched so tight he thought his teeth might crack. “She didn’t just drop her off—she basically abandoned her and ran! What am I supposed to do with her? I’m a Formula 1 driver, not... not a babysitter!”

Lando, overhearing this, piped up helpfully, “We duct-taped her diaper! Worked like a charm.”

Tim screeched on the other end. “You what?”

“Look, it was either that or she’d be laying around butt naked,” Oscar said, rubbing his temples as he paced. “Focus! I need you to come back and get her, like, now. Please.”

“Man, I wish I could!” Tim sounded frantic now, as if the weight of the universe had just been dumped on him. “But I’m up to my neck in work! I’ve got back-to-back meetings, deadlines, projects—I can’t just hop on a plane!”

“Are you kidding me right now? You can’t just leave your baby with two random blokes! What kind of corporate job is this? Are they holding you hostage?”

Tim let out a sarcastic laugh. “Oh yeah, might as well be! Thanks, late-stage capitalism. I’m chained to a desk, and Evelyn’s probably off somewhere sipping cocktails while you two... duct-tape diapers together?!” He sounded like he was spiraling. “Why is my life like this?”

Oscar was losing his grip on sanity. “What are we supposed to do, Tim? We’re trying here, but we can’t even heat up a bottle without blowing up the microwave! She’s going to be in worse shape than we are if this keeps up!”

Tim let out an exasperated groan. “You think I’m not freaking out here? I don’t want to leave her with you two! But I can’t do anything about it! I’ll have to talk to my boss, and that’ll take days—corporate policies, you know how it is.”

Oscar slumped against the wall. “Tim, I swear to God, if you don’t get on a plane soon, Lando will start raising her to be the next world champion, she’ll probably know more about tire degradation than I do by the time you’re back!”

Tim started to ramble, sounding more unhinged by the second. “Oh, I’m gonna kill Evelyn. I swear, if I ever make it out of this job alive, I’m flying back just to wring her neck. She’s gonna pay for this, and I’m gonna—”

Oscar interrupted him, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Tim, focus! Just tell us what to do. You’re the dad, for God’s sake!”

“I DON’T KNOW!” Tim practically shrieked, his voice going full meltdown mode. “Change her, feed her, keep her alive! That’s all I’ve got. Just... just don’t screw it up!”

“Don’t screw it up?!” Oscar was losing his mind. “That’s your parenting advice?”

Tim sighed heavily. “Look, I’ll try to get there as soon as I can. Maybe two weeks, tops. In the meantime, you’re it. You’re her only hope.”

Oscar stared at the phone, incredulous. “Two weeks?!”

“Yeah, yeah, two weeks. You’ve got this, man,” Tim said hurriedly, like he was trying to convince himself more than anyone. “You’re a driver. You’re adaptable. Just, uh, adapt to... fatherhood.”

Oscar hung up, staring blankly at Lando, who was now trying to teach Milly how to fist bump.

“So... what did he say?” Lando asked, not looking up from Milly’s tiny fist.

Oscar felt like his life was spiraling out of control. “He’s not coming back for two weeks.”

Lando, completely unbothered, grinned. “So… we’re keeping her?”

Oscar buried his face in his hands. “We are not keeping her. This is temporary. I am not a dad, and I’m not about to become one!”

Lando shrugged, giving Milly a finger to grab. “Relax, Osc. It’s just babysitting. We’ve got this.”

Oscar collapsed onto the couch, defeated. “We’re screwed.”

Lando grinned, still blissfully optimistic. “Nah, we got this. How hard can it be?”

Famous last words.

By the time evening rolled around, Oscar was teetering on the edge of a complete nervous breakdown. His hair stuck out in every direction, dark circles framed his eyes, and he was sporting the look of a man who had seen too much in one day. Meanwhile, across the room, Lando was in his own little world, completely oblivious to the chaos he had helped create.

“Please fall asleep,” Oscar muttered, his head in his hands as he slumped into the couch. He shot a pleading glance at Milly, who was, of course, still wide awake, her big eyes blinking up at him like she was in on the joke. “Please, I am begging you.”

Milly giggled in response, showing no signs of slowing down. If anything, she seemed to be gaining more energy as the night went on. And Lando, ever the optimist, had decided the solution to everything was a lullaby.

A lullaby that had nothing to do with actual lullabies and everything to do with... Formula 1.

“Alright, alright,” Lando said, grinning like this was the best night of his life. He cradled Milly in his arms, swaying back and forth like some deranged nanny. “You wanna hear a song, Milly? ‘Course you do.”

Oscar groaned into his hands. “Lando, for the love of God, just—”

Too late. Lando had already kicked into full performance mode, belting out a song so chaotic and nonsensical it would’ve made any sane adult bash their head into the wall

He bounced Milly with every line, and to Oscar’s absolute horror, she loved it. She giggled like it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard, her little fists grabbing onto Lando’s shirt as if demanding more.

“♪ Ohhh, race cars and pit stops,

Tires go screech, engines go vroom!

Zoom around the track, don’t look back,

Lap time’s dropping, we’re gonna attack! ♪”

Oscar rubbed his temples harder, as if somehow massaging his skull would stop the growing headache. “Why are you like this?”

But Lando was in the zone, not stopping for anything. He twirled in a circle with Milly, who was now laughing uncontrollably and continued the absolute madness.

Oscar looked on, his mind unraveling. This wasn’t a lullaby. This was... some kind of fever dream. Lando, still dancing around the living room like he was in a one-man musical, clearly had no idea how to get babies to sleep.

“♪ Pit lane’s calling, gotta switch the tires!

Box, box, baby, we’re dodging all the fires!

Fuel up quick, no time to chill,

We’re racing to bedtime, going in for the kill! ♪”

“Lando,” Oscar said through gritted teeth, “she’s supposed to be winding down, not revving up!”

Lando shot him a cheeky grin. “It’s working, mate. Look at her. She’s loving it!”

Milly squealed in delight, grabbing onto Lando’s face and pulling at his cheeks, while Lando just kept on singing like it was the most normal thing in the world.

We’re gonna celebrate with a chicken dinner! ♪”

“♪ Final lap, we’re almost there,

Through the checkered flag, feel the air!

Who needs sleep when you’re almost a winner?

Oscar could only groan in despair as Lando finished with an overly dramatic spin, still holding Milly like she was some kind of victory trophy. She clapped her tiny hands together, thoroughly entertained, while Oscar’s sanity crumbled just a little more.

Lando grinned as he plopped down on the couch next to Oscar, baby Milly perched on his knee like a royal princess. “See? We’ve got this.”

Oscar’s eye twitched. “Lando. Why do you keep saying that?”

Lando shrugged, completely at ease. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Oscar stared at him, wide-eyed, as if trying to mentally telepathize all of the worst possible things that could happen, starting with the fact that they were two twenty-something Formula 1 drivers responsible for a baby for the next two weeks.

Milly, still very much not asleep, gurgled happily and slapped Lando’s cheek, clearly delighted by the chaos she had caused.

Oscar leaned back on the couch, staring at the ceiling in defeat. “I’m not going to get a single second of sleep these two weeks, am I?”

Lando beamed at him, completely unfazed. “Nope. Welcome to fatherhood, mate.”

Oscar groaned and pulled a cushion over his face, muffling his scream as Milly giggled uncontrollably at his suffering.

This was going to be the longest two weeks of his life.

[wisteriasymphony]

The year is 1979, and 17 year old Emilie Graham de Vanily walks into the office of Gabriel Agreste with something to prove.

---

Emilie sits in front of her mirror, staring coldly into her own face. Her fingers pull the navy ribbon off of her braid, then piece through her strands of golden hair and begin to undo the plait. Pulling the strands of the braid apart, then breaking it and pulling down with small mechanical rhythms, almost like knitting—unknitting, more accurately. The braids make her look younger than twelve, and that's too young. Emilie isn't satisfied with any of it, not the ribbon nor the plaits nor the matching dresses with Amelie. Emilie can look into her own green eyes (bright and green and sparkling with ambition) and know that her eyes are meant for more. All of her is meant for more than this house and this father and this mother and this sister.

"Father doesn't want me to act because he's scared," Emilie says to herself.

"What was that, Emilie?"

She turns back to face Amelie—Amelie's vanity and mirror are on the opposite wall, the girls' backs perpetually turned whenever they go to fix themselves. Keeping themselves identical has been something that neither of them needed to look at each other to do; It was something innate, Emilie thought. Emilie had just never bothered to look back and notice Amelie watching over her shoulder.

"I have to play in The Diamond Lady. Father knows what I'm capable of and it scares him because he doesn't want me to be capable." Emilie turns back to the mirror to catch her own face and her own smile in the mirror, the way her own confidence only encourages itself. "I'm going to run off to the studio again. You can pretend to be me for the day if you'd like. The director said I look perfect for the part, so I know they'll be disappointed if I don't show up."

"...Right."

A slow boil of resentment festers in Emilie's gut as she imagines Father. The way he'd blustered about leaving her without supper for a week for running off. He's going to be sorry one day, Emilie thinks to herself. He's going to see just how much of a star his poor little Emilie is and Father is going to finally be sorry for everything. Fathers can hurt anyone they like, but when they turn out to be stars they can't, because stars are loved by everyone and you can't hurt anyone that everyone loves, or they'll all chase you down with pitchforks.

"What do I say if Father notices you're gone?"

"He won't."

"...Yes, but what do I say anyways?"

"Uhm, Tell them I'm in the garden looking for dead birds again. I don't really care."

"Okay."

Emilie shakes her curls loose and then grabs a brush to style them, hoping to get something closer to Sylvie Vartan than Shirley Temple out of her locks of gold. She'll take the train down to Graham de Vanily Productions and walk onto that set with something to prove.

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

This is probably small in the grand scheme of things, but how did Emilie being noble play any impact in the story at all?

I mean, I'd get it if it was just a small detail to help deepen Emilie's character, but why nobility of all things? I don't know, from what I'm seeing so far, the whole "Emilie renounced her noble title" shtick just feels worthless if it's not going to impact the story or add depth to Emilie's character (like maybe upbringing or personal values?).

I don't know. Like everything else, the noble part just feels shallow and means nothing to the story, especially for a character like Emilie, who is the plot device for the whole show. Any detail about her, like her personality and life story, is supposed to influence the story and characters one way or another, namely Hawkmoth since she's his driving force.

So what was the point?

For context, this ask is about Félix's play which says that Emilie gave up her title to be with Gabriel. I'm gonna give a slightly larger section of the transcript of the play for full context, but the relevant but is at the end of the last paragraph:

Félix: The king and queen's twins grew up, each day as different in heart as they were similar in body. The firstborn, curious and brazen, despised life at court and escaped at every opportunity. The younger daughter, well-behaved and respectful, did everything she could to please her parents, and stayed quietly in the castle. Félix: (as Mr. Graham de Vanily) Oh, my queen. Did we entrust our legacy to the right princess? Kagami: (as Mrs. Graham de Vanily) She will fall in line, eventually. Félix: Confident that she would settle down as she matured, the king and queen allowed the curious princess to leave to study beyond the sea in another kingdom. There, she immediately found true love in a humble tailor. Félix: The tailor was making clothes so magnificent that they revealed the beauty of the soul of anyone who wore them. Although it made her parents furious, the curious princess gave up her rank, her wealth and her kingdom to live a bohemian life with the tailor.

Story wise, I have no idea why any of this was added since it adds nothing to canon. It's not like this finally explains why Gabriel and Emilie are poor while Amelie is wealthy. Along similar lines, it's not like Amelie's title has ever mattered. Prior to this play, I don't think that we even knew that she had a title or that she was the younger sister. The play is all about explaining things that we never had reasons to question in the first place.

My best guess as to why the writers wrote this pointless backstory is that they wanted to make Emilie seem even more pure and perfect so they went with the tired old trope of a rich girl giving up material things for the sake of love and art because good pure women don't care about material things! Only nasty, shallow women care about money. (Way to play into sexist tropes, guys.)

There may also be cultural elements at play here given that France doesn't have the greatest history with nobility, so giving up a noble title may be seen as good and pure to a French writer, but I don't know enough about French culture to say that with any certainty. If anyone who reads this blog is French and would like to chime in, then feel free!

While we're on the topic of the play, I wanted to point out that the above quoted passage is why I say that the Graham de Vanily parents can be as kind or as abusive as you'd like to make them. It's incredibly vague and you can read into it whatever you want to read into it. Were they good loving parents who were just upset about their daughter living in poverty or were they miserable controlling classist who Emilie fled England to get away from? It's up to you because you can get both reads from this. The play commits to almost nothing of value. Politicians could take lessons from this impressive level of noncommittal writing.

A better version of the play would have focused on things that actually matter to canon like the details of finding the miraculous and/or Emilie learning she's sick, but you could only have those details if they were coming from Nathalie or Gabriel. Félix is a terrible choice for a character to tell us the show's backstory because he knows so little of it, thus the play focusing on his largely pointless backstory.

[gold-onthe-inside]

amelie, where'd you go?

who? spencer reid (s2) x medic!reader summary: after you save spencer from his overdose after the hankel kidnapping, he's haunted by the glimpse of you. content warnings: drugs, addiction, overdose, hankel word count: 1.5k a/n: inspired by 'amelie' and 'this is what the drugs are for' by gracie abrams.

Spencer's a scientist. He doesn’t believe in God, just the statistical possibility of one. But you defy his ability to reason. He doesn't remember much after his overdose, just your face, a face he's never seen before, a voice he's never heard.

He remembers a light, like a halo around you, your hair pulled back, your eyes worried, in a way that makes him want to reassure you that he's fine, even though his chest hurts and his feet sting. “We're gonna take good care of you, Spencer,” you say in his dream, and he wonders who ‘we’ is.

In his research on dreams, he knows it doesn't make sense that you aren't real; he doesn't remember seeing you before Hankel, so there was no reason for him to dream about you. It's not in his conscious memory either. Try as he might, he can't actively remember you, only when his subconscious decides to be merciful.

This sweet mercy is only afforded to him when he's in pain, when he craves the drug and the relief that comes with it, when he aches for the pleasant feeling that dulls everything else. Your voice comes to him then, “Stay with us, Spencer. Just a little longer.” He can stay a little longer. The vials go back in his satchel.

Gideon’s gone, leaving behind a letter to explain himself to Spencer, about not believing in happily ever afters anymore. Sarah was Gideon’s happily ever after, and what was his? A glimpse of a face from a blink of his eye, there, and then gone. He can see you, in his mind’s eye, but the memory’s fading around the edges. Spencer closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair, facing the ceiling, trying to remember you. He half wonders if the drugs will help. If the association between you and the Dilaudid would trigger the memory again - it’s wishful thinking at best. At worst, it’s a new form of craving the high, one that’s more dangerous and tempting than the idea of avoiding pain.

They say he shouldn't try to remember the details of the traumatic event; that what he's experiencing is perfectly natural. Except... You're the only good part worth remembering.

And then it’s fall, the air brisker, the leaves crisper, turning rusty and burnt, and he’s entering a cafe near Quantico when he’s bumped into by someone bundled up in a coat and scarf. “Sorry,” you cried quickly, your hand going out to steady him. He almost doesn’t recognise you with your hair down, but there’s no mistaking those eyes.

“You…” is all he says, whispering in disbelief. You, who have haunted his nights, your voice soothing him to sleep, telling him to breathe when his chest feels tight, tells him to hold on a little longer when the needle feels like all there is.

Your brow furrowed, noticing him freeze as he looked at you. “Are you okay?”

“Are you real?” he asked before he could think not to, and for a moment, it’s like you’re trying to recall something, reaching into his mind and trying to find a match. He can practically see the gears turning before your expression cleared and you looked at him, tilting your head.

“Pretty sure I am,” you answered and your brow creased with a confused smile.

“Who are you?” he asked quietly, and there wasn’t a single doubt in his mind now about whether he’d seen you before or not. You raised your coffee cup, so he could see your name etched in marker on the side. “Well, that answers my question,” he said, looking at you with wide, fascinated eyes. He didn’t want to sound crazy, but the words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. “I dreamt about you.”

He knows he’s screwed up the minute he says it, stammering to correct himself, but you beat him to it. “As far as pick-up lines go, that’s really bad,” you said, “but I appreciate your commitment to the bit.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” he said, “I dreamt about you… after I was kidnapped. You, you told me to stay alive just a little longer.” He said it quietly, trying not to draw attention to the fact that he’d been abducted. You looked into his eyes and he shifted, trying to think of a joke or anything to lighten the mood, and then he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, that was definitely a bad start.”

Another customer walked in, the bell disrupting the two of you from your bubble, realising you were both standing in the middle of a cafe like idiots. “Can I buy you a coffee?” you asked, wanting more time, a proper conversation. You can’t leave him like this, not with how he looks like he hasn’t slept right in weeks.

“I’d like that,” he said with a nod, trying not to appear so eager or excited as he followed you to the counter, placing an order. He’s still quiet, wondering if he’s hallucinating again, a delayed effect of the Dilaudid, though it’s been weeks now. The barista calls his name to alert him it’s ready, and the two of you find seats near the back, near the window, the table small enough your legs touched as you sat down.

You study him, properly this time, trying to piece together who he was. Operational rescues were a standard of your life, rushed into the field armed with medical supplies, the closest thing to an army medic you could be without being in the army. “So, I saved your life?” you asked, your voice hesitant and tentative. You don’t want to imply that he’s forgettable - not with that jawline and those eyes and the swoop of his hair. There’s a beauty underneath his struggle, the unbuttoned sleeves of his pale yellow shirt revealing a slender wrist, spindly fingers wrapped around his cup of coffee.

“You don’t remember me,” Spencer said, trying not to sound disappointed but it didn’t quite work. “I suppose it makes sense. Heightened adrenaline and cortisol can make a unique situation memorable. Like after 9/11, people could remember exactly where they were when the towers were attacked. They, um, they call them flashbulb memories. But when you’re used to that kind of stress response, the emotions don’t make the event special, ergo… you don’t remember me.”

You swallowed, wishing there was more you could say other than apologising again, but it’s not like you forgot him on purpose. If you remembered every life you did and didn’t save, you’re not sure you could fall asleep at night. “It’s… easier,” you explained eventually, slowly. “To not remember, in general. You dwell too long on one life, it makes it harder to save the next.”

“Hard to do when you have an eidetic memory,” he said dryly, looking into his coffee cup.

“So you never forget things?” you asked, raising a brow and he looked at you.

“I remember seeing you for 20 seconds, and now you’re in my head. Forever.”

“Must be awful,” you say without thinking, rotating your coffee cup.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he replied. “I’d rather see you like that my whole life than be haunted by the rest of it.”

Your eyes flitted up to look at him, your frown easing. Is he… flirting? No, he’s too honest to be flirting.

“I-I only mean, um, that in comparison to-to everything else I saw that day,” he stammered, then sighed, relenting. “I’m sorry, I’m… I’m not good at this.”

“You hold onto the good things, and you hope it’s enough to outweigh the bad,” you said, offering a small smile. “If it gets you through the day, it gets you through the day. I won’t judge.” A moment of silence passes, his hazel eyes appreciating you as you continued. “It’s part of why I do it, anyway. Wanting to put more good in the world, fix the bad where I can.”

He’s frozen in that moment, staring at you, wishing he had something profound to say, something that would impress you the way you’ve stunned him. “You’re amazing,” is what comes out and you dip your head with a slight chuckle, and of course there’s a dimple in your cheek because you’re an angel, pure light, heaven-sent for him. “I-I mean,” he stammered, trying to get his words out, “if you hadn’t been there, all I would’ve remembered would’ve been darkness, but you… You gave me a reason to hold on.”

Colour rose to your cheeks, heat blooming along your face and your chest constricting. “You’re very welcome, Spencer,” you replied, more to your coffee than to him, and your watch beeped, reminding you that you had a job to get to. “I should get going,” you said, turning the alarm off and his expression turned desperate.

“Can I see you again?” he asked, so hopefully that all your training goes out the window as you scribble your number on a paper napkin. That said, there’s a pit in your stomach, warning you not to get involved with a patient. He just wants to see me again. It’s not a big deal.

Except, when you walked past the window on your way to work, seeing his adoring eyes follow you, and when your stomach flips… you know it is.

[kathlare]

intervention

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: Amelie and Lando's cozy morning is hilariously derailed when a few familiar faces burst into their hotel room with chaotic energy and a very unexpected plan.

Wordcount: 4.0 k

Warnings: just fluff

request over here!

April 15th, 2025 - Sakhir, Bahrain

Sunlight poured into the hotel room in Bahrain, warm and golden, soft against the tangled sheets and lazy limbs sprawled over the bed. Amelie was nestled into Lando’s chest, their legs tangled under the covers, her hand splayed across his bare stomach while his fingers lazily traced the curve of her spine.

—Lan,— Amelie murmured, voice thick with sleep, —I’m hungry.—

Lando cracked an eye open, squinting at her through messy curls. —We literally haven’t moved. You wanna order room service, sunshine?— he mumbled, kissing the top of her head.

Amelie nodded sleepily, lifting her head just enough to meet his gaze. Her hair was a mess, eyes half-lidded, lips pouty in the way that made Lando’s heart physically ache.

—Yes please. I want pancakes. And fruit. And maybe toast. Oh, and that weirdly good hashbrown thing you liked yesterday.—

Lando chuckled, reaching over her to grab the hotel phone. —You mean the one I told you not to eat because it was mine, and then you stole it the second I looked away?—

—Sharing is caring, Norris.— she grinned, kissing his jaw before flopping back onto his chest like a content cat.

They ended up ordering half the menu — pancakes, French toast, hashbrowns, eggs, croissants, even a smoothie Amelie insisted sounded fun. Lando didn’t argue. He was weak for her, and he knew it.

The knock on the door came just as Amelie was feeding Lando a bite of her croissant, giggling as he deliberately missed it with his mouth, nipping her finger instead.

—You’re such a menace,— she muttered, swatting at him playfully.

—You love it,— he said with a cheeky grin, licking a smear of strawberry jam off her fingertip. She rolled her eyes, her cheeks pink, leaning in to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Lando was about to tug her closer again, ready to drag her right back into the duvet cocoon, when another knock echoed through the room. Louder this time. Urgent.

—Who the fuck…— he muttered, reluctantly untangling himself from her. Amelie groaned dramatically and flopped back on the bed.

—Tell whoever it is we’re dead. Or naked. Or dead and naked,— she called out, voice muffled by a pillow.

Lando padded over to the door in just his boxers and one of the hotel robes hanging off his shoulders, his hair an absolute mess of curls. He opened it without thinking.

Big mistake.

Because the second the door cracked open, it was violently pushed the rest of the way as George, Charles, and Alex burst into the room like a chaotic hurricane of testosterone and betrayal.

—SURPRISE, LOVEBIRDS!— George yelled, already halfway across the room before Lando could process what was happening.

—Jesus fucking Christ,— Lando grunted as Charles clapped him on the back, pushing past him.

Alex waltzed in last, sunglasses on, a devilish grin on his face. —Oh my God, were you two shagging? At breakfast time? That’s bold, mate.—

Amelie sat up in bed, hair a tousled halo around her face, the duvet tucked under her arms. She blinked at them, completely unimpressed. —You three are so dramatic. What are you even doing here?—

—What are we doing here?— George scoffed, flopping onto the edge of the bed without invitation. —What are you doing here? We texted you hours ago. You’re supposed to be getting dressed!—

Lando scratched his head, still trying to catch up. —Getting dressed for what? We were gonna hit the beach or something today.—

Charles dropped into a nearby chair, arms crossed. —Yeah, well, change of plans. We’re going karting.—

Amelie groaned immediately, pulling the duvet over her head. —No. Nope. Not doing this again. Last time we did this, Charles body-checked me like a maniac and I ended up with a broken rib.—

—It was an accident!— Charles yelled through laughter. —And that was, like, four years ago! You raced me again after that and you survived! So get your ass up.—

—Also,— Alex added, stealing a slice of toast from the breakfast tray like a gremlin, —we haven’t properly hung out as a group since someone went all soft on us.—

He shot a look at Lando, who was still blinking in stunned betrayal.

—You mean since Lando started getting laid? Yeah, we noticed,— George added with a smirk, snatching a strawberry off Amelie’s fruit bowl.

Lando threw his hands up. —Are you lot actually insane? We’re on holiday. You can’t just bust into our hotel room and kidnap us for karting.—

—Actually, we can,— Charles said smugly. —Because we booked the track. And because you two have been disgustingly inseparable and we’re staging an intervention.—

Amelie finally popped her head back out from under the duvet, squinting at the three men like they were wild animals. —What do you mean intervention?—

Alex, already munching on a stolen croissant, gestured dramatically between her and Lando. —No more pet names. No more kissing. No more cuddling. No calling each other ‘sunshine’ and ‘baby’ and ‘my love’ or whatever the hell you two have been doing. Just friends. Just like old times.—

—Absolutely not,— Lando said immediately.

—Seconded,— Amelie mumbled, already pulling the duvet back over her face.

George yanked it off her again with a grin. —You two need to be humbled. For the sake of nostalgia. For the group. For the drama.—

—And because it’ll be funny when one of us overtakes Lando and he’s too busy making heart eyes at Amelie to notice,— Charles added.

Lando looked genuinely wounded. —I do not make heart eyes.—

All three of them spoke in unison.

—Yes, you do.—

Amelie burst into laughter, flopping back on the bed with a dramatic sigh. —I hate all of you. So much. You couldn’t just let us have our cozy little beach day and pancakes?—

—Absolutely not,— Alex said, already pulling open her suitcase like he lived there. —Now, get dressed. We leave in twenty minutes. And remember the rules: no making out, no being in love, no touching, no private jokes, and definitely no lap-sitting. Got it?—

Amelie groaned as Alex dramatically tossed a random pair of leggings and a cropped top onto the bed. —You forgot “no breathing the same air,”— she deadpanned.

—Oh that too,— George chimed in. —No sharing oxygen. You two are too powerful together.—

Lando crossed his arms, unimpressed and entirely too shirtless to be taken seriously. —You three are actual lunatics.—

—Lando,— Charles said, pointing at him with the utmost fake seriousness, —put on some fucking pants before I start crying.—

Amelie giggled into the sheets as Lando flipped Charles off before reluctantly trudging over to his suitcase.

—You know,— she called after him, —I wouldn’t be opposed to watching you kart in just your boxers. For the memories.—

—No flirting!— George shouted, lobbing a pillow at her.

She ducked it with a grin, stretching languidly as the duvet slipped down to reveal her bare shoulders. Lando, halfway into his hoodie, paused to ogle. Unapologetically.

—Eyes on your trousers, Norris,— Alex said, not even looking up from where he was rummaging through Lando’s stuff now. —Jesus, it’s like you’ve never seen her naked before.—

—I have, actually. Quite extensively,— Lando replied, voice casual as hell.

Amelie choked on her orange juice. George screamed into a pillow. Charles looked like he regretted everything.

—You’re all awful!— Amelie said, laughing so hard she nearly dropped her glass. —Why are we friends? I want to return you.—

—Too late,— George said. —You’ve been locked in.—

—Like a bad Netflix contract,— Alex added, tossing Lando a pair of joggers with zero aim that landed on the lamp instead. —No exit clause, no refunds.—

Amelie finally climbed out of bed, still wrapped in the duvet like a dramatic Roman empress. She made a show of sipping her smoothie while narrowing her eyes at the three intruders.

—So let me get this straight,— she said, voice laced with sarcasm. —You break into our room, steal our breakfast, insult our love, and now you want me to race for the sake of group bonding? After I literally almost died last time?—

—You didn’t die,— Charles groaned, tugging at her arm.

—You broke my rib,— Amelie said flatly, taking another sip of her smoothie. —Because your competitive ass can’t handle being passed by a girl.—

—You didn’t pass me,— Charles argued.

—Because you slammed into me, you absolute twat,— she snapped, raising an eyebrow.

Lando chuckled, now dressed in joggers and pulling a t-shirt over his head. —She’s got a point, mate. You were feral that day.—

—Thank you,— Amelie said, sending Lando a proud little smile, before turning back to the idiots in front of her. —And now you expect me to get in a kart again like I haven’t been through trauma? What happened to being kind to women?—

—We are being kind,— George said, popping a grape into his mouth. —We’re giving you a chance to reclaim your karting glory.—

—No. You're giving yourselves a chance to laugh at me when I inevitably spin out and cry in the pit lane,— Amelie said, deadpan.

—Exactly,— Alex grinned, —but in a supportive, character-building kind of way.—

Amelie groaned, head tipping back against the wall like the world’s most long-suffering saint. —You’re all the worst. I was going to nap. And maybe force Lando to do face masks with me. Now I have to put on actual clothes and relive my karting trauma for the sake of “group bonding.”—

Lando crossed the room to her, brushing a strand of hair from her face with a soft smile. —You’ll be fine, sunshine. You’ve raced Charles since then and didn’t kill him. That’s progress.—

Amelie eyed him suspiciously. —You’re awfully calm about this. You’re not gonna make fun of me too?—

—Never,— he said, kissing her forehead. —But I am going to win.—

Her eyes narrowed. —Oh, it’s like that?—

He grinned. —It’s exactly like that.—

—You two are FLIRTING AGAIN!— George howled, pointing dramatically like he was in a courtroom drama. —Rule violation number seven! Stop being hot and supportive in front of us, it’s making me emotionally unstable.—

—Right, come on,— Charles said, herding them all like unruly sheep, —let’s move, or we’ll miss the slot we booked. And I refuse to pay a cancellation fee just because Amelie wants to cuddle in bed all day.—

—Jealous much?— Lando muttered, slinging his arm over Amelie’s shoulder.

—STOP. TOUCHING,— Alex barked from the doorway. —That’s it, ten-second penalty on the grid for hand-holding.—

Amelie and Lando exchanged a glance, both silently plotting chaos.

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

liked by lanmelieupdates, f1gossipgirl, and others

ameliedaymanfans: Amelie via George Russell's Instagram story! Looks like the Twitch Quintet is back together and went racing in Bahrain! 🏎️💥

View all 94,129 comments

f1_queen45: Omg, the dream team is back 😭 the energy is unmatched!!! → charles_leclerc_lover: @f1_queen45 Literally, this group gives me life every time 💖

landos_tea: Sooo does Amelie still hang out with Charles when Lando’s not around?? 👀 → ameliesteam: @landos_tea 🤣 They’re all friends, calm down!! Don’t make it weird.

mclarenmood: Can we PLEASE get a real “Twitch Quintet” merch line? I need it for my soul 🫶 → ameliedaymanfans: @mclarenmood Get in line 😂 same! A merch drop would be iconic!

loveforlando1: I don't understand why people are acting like Amelie is the problem?? Why can't they just be friends???

lanfan420: okay but Amelie definitely smoked all of them on the track → charlotteschaar: @lanfan420 Charles: screaming in Monégasque → oscarpias3: @lanfan420 imagine getting lapped by your friend’s girlfriend

daymansunshine: this is the real f1 content we need. not strategy calls, just vibes. → formulayum: @daymansunshine Netflix could never capture this

haterhoney: she’s not even a real driver why is she there → norrisbaby: @haterhoney why are YOU here lmao → amelienation: @haterhoney go touch grass 😭😭

nandosmile: the whole twitch gang together?? this is healing my 2020 trauma → alexfanflops: @nandosmile someone stream this immediately. I need chaos.

meliecam: am I crying over a blurry Insta story? yes. do I care? no.

sundayscariez: THEY’RE BACK OMGG TWITCH QUINTET NATION RISE 🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️ → lanieluvbot: @sundayscariez i screamed like a lil victorian boy who just saw ankles → tireprincess: @sundayscariez this feels biblical tbh

maxie_willdrive: okay but who won??? my money’s on Amelie dusting them all

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

The karting track in Bahrain was buzzing with energy as the group lined up, the scent of fresh rubber filling the air. The bright sun beat down, casting long shadows over the brightly colored karts parked in neat rows. Amelie adjusted the fit of her racing suit, tugging at it just enough to make sure it wasn’t too tight, and then grabbed her helmet. She slipped it on slowly, her movements deliberate, a quiet calm before the storm.

Lando, already suited up and seated in his kart, watched her carefully. As she fastened her helmet, his eyes narrowed slightly, and he shot a quick, almost imperceptible look at George, Charles, and Alex. The three men froze for a second, exchanging knowing glances. The message was clear: if anyone even thought about bumping Amelie in a way that wasn’t friendly, they were going to answer to Lando. He might’ve been joking about a lot of things, but when it came to her safety, he wasn’t messing around.

Charles raised his hands in mock surrender. —Don’t worry, mate, we know the drill,— he said, giving Lando a teasing grin. But the tension was real, and everyone knew it.

The track was alive with excitement, and even the playful banter between Lando and his friends couldn’t quite mask the intensity hanging in the air. Everyone knew that karting was one of those things where competitiveness ran high, especially when it came to Amelie. She wasn’t just there to join in—she was there to win.

As the karts revved to life, the group lined up on the starting grid, the engines rumbling like the prelude to a battle. Lando’s kart, painted in bright hues of green and black, sat at the front, while Amelie’s kart, equally sleek and fast-looking, was just behind him. The rest of the group filled in behind, but all eyes were secretly on her.

—Ready to get your ass kicked, sunshine?— Lando called over his shoulder, his voice a mix of teasing and anticipation.

—We’ll see who’s kicking whose ass, Norris,— Amelie shot back, her voice muffled by the helmet. She wasn’t about to let him get too cocky.

The signal went up, and the green light flashed. Everyone shot off, their karts darting into motion. Lando immediately took the lead, like he had every intention of keeping it, but there was something different about Amelie today. She wasn’t just out for fun; there was a fire in her that burned brighter than ever.

The first lap passed quickly, with the group jostling for position. Lando could see her in his rearview mirror, close but not too close—just enough to remind him that she wasn’t far behind. Charles was trying to make his usual moves, Alex was focused, and George was already pushing hard, all while making some ridiculous comments about Lando’s driving.

But all Lando could think about was Amelie. Her kart was glued to the track, her movements sharp and confident. She wasn’t just a casual driver; she was determined. Every time he checked over his shoulder, she was right there, keeping pace with him, making him work for that lead.

As they rounded the final corner of the last lap, Lando’s heart rate kicked up a notch. He could feel her gaining on him, the pressure mounting. But he wasn’t going to let her win that easily—not without giving her a proper challenge.

—You’re not getting past me that easily, sunshine,— he muttered to himself, shifting his focus, pushing harder.

But little did he know, Amelie had one last trick up her sleeve. With a controlled burst of speed, she took the final straightaway with precision, inching closer to his rear bumper. Lando tried to block her move, but she wasn’t having it. With a well-timed maneuver, she shot past him, narrowly taking the corner and sliding into the lead.

—No fucking way,— Lando muttered in disbelief as she zoomed ahead, crossing the finish line a fraction of a second before him.

The sound of her kart’s engine faded as she hit the brakes, a triumphant grin on her face beneath the visor of her helmet. Lando pulled into the pit, shaking his head with a mix of admiration and disbelief.

Amelie yanked off her helmet in one swift motion, her long hair spilling free, and she didn’t hesitate. Without saying a word, she jogged straight toward Lando’s kart, a fire in her eyes.

She was smiling like she just won the World Cup, and Lando couldn’t help but grin back, feeling the heat of their playful competition flare between them.

She didn’t even slow down.

—Fuck the rules,— Amelie declared, voice still breathless from the race as she reached his kart. And before Lando could so much as respond, she dropped her helmet to the floor with a loud thud, grabbed him by the front of his suit, and crashed her mouth into his.

It was immediate. Intense. Joyous chaos.

Lando let out a surprised sound against her lips, but it melted into a low groan as his arms wrapped tight around her waist, hauling her halfway into his lap as they kissed like a pair of hormonal teenagers in the back of a movie theater. Her hands threaded through his curls, messy and triumphant, and Lando pulled her closer like he hadn’t just lost to her by a millisecond. Like she wasn’t rubbing it in with every sharp, smug press of her lips.

—Oh for fuck’s sake,— Charles groaned, throwing his gloves dramatically onto the pit wall.

—We said no making out!— Alex yelled, pointing at them like they were committing a war crime.

George threw his arms in the air. —They’re worse than Love Island! I feel like I need a chaperone just standing near them.—

—They’re not even sorry,— Charles added, looking genuinely offended. —Look at them. Tongues down each other’s throats like we didn’t just race. Like we’re not here. I hate it here.—

Amelie pulled back just enough to pant against Lando’s mouth, breathless and smug and still riding the high of victory. —I won. Admit it.—

Lando was still half-dazed, lips kiss-bruised and grinning like a man completely and utterly destroyed by love. He tucked a strand of hair behind Amelie's ear, eyes full of nothing but her.

—Yeah, you did,— he admitted, voice rough and low, still catching his breath. —You fucking smoked us.—

Amelie laughed, still straddling the side of his kart like it was a throne and she was the undisputed queen.

—What was that about being calm and taking it easy on me?— she teased, tapping a finger to his chest. —I should’ve known you were going soft.—

—Excuse me,— Lando scoffed, though the smugness was all hers now. —I wasn’t going soft. I was being respectful. Big difference.—

—Sure, baby,— she cooed, leaning in again, clearly about to resume their inappropriate-for-public snog session.

—NOPE! Absolutely not!— Alex barked from across the pit lane, covering his eyes like he’d just witnessed a crime scene. —Can we not? There are innocent people here.—

—Like who?— Amelie called back over her shoulder, still perched in Lando’s lap. —You three? Please. You’re the definition of corrupted.—

—This is blatant PDA,— George whined, tossing his helmet to the ground. —I feel like I just watched an R-rated movie—

—They didn’t even make it to the damn trophy ceremony and she’s already climbed him like a tree,— Charles muttered, pouring water on his face like it would cleanse his soul. —We get it! You’re in love! Go write poetry or something, Jesus.—

Lando nuzzled into Amelie’s shoulder, voice unapologetically smug. —Someone’s bitter.—

—Someone’s lucky I don’t crash into him next round,— Charles muttered.

—Careful,— Amelie sing-songed, finally sliding off Lando’s lap and sauntering back toward the group with the same strut she used on red carpets. —I’ve already got one broken rib courtesy of your trauma-induced driving. I’m not afraid to sue this time.—

—It was one time! Four years ago! Let it go!— Charles yelled after her.

She flipped him off without looking back, hips swaying in triumph. Lando was trailing behind her like a kicked puppy and a proud boyfriend all at once, helmet under one arm, smile stupidly wide.

Back at the main building, everyone was still sweaty and slightly dazed from the intensity of the race. They were packing up, unzipping their suits and sipping water, trying to cool down—except for Lando, who only had one thing on his mind.

Amelie.

She was glowing from the win, a wild sparkle in her eyes, her cheeks flushed, hair a little messy from the helmet, and her lips still swollen from kissing him like she hadn’t seen him in a month.

Lando didn’t even try to play it cool.

He reached for her hand the moment they stepped inside, lacing their fingers tightly and pulling her toward the elevators with a determined pace. Amelie squeaked out a laugh, stumbling after him.

—Whoa, where’s the fire?— she teased, though her grin said she knew exactly where this was going.

Lando didn’t even look back at the rest of the guys as he threw over his shoulder, —If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to have victory sex with my girlfriend.—

A collective groan erupted behind them.

—OH MY GOD,— George gagged. —Did you really just say that out loud?—

—He really did,— Charles muttered, rubbing his temples like this whole day had given him a headache.

—Victory sex? He actually said “victory sex.” Out loud. In public.— Alex looked personally attacked. —There are children on this earth, you know.—

But Lando didn’t care.

He was already hitting the elevator button like a man on a mission, practically dragging Amelie with him, both of them laughing breathlessly. The doors dinged open, and he pulled her inside. Before they could even turn around, his hands were on her waist and her mouth was back on his.

The doors started to close.

—DON’T DO IT IN THERE!— George shouted.

—DON’T PRESS THE EMERGENCY STOP!— Charles added frantically.

But the last thing they saw before the doors shut was Amelie wrapping her arms around Lando’s neck as they kissed like the world had ended and their only job now was to make up for lost time.

—God, they’re like horny teenagers,— Alex mumbled, staring blankly at the closed elevator like it had betrayed him.

—No, worse,— Charles sighed. —Teenagers have shame.—

George looked down at his phone. —Ten bucks says they don’t even make it to the room.—

—Ten? Bro, triple it. They’re probably stopping on the fifth floor just to get a head start.—

They stood there in resigned silence for a beat, then Alex muttered, —We need new friends.—

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

liked by charles_leclerc, oliviarodrigo, and others

ameliedayman: sand & chaos

View all 83,192 comments

lando: sand, chaos, and the best view in Bahrain 😮‍💨 → ameliedayman: @lando is that what we’re calling your tan lines now? → lando: @ameliedayman baby pls we said we wouldn’t talk about that on main 💀 → georgerussell63: @ameliedayman pics or it didn’t happen → alex_albon: @ameliedayman no pics. pls god. no pics.

alex_albon: delete the gym pic RIGHT NOW → ameliedayman: @alex_albon no → alex_albon: @ameliedayman this is slander → georgerussell63: @alex_albon i look phenomenal. don’t let him gaslight u. → lilymhe: @alex_albon i want that printed for our hallway

charles_leclerc: i let you win → ameliedayman: @charles_leclerc u did not → charles_leclerc: @ameliedayman😐

sydneyluvsquad: THE BLUE DRESS PHOTOS I’M SCREAMING → lanmeliesbrainrot: @sydneyluvsquad it’s giving bahraini royalty → safeforlan: @sydneyluvsquad lando is FOAMING behind the camera don’t lie

sunbedslut: she’s actually insane for that brown dress pic like. how is that LEGAL → ameliefiles: @sunbedslut i just know lando was going through it. → beachymel: @sunbedslut fr he probs needed a cold shower after taking that

joshrichards: lando’s photography arc kinda popping off → ameliedayman: @joshrichards had to train him like a sim → jadenhossler: @joshrichards oh he’s definitely maxed out the “boyfriend camera skill” bar now

f1wagscentral: i need a breakdown of every dress she wore immediately → quadrantgirlies: @f1wagscentral fashion ICON. → lanfanficcentral: @f1wagscentral her suitcase was elite. no crumbs.

coconutcoded: how does she still look expensive sitting on a sun bed like it’s a Vogue shoot??

dualipa: i know a serve when i see one → ameliedayman: @dualipa queen supporting queen 🫶

[tulipsnflowers]

Hey everyone go read seasons of change by @zscyber if you like long fics. Seriously.

I realize this is not for the last chapter but if I drew anything for that it would be me punching the lights out of Xanders so let's not

I already ranted about it in a different post but by God is the fic great! I can't wait for TDAD. Mostly because of James but there's going to be so much angst in general.

[lukesvangelista]

𝐈 𝐀𝐌 𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐒𝐄, 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐈’𝐌 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐏𝐈𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄ˡʰ⁴³

in which luke longs for the one person who understands him.

warnings; sad luke, crying luke, weddings, prom

part one here

part two here

part four here

Luke stood at the edge of the reception hall, watching the newlyweds glide across the dance floor. The bride, radiant in her white gown, laughed as Matt, Luke's cousin and her husband, spun her around, their joy infectious. The room was filled with the soft glow of fairy lights and the gentle hum of conversation, but Luke's mind was far away, lost in the memories of the relationship the two of you once shared. Jack and Quinn were talking beside him, reminiscing on the childhood memories the three of them shared with Matt, but Luke could've cared less. Instead, he zoned in on the couple with longing eyes, his face expressionless - that should've been him twirling you around on that dance floor.

It had been nine months since he and you had parted ways, but it felt like a lifetime. The two of you had met in high school, two awkward teenagers drawn together by a shared love of sports, music, and movies, and a mutual disdain for the superficiality of your guys' chemistry teacher. His first dance with you had been in your living room, the two of you clumsily stepping on each other’s toes to a scratchy vinyl record your father had given to you. The two of you shared so much laughter that day, the sound mingling with the music. Luke didn't think he was capable of laughing that much, but somehow, you had brought it out of him. In that moment, Luke had thought that your relationship would last forever.

As Matt and Amelie continued their dance, Luke remembered the night he had taken you to prom. You guys had spent weeks preparing. You agonized over your dress to the point where Ellen had offered to fix it up however you wanted to. She spent a week sewing this, and hemming that, but that dress couldn't have been more beautiful. It complimented you perfectly, the red satin fabric allowing your eyes to radiate. You laughed as Luke fumbled with the corsage during pictures. At the time, he didn't appreciate it, but now, he would give anything to hear your laugh again. When the two of you had finally arrived, the gym had been transformed into a magical wonderland, complete with twinkling lights and a live band. You guys had danced until your feet were sore, holding each other close as if the world outside didn’t exist.

Luke felt a lump in his throat form as he continued to watch the first dance. There was an empty seat beside him, designated for another one of his cousin's who couldn't make it, but Luke couldn't help but feel like it was for you. It was just another reminder that you weren't with him, but you should've been. All he wanted was to look away, but it's like he was frozen. It felt like a god damn punishment. And then, as if things couldn't get any worse, he realized what song they were dancing to - 'Like Real People Do'.

No, no, no. This was your guys' song.

Tears sprang into Luke's hazel eyes immediately, and he jumped up from his seat to excuse himself. Quinn and Jack looked at their little brother like he was crazy, but Luke muttered some half-ass excuse about having to use the bathroom before walking out of the reception hall and outside the building.

As soon as he was outside, Luke tightly gripped the red brick of the building. He felt that if he didn't, he would've collapsed right then and there. He tried to take some deep breaths to calm himself down, but it felt as though nothing was working. So, he whipped out his phone and opened his contacts.

As he hovered over your contact, Luke tried to convince himself that it was because he wasn't in a clear state of mind. Maybe he could even blame it on the drinks that Jack had snuck over to him earlier in the evening. But deep down, Luke knew that wasn't true. He missed you, and maybe, just maybe, his longing for you would decrease if he heard your voice again. The night was quiet, which only seemed to amplify his thoughts. He missed you - every laugh, every conversation, every moment the two of you had shared. He missed you more than he could bear.

But the longer his fingers hovered over your contact, the more hesitant he became. The two of you had broken up nine months ago. The last time he had seen you was the night (or morning, he didn't even know) you showed up to his apartment, where he was sleeping with another girl and practically yelled at you for coming to see him. And it was the night that you needed him most. You were missing your dad and needed comfort. That was it. He had royally fucked up.

Was this a good idea? Would you even want to hear from him?

Doubts crowded Luke's mind, but the ache in his heart overpowered him. He took a deep breath and pressed call.

The phone rang once, twice, three times. Four times, five times, six times.

Luke was about to hang up when the dial tone went away. Static ensued and then he heard exactly what he wanted to hear.

"Hello?" Your voice was soft, cautious.

Luke let out a whimper, a tear falling from his eye, "Y/N/N, hi. It's Luke."

There was a pause, then, "Luke. Hi. It's been awhile."

"Yeah, it has. I-" he struggled to find the right words, "I know it's sudden, but I just needed to hear your voice. I miss you, Y/N."

The line was silent for a moment, and Luke feared that you might've hung up. But then you spoke, your voice trembling slightly, "Why'd you call, Luke?"

He let a sob ring from his lips, his tone heavy, "Matt got married today, and him and Amelie just looked so happy. And I looked at them and it was like I couldn't even see them, I just saw us," another sob rang out, "I just... whenever I looked at you, Y/N, I saw my future. I would've married you if I had the chance." he admitted.

The line went silent again, this time for even longer than the last. Boy, did that scare Luke. Had he said too much too soon? He wouldn't be surprised if he did - his brothers had always told him that that was his fatal flaw. Thirty seconds had passed before he spoke up again, pure desperation evident in his voice, "Y/N/N?"

He heard you sniffle over the line. A few more seconds of silence followed before you spoke, your voice trembling a little more than before, "I... I miss you too, Luke. I think about you a lot."

Relief washed over him, but it was quickly followed by regret, "I messed up, Y/N. Remember that night when you called me an asshole? It's all I've thought about since that night. You needed me and I kicked you out and..." Luke had to pause as he felt his chest tighten. His breaths were ragged and it felt as though he couldn't catch his breath.

"Luke? Luke, are you okay?" you asked him, concern evident in your tone.

Luke was able to compose himself just enough to keep talking as he heard your voice, "I was an asshole. I can't believe it's taken me seven months to admit it, but I was the asshole, and I am so fucking sorry, Y/N."

You took a shallow breath on the other end of the phone, your own eyes welling with tears.

Luke continued, "Listen, I don't know if we can ever go back to what we had, but I just needed you to know how much I miss you."

You sighed softly, tears of your own now slipping from your eyes, "That was hard for me, Luke. It hurt. But hearing you say that means a lot. And I'm not going to sit here and pretend that I didn't fuck up, too. We both made mistakes, and here we are." you faked a laugh.

Without thinking, Luke whispered through the phone, "Can we meet?" There was a lace of hope in his words as he spoke. Maybe it was a little bit of a facade, just to trick him into thinking he had more of a chance than he actually did, "Just to talk. Maybe start over, even if it's just as friends."

There was a long pause, and if it was as if Luke could almost hear you weighing the decision through the phone. It felt like hours had passed before you spoke again, your voice gentle, "Luke... it's not that simple. I miss you - more than you know - but I think that we both need to heal and move forward, even if it's hard."

"Y/N?"

"Yes, Luke?"

"It's pathetic really, how much I still hope it's you and me in the end."

"Take care of yourself, Luke," you said, "Goodnight."

Luke wiped the tears from his cheeks, feeling the weight of your words. As you hung up, though, he felt a mixture of relief and sorrow. He knew you were right - you both needed to move on, to heal. But at least for tonight, he had the comfort of hearing your voice, a small connection to the woman he had loved and lost.

[fluentmoviequoter]

Anonymity [Track 2]

⏮ Anonymity

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!wife!singer!reader

Summary: During your final tour show, you sing to Tim Bradford rather than the thousands of people watching. Despite the reason you're both wearing masks, you can see each other clearly.

Warnings: fluff! brief angst and mention of harassment, Tim is sarcastic and yearns for his wife🤭

Word Count: 3.4k+ words

Masterlist | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

You lift your arms as your costume designer, Amelie, measures around your waist. In the corner of the small shop, Wendy swipes through videos on her phone, stopping occasionally to watch one. When the same audio clip from your song Jacket plays for the third time, you groan and tip your head back.

“Did I pinch?” Amelie worries, standing up quickly.

“No, sorry, Amelie,” you reply. “I just think that if I ever have to hear Jacket again I’m going to become a recluse and never sing again.”

“It’s your fault,” Wendy chides, swiping again. “Flirting with a security guard during an already viral song was not wise.”

“Oh, right, because I absolutely thought of that outcome before it happened.”

“We have new offers,” she adds, locking her phone and quieting the room.

“I don’t do interviews, Wendy, you know that.”

Amelie taps your elbow, and you lower your arm so she can measure it. Changing your costume has been on your mind for a while, and as your tour ends and you begin working on new music, you figure there’s no better time than now.

“It’s a typeform interview,” she argues. “You’d only have to talk to me.”

“And you know that they’re going to want to know things I don’t want to answer. It’s not happening, Wendy.”

“LA Times?”

You smile, glad you have a persistent manager and entertained by the fact she’s still trying. “No,” you answer.

“Daily Breeze?”

“No.”

“LBCC gossip column?”

“What? No.”

“Come on,” Wendy groans. “We can do something, get out ahead of this.”

“We can’t get out ahead of something that already happened, Wen. The entire point of this is anonymity. Who cares if people want to know who the security guard is? Let them fuel their own delusions and come up with a story. It’s what they normally do.”

“Fine,” Wendy agrees. “But they’ll want something.”

“I can do something,” you promise. “But it won’t be an answer.”

Wendy hesitates as she stands. “I… make it work, Scinan.”

Tim clenches his jaw when his phone vibrates for the tenth time in five minutes. Angela and Lucy have their heads down, scrolling through ClipTok while waiting for Sergeant Grey to arrive with today’s special assignments.

“Oh my gosh!” Lucy exclaims with a laugh. “Have you seen this one?”

She turns her phone so Angela can see, and they watch together before smiling.

“Send me that one?” she requests. “That’s amazing.”

Tim’s phone buzzes again, and he lifts it from the table to silence it. “I didn’t ask for it, Chen.”

“Come on, Timothy,” Angela replies. “It’s cute.”

“Yeah, five million people romanticizing my marriage is adorable,” he deadpans.

Lucy chuckles and shakes her head. “You think it’s only five?”

“Not the point,” Tim responds as Sergeant Grey enters the roll call room.

“You’re all off-duty tomorrow and into the weekend, right?” he asks.

“Yes, sir,” Tim, Lucy, and Angela answer together.

“So are Aaron, Nyla, and Nolan,” Wade adds, looking up with raised brows. “You all going camping together or something?”

“Going to San Diego for a concert,” Angela answers.

“Scinan?”

“Uh, yeah,” Lucy replies. “How’d you know?”

“Luna is going, which means I’m going.”

“Then who’s in charge? Smitty?” Tim inquires.

“One of the night sergeants is covering for me,” Wade explains. “Today, I need the three of you on desk duty. According to one of Harper’s CIs, someone is stealing lottery tickets from convenience stores without triggering any sort of alarm.”

“We’re going through security footage?” Lucy clarifies. “Is there a description of the guy, time window, anything?”

“Everything we have – and it isn’t much – is loaded onto the computers in the bull pen. Best of luck.” Wade opens the door before he adds, “And feel free to listen to some music to make the time go faster.”

“What would you recommend?” Angela asks, smiling.

“Uncover, then Hunger, in that order.”

After the door closes, Lucy and Angela look at Tim with matching smiles.

“Not a word,” he demands.

“Are you aware that marriage records are public?” you ask, pushing a cart through a San Diego department store.

“Yes,” Wendy answers, stepping past the cart to lift a blue dress. “I didn’t tell the people at the Times that’s why we decided against an interview, but it crossed my mind.”

“Cute,” you murmur. “I think it’s too dark.”

Wendy flips the hanger so the dress faces her and holds it up to you before she drops it into the cart. “I say we try it.”

“Wendy… thank you. I know I don’t say it enough.”

Wendy smiles, circling the cart to wrap her arm around you. “You don’t have to. We’re friends first.”

“Then I need you to be incredibly honest when you answer this question.” Wendy crosses her heart dramatically, and you point straight ahead to ask, “Could I pull off that red dress?”

“Nineteen hours,” Lucy sighs, tapping the keyboard to load a new video.

“Hey,” Nolan calls as he approaches the desks in the bullpen. “I told Bailey that I got her tickets upgraded and now she wants a new outfit. Any chance you could send her a picture of what you’re wearing?”

“Of course!” Lucy answers while Angela nods and reaches for her phone.

“What about your wife, Timothy?” Lucy asks. “Any idea what she’s wearing?”

“Clothes, presumably,” Tim deadpans.

“Oh, he’s got jokes! I hope whoever is carpooling with him is prepared for that.”

Tim pauses the surveillance video he’s surveying and raises his head to look over the monitor. “You’re carpooling?”

“Of course we are,” Lucy replies.

“We’re staying in the same hotel,” Nolan adds. “It made sense.”

Tim rolls his eyes as they begin talking about who is riding with who and where they want to stop on the way.

“Ooh!” Lucy exclaims suddenly. “We should all take pictures together at the concert. We’re all front row, right?”

“I’m not,” Tim says. “But I’d pass on the pictures anyway.”

“Wait, you’re working?” Nolan inquires.

“No.”

Lucy gasps, slapping her palm against the desk as she says, “You’re staying backstage!”

“That’s where I normally am, yeah.”

Shaking her head, Lucy mumbles, “I don’t think I’ve ever been this jealous of you before.”

“What is wrong with you?”

The conversation is interrupted by Tim’s phone ringing, and he answers it before Nolan can read the caller ID.

“Hi,” you greet, smiling when you hear Tim’s voice. “Sorry to bother you, I know you’re still at work.”

“No, it’s okay,” he assures, punctuated by the soft click of a door closing. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good. Wendy and I just got back to the hotel; we went shopping for a new outfit… I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Everything’s okay?”

You laugh, promising, “Everything’s okay. How are you?”

“We’ve been scouring convenience store security footage for six hours.”

“Riveting. I’ve been turning down interviews all day, want to trade?”

“The lives we chose,” Tim muses.

“Speaking of which…”

“I knew something was wrong.”

“Not wrong, but in need of attention. We need a way to keep my security team’s identities private. One of them is getting harassed on Instagram because someone figured out who he was from one of the concert videos.”

“Call in reinforcements,” Tim encourages.

“We did. SDPD is sending a few units to help us out during the concert. It wasn’t my preferred solution, but it will help us out for now.”

Tim hums, then suggests, “Treat your team like UCs. Cover their faces when they’re somewhere they may be recognized for the wrong reason.”

“You’re so smart,” you applaud. “I miss you.”

“Just a few more days,” Tim reminds you. “And I’ll be there tomorrow.”

Wendy knocks on your open door, and you apologize to Tim when you tell him you must go.

“One more thing,” he adds. “Get them some breathable balaclavas. No reason to let one of your own smother himself.”

“I’ll reword that before I present the idea,” you tease. “Love you.”

“I love you.”

You end the call and meet Wendy in the hallway. She gives you a quick overview of what you need to do this afternoon, but your thoughts wander to Tim.

“Tim had an idea about the security incident,” you begin.

Tim stretches his arms over his head after he gets out of his truck. The drive to San Diego isn’t bad, but the morning traffic and growing desire to see you made it feel like a cross-country trek rather than a few hours. It’s nearing lunchtime, so Tim hopes to steal you from your pre-concert duties long enough to take you out.

“Badge?” an SDPD officer asks when Tim approaches your circle of trucks and buses.

Tim pulls his VIP badge from his back pocket, accidentally tugging his sergeant’s shield out, too.

“Sergeant,” the man replies, nodding once. “Go on in.”

“Thanks, officer,” Tim replies. He steps past the blockades and walks toward the unassuming bus he knows you prefer to spend your time in. Most concerts are only a night apart, but you have three days to spend in San Diego before your concert, so you’re either relaxing or working nonstop. Tim hopes for the former but prepares himself to find the latter. He knocks on the trailer door and shakes his head when Wendy calls, “Who is it?”

“Sergeant Bradford,” he replies.

The bus shakes gently as footsteps echo inside. Tim steps back just before the door opens, and you jump into his arms.

“Glad to see you too,” Tim mumbles against your shoulder as he holds you. “Spare a few minutes for lunch?”

For once, you don’t bother to check with Wendy before you agree. She waves at Tim as he takes your hand to lead you to his truck.

Two hours before the concert, Aaron and Lucy meet Angela and Wesley in the hotel lobby. They haven’t spoken to Tim since they left work two days ago, but they know he’ll be somewhere at the concert venue. As they arrive at the restaurant Lucy and Angela chose, Angela’s phone chimes with an incoming message.

“It’s Tim,” she says. “I’d say he's asking but there’s no please… We can stay after the concert again.”

“Yes!” Lucy cheers.

“Me too?” Wesley inquires.

“As long as you bring a pen and an NDA mindset,” Aaron jokes.

You peek out into the arena from your place at the side stage, and your eyes widen at the sight. There are thousands of people watching the opening act. Wendy mentioned that your final tour stop had been sold out, but you didn’t actually expect to see a full arena. Taking a deep breath, you turn away from the curtain and rub your hands together.

“You alright?” Tim asks.

Looking up, you nod, narrowing your eyes at him. Wearing his own balaclava – Wendy’s idea because she said, “He was in the videos, and these people are bloodhounds, but with better sight" – all you can see are his eyes. Granted, his face has told you more than his voice ever has. Yet, it’s strange to talk to your husband without being able to see his lips moving.

“You’ll be right here?” you ask.

“All night,” Tim promises. “Garrett gave me a walkie, too, so if anything happens, I’ll jump in.”

“Kiss for good luck?” you request, tipping your chin up so he can see your lips beneath the bottom of your mask.

“You don’t need luck,” Tim argues as he leans forward.

The kiss is short, and you somehow manage not to smear paint across his face. As the opening act leaves the stage and the lights dim, you squeeze Tim’s hand, take a deep breath, and get into character. The moment your fingers slip out of Tim’s, however, you feel a growing desire to be near him, and it becomes insatiable as you sing about him.

“We didn’t get masks!” Lucy yells over a guitar solo, watching your security guards.

“No one did!” Angela replies. “Something must have happened.”

“Tim would have told us.”

Angela laughs as Aaron says, “No, he wouldn’t have.”

You flip your microphone in the air, then catch it and start singing, walking toward the VIP section where Tim’s fellow officers and your new friends are clapping and singing along. Waving to them, you smile at Lucy’s excited bouncing. The woman standing beside Nolan – Bailey, you remember – is wearing a shirt from your last tour and hasn’t missed a word yet. The couple you assume are Wade and Luna Grey appear to be having a great time, and Aaron is attempting to help Wesley learn the words to the song as you enter the last chorus.

The next song on your setlist is Hunger, one of your favorites to perform live. Your fans have pulled a lot of different interpretations about its meaning, some good, some that don’t make any sense to you, and one too many likening it to cannibalism. From the moment the chorus popped into your head until now, it’s only been about one thing: Tim Bradford. The bridge is about being so desperate for something, hungry with desire and yearning, that you’d give anything to have it. Or him.

You turn during the chorus, your eyes locking on Tim waiting in the wings. He’s been by your side since you decided to become Scinan, through the good, bad, and ugly. That hunger has never faded. You walk toward him, beckoning him to come to you as you sing. He shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest.

Rather than accepting this, you decide to give in to your desires. Walking toward Tim, you give him another chance to join you willingly. When you sang the song at home for the first time, attempting to find the harmony you wanted, Tim knew what it was about. He used the word yearning, and you smiled rather than pointing out he would know. Whether or not he knows that the bridge is about how he displays his desires to you may always be a mystery, but you bear your heart in every song you sing.

Tim doesn’t move, so you disappear from the stage to reach him. The crowd grows louder as you hook your painted fingers beneath his balaclava and walk backward, leading him onto the stage. Their cheers turn to screams as your husband follows you, leaning toward you because you’re pulling him but also because you’re magnetic. You stop, lifting the mask up just enough to see his neck before you drop your hand from his face and rest your wrist on his shoulder, blocking the bottom half of his mask from the crowd.

Tim’s eyes are locked on yours, seemingly ignorant of the people watching you. It’s as if you’re singing for him and no one else. Tim watches you, and when he remembers how much teasing he received after the last time you sang to him, he remembers something else. One of the videos Lucy sent – yes, he watched them, but he’ll take that to his grave – played so many times that it finally skipped to the next video. It was a couple dancing as they got ready, and the boy fell to his knees, holding his girlfriend’s waist as he looked up at her, reverent and in love.

You lower your handheld microphone during a break in the song and smile at Tim.

“You want to give them something?” Tim asks, leaning toward you.

“Something more?” you reply.

Tim nods, and you smile, letting him do whatever he wants. When this concert is over, when the fame disappears, you will still be you, and Tim will still be yours. So, being together and being yourselves on stage is more than these people deserve, but is what you desire.

Tim grabs your waist as he sinks to his knees, holding eye contact with you before he wraps one arm around you and runs the other over your hip. The crowd screams, phones up in your peripheral vision as you lay your hand on the side of Tim’s neck, still blocking his masked face. The bridge begins, and you sing to him and him alone.

As quickly as you decided to pull him out, he stands and retreats into the shadows on stage, and the show continues. The memory of his touch and warmth lingers, and you credit the best performance of the tour to that.

After you perform Blade, you exit the stage. While the crowd leaves, you lean against Tim’s side and drink a bottle of water, enjoying the quiet backstage. Tim invited his friends to stay, but you leave your mask and new dress on rather than changing. The people you’ve yet to meet haven’t made the same decision as the others, so you don’t want them to feel like they must keep your secret.

Half an hour later, you walk out onto the stage again. The house lights are on, and your team is packing away the set decorations and equipment. You’ve pulled one of Tim’s jackets on over your new dress, and Tim pulls it closed before he helps you off the stage.

“It’s nice to see you again,” you tell Lucy, Angela, Nolan, and Aaron. “And nice to meet the rest of you.”

“That was amazing!” Luna Grey says. “You were great.”

“Thank you so much,” you reply. “It means a lot. Although, I hear Lucy can sing and didn’t tell me.”

“No,” she argues, shaking her head. “I mean, I do and I guess I know how, but… not like you.”

“I think I should get to be the judge of that. Still up for some karaoke?”

Lucy’s jaw drops, and Tim interrupts to say, “Remember what we said about drooling on her.”

 You turn to Bailey and Nolan, offering your recently washed and paint-free hand. “Hi, I’m Scinan.”

“Bailey,” she replies. “I’m a huge fan.”

“Wesley,” Angela’s husband offers. “I’m a new fan.”

“I’m honored,” you say. “I’m glad you were all able to come; the support and encouragement means more than I could ever say.”

“Any idea when you’ll be releasing new music?” Wade asks, glancing between you and Tim, though there isn’t much space between you.

“I’ve got an EP coming in a few months, after a break,” you answer.

“After a nearly completely sold-out tour, you deserve it,” Lucy replies.

Tim sighs when Wendy walks onto the stage, her ever-present clipboard against her chest.

“Are you all prepared to sign an NDA if she takes her mask off?” Tim asks. “You’d have to keep her identity to yourself. No admitting that you even know her.”

 “Of course we would do that,” Bailey answers. “But don’t take it off if you don’t want to. Your privacy and your safety is more important. We could be friends even with the mask.”

You smile. The honesty and care are refreshing, especially after the incident with your security team and the videos from LA.

“If you’d like to meet me for dinner after we’re all home, I’d love to do that,” you say.

“Absolutely,” Luna answers. “Change your mind at any time.”

“Depends on how long Nolan can keep his mouth shut,” you tease.

“I’m not the one who brought Bradford out on stage,” he replies. “Again.”

“It was you in LA!” Wade exclaims.

“The videos have already started,” Lucy warns you. “So far, the best caption is along the lines of walking him like a dog.”

“I should’ve stayed backstage,” Tim grumbles.

“I liked it,” you argue.

Tim looks at you, his eyes communicating that he did too. After you say goodbye to your friends, you return to Tim’s hotel and shower, ridding yourself of the paint. As you walk into the room, Tim is seated on the end of the bed and watching you. He pulls you forward between his legs, tilting his chin up to kiss you slowly.

“Are you tired?” he asks as he pulls back.

“Not really,” you admit. “You?”

“Not at all. Maybe we should go home.”

You smile, nodding in agreement. As yourself, as Tim Bradford’s wife rather than Scinan, you follow him to the elevator. He has one hand in yours as he carries his bag with the other, and each step gets you closer to home. Although, you think as you climb into Tim’s truck, home could be anywhere with him. There might be a song in that.

Bonus:

“Do you need to check those?” you ask when Tim’s phone vibrates again. “I can drive for a while.”

“It’s Lucy and Angela sending me ClipToks, as if I wasn’t there,” he grumbles.

You laugh at his reaction, then suggest, “We should do it in private next time.”

Tim doesn’t reply, but he does speed up.