#this whole interview is a chaos

[neunhofferart]

what is the age gap between the Broker and Brooklynn? I’m just curious how old the broker is and how long she’s been doing this dinosaur trading venture

Mmhm, of course hehe.

This is a very funny question to me because I remember having this discussion about Santos' age with some of the other storyboard artists back when there was talk about leaning into more of a Killing Eve angle with her and Brooklynn (the final decision on how far we leaned into that was not our decision to make, I will note), and whether or not fans would find an age gap between them 'problematic' if we did lean into it too far LOL.

Because Dichen Lachman was TECHNICALLY around 39 or 40 when Dominion was filmed and took place... but I honestly have no idea if SANTOS is supposed to be that age, as well. Dichen's just got that really ageless look. If you told me Santos was in her late 20s to mid 30s I'd believe it just as easily.

[jameslongforjimshortforgabriel]

let them interview those vampires

[lordchickooon]

hey guys vampirate crossover au art dump because i have been too embarrassed to put it all on tumblr yet. you know. tumblr. the cringe gay fanfiction website for cringe gay fanfiction. i was embarrassed to put my cringe gay fanfiction there

[charlie-rulerofhell]

when you‘re trying to have a nice chat but you‘ve invited chaos to the table

inspired by @bornforbvrning's post

[freddiecorleone]

we were so focused on the likelihood that cleon the 16th would be brother day that we failed to even consider the truth: she fucked that old ma [a giant hand materialises in the sky and carries me away]

[norristrii]

MCLAREN SWEETHEARTS.

Your and Lando's relationship has everything everyone wants; Moments of you two in the new Drive To Survive season.

pairing. Lando Norris x fem! reader.

warnings. est. relationship, slightly suggestive? Again, this is made up and doesn’t relate to the actual season!

[episode one]

Lando sprinted through the paddock, his race suit slipping dangerously low on his hips as he rushed to the garage, clearly running late. Meanwhile, you strolled leisurely behind, holding all his forgotten essentials—his phone, watch, and whatever else he’d managed to leave behind. There was no point in trying to keep up with his frantic pace.

The cameras caught the moment he stopped abruptly, patting his pockets in a panic. “Fuck, where is my phone?” he muttered, spinning around in confusion.

From a distance, you raised your voice, a hint of amusement in your tone. “I have it!” you called out, holding it up for him to see. His sheepish grin when he spotted you said it all.

“Thank god I have you,” Lando murmured, his voice warm with gratitude. Before you could respond, he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek, a fleeting yet heartfelt gesture that said more than words ever could.

The Netflix editors cut to Carlos as he passed by, saying, “You would lose your own head if you didn't have her.”

[episode two]

Sitting in the McLaren hospitality with Lando's mum, the two of you chatted, stealing occasional glances out the window where Lando was busy giving an interview. He couldn’t help but look over at you both, flashing smiles and waving, his affection clearly shining through.

“Lando, please focus,” the interviewer gently reminded him, attempting to reel him back into the conversation.

“Yeah, sorry,” Lando apologized, shaking his head with a sheepish smile. Then, his expression softened as he gestured toward the window. “The most important women in my life,” he said warmly, pointing at you and his mum, leaving everyone charmed by his sincerity.

The interview clip went viral, fans saying, “Relationship goals.”

[episode three]

It was a relaxed afternoon in McLaren’s motorhome when you managed to—let’s say convince—Lando to try out a TikTok trend with you. The room was filled with laughter as he fumbled through the moves, his determination evident but not exactly successful.

“Lando! Can you do it finally right?!” you called out between bursts of laughter, tears of amusement almost streaming down your face.

“I’m trying, babe! I’m trying!” he replied, his voice desperate yet playful, only making the moment even more hilarious. The lighthearted chaos perfectly captured your bond and the fun you shared, no matter how ridiculous the task at hand.

“You dance like a maniac at parties but can’t handle this?” you teased, your laughter bubbling up again.

“I only dance when I’m drunk!” he shot back, his tone defensive but playful, making the whole situation even funnier.

The editors cut to Oscar laughing at Lando and Zak shaking his head in disbelief.

[episode four]

“Why is under every video an edit of you?!” you asked with a playful smile as you rolled your eyes, holding up your phone to show him the edit of him on your For You page.

Lando glanced at the video, his lips curling into a mischievous smirk. “You didn’t mind having me under you last night,” he quipped, his voice low and teasing.

Your eyes widened instantly, darting between the nearby cameras and him, caught completely off guard by his boldness. The amused look on his face only made it harder to keep your composure.

You couldn’t shake the feeling that you were part of some bizarre social experiment, but reality was far simpler—and far more ridiculous. Lando stood there, grinning like an absolute idiot, completely unbothered by the chaos he’d just caused.

Let’s just say, his PR manager worked overtime after this part dropped.

[episode five]

Lando stood before the mirror, his curls rebelliously framing his face no matter how much he tried to tame them. Frustrated, he let out a growl. “Fuck this shit. They do what they want,” he sighed, throwing his hands up in defeat.

“Come here,” you said with a knowing smile, pulling out powder and spray from your bag. With gentle hands, you worked on his hair, smoothing the chaos into something effortlessly charming.

When you were done, he looked at you with a grateful smile. “Thank you, babe,” he said softly, his voice full of warmth. “You’re my savior.”

The camera captured the moment, his eyes sparkling with quiet admiration as he watched you carefully fix his unruly curls.

[episode six]

Lando crossed the finish line first, securing his first Grand Prix victory. His happiness was uncontainable as he celebrated in the car, his voice alive with joy. Through the radio, he eagerly asked his engineer, “Is Y/n there? I need to talk to her.”

Moments later, your voice came through the earpods under his helmet, full of pride and emotion. “Lan, it’s Y/n here—you did it!!” you exclaimed.

A wide grin spread beneath his helmet as he shouted back, “Y/n, love, we did it!! I love you so much!” His words carried all the excitement and love he felt, making the victory even more unforgettable as he shared it with you.

The radio went viral, all the comments pointing out, “The way she’s the one he needs talk to. God, I want what they have.”

[episode seven]

McLaren had finally done it—the Constructors' Championship was theirs after an incredible 26-year wait. The entire team was overjoyed, the atmosphere electric with celebration.

You were casually chatting with Alex when Lando, buzzing with excitement, ran straight up to you. Without a word, he met your eyes, grinning mischievously, before effortlessly throwing you over his shoulder.

"Lan—what are you doing?!" you exclaimed, utterly baffled as he carried you through the paddock at full speed.

Before you knew it, you were in front of the jubilant McLaren team. Lando gently put you down, but before you could even process what was happening, the champagne started flying. Laughter and cheers surrounded you as everyone sprayed one another, Lando making it a point to douse you especially. You tried to shield yourself, but there was no escape, and soon you were drenched and sticky, unable to stop laughing at the chaos around you. It was pure, unfiltered joy.

Later on, McLaren and F1 posted the photos of you celebrating together with the team.

[episode eight; bonus]

During an interview for Netflix, Zak was asked, “Y/n is really often at the garage or motorhome since she started dating Lando. What do you think of their relationship?”—a slightly odd question, but Zak handled it with ease.

“Y/n is just a great person,” Zak said, smiling warmly. “I think she’s exactly the one Lando really needs by his side. Everyone loves them; they’re our sweethearts.”

The interviewer followed up, “Would you say Y/n is part of the team?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Zak replied confidently. “She’s part of our papaya family.” His words carried a genuine affection, showing just how much you had become a cherished part of the McLaren circle.

You saw that clip all over social media. It was nice to know they take you like part of the family. By dating McLaren’s golden boy, you became McLaren’s golden girl.

I HIGHLY recommend to check out @haniette <3 Her works are just perfection 🤌🏻

[jungwnies]

f1 grid | juno positions

୨ৎ : featuring : all drivers on the grid ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : every driver and which juno position from sabrina carpenter's tour suits them >.>

୨ৎ : genre : suggestive... kinda smutty idk (i don't really write smut anymore so this is a rare one...) obv some are the same positions.. i couldn't sit through an 8 minute video of all the juno positions LMFAO ୨ৎ : tws : suggestive ୨ৎ : word count : 597

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : i couldn't help but post this so soon LMFAO it was such a fun request i couldn't leave it sitting there waiting to be queued ... too good ty anon <3

ʚ・red bull

max verstappen - standing doggy no time for nonsense, just efficient execution. aggressive, locked-in, and somehow still makes you feel completely taken care of. terrifyingly good at everything, including this.

yuki tsunoda - cowgirl tiny menace. gives full chaos and control. jokes around, then ruins you. he’s in charge, not you. don’t be fooled by the baby face.

ʚ・mercedes

george russell - legs up missionary textbook performance, but with precision and tenderness. prepped for this moment like it was a championship strategy. probably asks if you’re comfortable mid-way through.

kimi antonelli - bridge young but scarily talented. pulls it off like it’s nothing and casually shrugs after. doesn’t even realize how hot he looks doing it.

ʚ・ferrari

charles leclerc - reverse cowgirl quiet in interviews, dramatic on the radio. gives you “hopeless romantic who pretends not to care” energy. lets you take the lead but still makes it cinematic somehow.

lewis hamilton - spooning luxury. candles. playlist curated to the vibe. everything is intentional, soft, and meaningful. says “i got you” and means it.

ʚ・mclaren

lando norris - ballet dancer starts off laughing, then surprises you with full performance energy. twirls you around like it’s a rom-com, then bites your neck for fun.

oscar piastri - tucked missionary he’s calm, quiet, and absolutely calculated. very into the technical details. doesn’t make a fuss but has you clutching the sheets like ??? how???

ʚ・aston martin

fernando alonso - squatting cowgirl age is just a number. balances like a yoga master, keeps eye contact, and somehow turns it into a motivational speech halfway through.

lance stroll - one-leg-up missionary chill, not flashy, but shockingly good at this exact position. leans into it casually. acts like it’s nothing but has you seeing stars.

ʚ・williams

alex albon - kneeling oral sweetest boy alive. loves making you happy more than anything. says “tell me what you like” with the softest voice. gold star giver.

carlos sainz - doggy classic. passionate. in control. the man thrives under pressure and it shows. focused, intense, and somehow turns this into a performance worthy of applause. probably whispers something in spanish that short-circuits your brain. makes you feel like it was your idea the whole time.

ʚ・haas

ollie bearman - one-leg spoon baby boy energy. tries his best. a little shy but committed. accidentally makes it romantic. 10/10 would comfort you with snacks after.

esteban ocon - missionary starts off shy, but the moment kicks in and suddenly it’s like he’s been rehearsing this in the mirror. soft-spoken, maybe even a little awkward beforehand, but he’s determined to prove himself. will absolutely debrief the whole experience afterward like it's a post-race interview.

ʚ・racing bulls

liam lawson - splits unsuspecting menace. looks like he’d hesitate, then surprises you with flexibility and full commitment. asks afterward if he did good. he did.

isack hadjar - the arch absolutely shows off. confident, slightly cocky, but backs it up. makes eye contact while doing it and smirks when you blush.

ʚ・alpine

pierre gasly - reverse cowgirl he’s not doing the work — you are. but he’s there for the view, hands behind his head, sunglasses still on indoors. makes smug comments the entire time like, “yeah, just like that.” fully vibing while somehow still running the show. would wink at you mid-movement and say something unhinged in french.

jack doohan - cowgirl confident in theory, flustered in practice. lets you take the lead but lowkey panics when you actually do. tries to act chill but you can literally feel his heart pounding through his chest. afterward, he’s all pink-cheeked and smiley, like “that was great… did I do okay?” you reassure him. he did amazing.

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which it was time for paige to share her life to the world

The Dallas heat clung to everything—your skin, your clothes, your breath. It had been one of those dry, hazy spring days where the city buzzed with anticipation, and today that energy had a name: Paige Bueckers.

Drafted to the Wings only a week ago, your wife had already been pulled in a hundred different directions—interviews, photoshoots, press conferences, sponsor obligations. And tonight, a team dinner to cap it all off.

You knew she was exhausted. You’d seen it in the slump of her shoulders when she got dressed earlier, the tired smile she gave you as she kissed your cheek goodbye. Still, she went. Paige always did the hard thing with grace.

You stayed home with your daughter.

The dinner had started off light—wings, tacos, laughter echoing around the table at some local spot her new teammates loved. Everyone was still riding high from the buzz around the team, and Paige, though quiet at first, settled in after a couple rounds of teasing and margaritas (which she didn’t even sip, but they still joked like she was three drinks in).

“So Paige,” Arike Ogunbowale said from across the table, grinning, “you and Azzi… what’s the deal?”

It was casual, playful—just a nudge in the middle of the chaos—but the whole table paused. Even the waitress setting down guacamole looked like she froze mid-motion.

Paige blinked once, then laughed. It was genuine, warm, and more amused than anything. “Me and Azzi? Nah. We’re just close. Like… family.”

Arike nodded, her mouth full of tortilla chip. “Okay, okay. Just checking. Social media’s obsessed.”

One of the rookies chimed in, “Yeah, I mean, you’re always together.”

Paige shrugged, still smiling. “That’s what happens when you’ve known someone since you were fifteen. She’s my best friend, that’s all.”

There was a flicker of something protective in her voice. Not sharp, but final.

The questions faded, and the conversation shifted toward next week’s training schedule. Paige let herself relax again, but a weight settled in her chest. They didn’t mean any harm. But part of her still hated that people couldn’t imagine her love life without assuming it had to be another basketball player.

No one had guessed the truth.

It was late when she got home. The house was quiet, soft golden light from the kitchen spilling into the hallway. Her sneakers came off with a sigh, and she padded softly down the hall.

First stop: the nursery.

The door was slightly cracked. Inside, a small figure lay sprawled on her belly, wild curly hair fanned out against the sheets. Her favorite stuffed puppy was clutched in one hand, the other hand thrown dramatically over her head like a tiny diva.

Paige stepped inside slowly, carefully. Her heart melted instantly.

She bent down, pressing a kiss to her daughter’s forehead. “I love you, bug,” she whispered, so low it was barely sound. “So much.”

She lingered there for a second—watching, listening to the even rhythm of her baby girl’s breathing—then gently closed the door behind her.

You were propped up in bed when Paige came in, your face glowing in the light from the TV. A rerun of Chopped was on low volume, the judges arguing about undercooked scallops. You looked over as she entered, your expression instantly softening.

“There’s my superstar,” you teased.

Paige’s face cracked into a tired grin. She kicked off her hoodie and jeans and climbed into bed beside you, settling against the pillows with a heavy sigh. “I’m so tired I think my bones are asleep.”

You chuckled, wrapping an arm around her. “You handled that media circuit like a champ. I saw the clips.”

She groaned, turning her face into your neck. “So many questions. And they all ask the same thing. ‘What are you most excited about? How does it feel to be in Dallas? Do you think you and Azzi are soulmates?’”

You raised an eyebrow. “Wait, what?”

Paige leaned back and looked at you, laughing. “I’m not kidding. One of my teammates asked if Azzi and I are a thing. The whole table went quiet like it was the tea of the night.”

You couldn’t help your smirk. “And what did you say?”

“That she’s like my sister,” Paige said, deadpan. “But I guess people don’t expect me to be married to someone who isn’t also a Nike-sponsored hooper.”

You snorted. “Yeah, well, they can keep wondering.”

Paige reached for your hand, lacing her fingers with yours. She toyed with your wedding ring. “I don’t really care what they think. I just hate not being able to say it out loud.”

“I know,” you said softly. “But here, with us… you don’t have to hide.”

A beat passed.

Then Paige looked toward the ceiling, her eyes fluttering shut. “Sometimes I just wanna scream it. ‘I’m married to the love of my life and we have the most amazing little girl and I’m not dating my best friend!’”

You laughed quietly, running your fingers through her hair. “You’re tired.”

She nodded into your chest. “I am. But happy tired.”

For a few minutes, you lay in silence, the soft glow of the TV casting shadows across the room. Her breathing slowed. Her hand still clutched yours.

Then she whispered, “She was asleep when I checked in on her.”

“Was she curled up like a little croissant again?”

“No,” Paige said, grinning against your skin. “Starfish mode tonight. She’s dramatic, just like you.”

You chuckled, closing your eyes as Paige snuggled in closer, her voice barely a breath now. “Thanks for holding it down at home.”

“Always,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “Now sleep. You’ve got a city to conquer tomorrow.”

And with your arms wrapped around her, the soft hum of the TV, and your daughter safe down the hall, Paige finally let go—of the noise, the questions, the pressure—and drifted off in the quiet comfort of home.

Saturdays had a different feel now.

In Connecticut, it used to mean quiet coffee runs and long naps between workouts. But now, in Dallas, Saturdays were noisy. Messy. Beautiful. They started with sticky pancake fingers, early cartoons, and your daughter toddling around the kitchen with one sock on, yelling that she was a “big girl” and didn’t need a bib.

You and Paige had decided early on that today was just for the three of you. No media. No workouts. No press. Just a family day under the sun.

And so you found yourselves at a park, right in the middle of downtown Dallas. It was a bright, cloudless day. Families filled the green spaces, music echoed from a nearby jazz trio, and the food trucks lined up like a mini festival.

Your daughter, Emma—two and a half years old and already a firecracker—clung to Paige’s hand like she was leading a grand expedition across the grass.

“Where are we going, baby?” Paige asked, her sunglasses perched on her head, her other hand holding your iced lemonade.

“To da dogs!” Emma shouted, pointing at the off-leash area where a dozen bouncing golden retrievers played in a chaotic fur ball.

Paige gasped dramatically. “THE DOGS? Why didn’t you say so sooner?!”

She scooped Em into her arms, spinning her in a wide circle that sent squeals of laughter into the breeze.

You followed behind, grinning like a lovestruck idiot, because no matter how many times you saw Paige with your daughter, it never got old.

After the dogs (which Em referred to as “her friends”), you found a shaded bench by the splash pad. Shoes were off. Chubby toddler legs were kicking water in all directions. Paige sat cross-legged on the concrete beside her, letting the spray hit her jeans, not caring one bit.

“Okay, okay,” Paige said, pointing at a tiny spout, “if I put my hand here, will it spray me in the face?”

Your daughter nodded, wild-eyed. “Yes! Do it! Do it!”

Paige pretended to consider. “I dunno… seems risky.”

“Do it, Mama! Be brave!”

You watched from the bench, barely holding back a laugh as Paige gave in with theatrical flair. She slapped her palm on the stream and—true to your daughter’s prediction—it shot directly into her face.

Both of them screamed.

Your daughter collapsed into giggles, falling back into your lap as Paige wiped her face and feigned betrayal.

“I trusted you!” she cried.

“I sorry,” your daughter said through giggles, not sorry at all.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re a tiny little prankster, that’s what you are.”

She pounced, grabbing your daughter from your arms and tickling her belly until the poor girl was a breathless, wriggling mess.

Later, after lunch from a taco truck and ice cream melting faster than you could eat it, the three of you laid on a picnic blanket near the edge of the park. Paige was on her back, your daughter curled up on her chest, slowly blinking up at the blue sky. She was coming down from her sugar high, hair damp from the water, eyelids fluttering.

You leaned over, resting your head on Paige’s shoulder.

“Tired?” you asked.

“Like, I’d-rather-get-run-over-by-a-scooter-than-move tired,” Paige whispered back. “But this is the happiest I’ve been in… I don’t even know how long.”

You looked down at your daughter’s little hand resting on Paige’s shirt, her tiny thumb unconsciously stroking Paige’s collarbone. Paige didn’t even seem to notice—she was so used to the closeness now.

“She loves you so much,” you said, your voice quiet.

Paige turned her head to look at you. “I’d give her the moon if she asked.”

You smiled, and she kissed you softly, the kind of kiss that didn’t need fireworks or urgency—just comfort and presence. Just love.

The sun dipped lower, casting golden light across the buildings. You started packing up while Paige stayed sprawled out on the blanket, your daughter now fully asleep, mouth slightly open, cheek pressed to Paige’s chest.

As you folded up the corner of the blanket, Paige looked up at you, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Do you think they’ll ever get used to this?” she asked.

“Who?”

“The world. The media. Everyone who thinks I should be with Azzi or still single. Everyone who can’t imagine I’d choose this—quiet Saturdays and sippy cups over spotlight interviews.”

You met her gaze and smiled softly. “They don’t have to understand it. You just have to live it.”

Paige looked down at the little bundle on her chest, then back at you. “I’m living it. And it’s perfect.”

By the time you made it back to the car, your daughter was groggy and muttering something about needing her stuffed puppy. Paige kissed her forehead, promised they’d find it when they got home, then strapped her gently into the car seat.

As she closed the door, you caught her hand.

“Hey,” you murmured, tugging her in.

She stepped into you easily, wrapping her arms around your waist.

“Thank you,” you whispered against her temple.

“For what?” she asked.

“For being this. For loving us like this.”

Paige tilted her head, brushing her lips across your jaw. “I don’t know how to be anything else.”

And with your daughter softly snoring in the backseat, the air still warm with sun and laughter, you believed her with your whole heart.

Sundays in Dallas were slower, warmer in every way. The city was quieter. Even the breeze felt lazy, like it didn’t have anywhere to be. Today, you and Paige had taken your daughter to the Dallas Farmers Market — your favorite spot for fresh fruit, wandering stalls, and letting your toddler explore the world in her little denim overalls and butterfly sneakers.

She held Paige’s hand as she toddled toward a booth selling homemade soaps, squealing about the ones shaped like ducks. Paige, with her signature cap pulled low and sunglasses on, nodded along like this was a very important duck decision.

You were laughing, sipping your coffee, when it happened.

“Wait… hold up.”

You turned toward the voice just as Paige froze.

Two figures stood by a booth across the path. Tall, athletic, and unmistakable even out of uniform. Dijonai Carrington and NaLyssa Smith.

“PAIGE?” Dijonai called, her eyebrows practically hitting her hairline. “Is that you?”

Paige straightened slowly, adjusting her hat like it might help her hide in plain sight. “Heyyyy... guys.”

NaLyssa squinted. “Are you holding hands with a baby?”

You tried not to laugh, especially as Paige’s eyes flicked to you with a silent help me.

“She’s a toddler, actually,” you said, stepping up and offering a warm smile. “And yes. That’s our daughter.”

Dijonai’s jaw dropped so fast you swore you heard it.

“OUR?!”

Your daughter looked up at the sound and instantly broke into a grin. ���Mama!” she shouted, lifting both arms toward Paige. Paige scooped her up with practiced ease.

NaLyssa blinked. “Mama?!”

“Okay, okay,” Paige laughed, already blushing. “Let me explain.”

After the initial shock wore off—and after your daughter insisted on showing them her duck soap and a sticker she got from a face painting booth—you all decided to hang out the rest of the day.

The five of you ended up grabbing Thai food from a food stand and sprawling out at a nearby park on the grass. The energy was light, Emma chasing butterflies and occasionally tripping into Paige’s lap, then laughing like it was the best thing ever.

NaLyssa took to her like an auntie in five seconds flat, giving her piggyback rides while Dijonai tried (and failed) to braid her curly hair.

By the time the sun started dipping low, you looked at Paige and smiled. “We should invite them over.”

Paige nodded. “Yeah. They’re not gonna let this go without the full story anyway.”

That evening, with your daughter finally asleep upstairs—curled in her bed with her stuffed puppy tucked under one arm—you all lounged in your cozy living room. The lights were dimmed, music soft in the background, a couple candles flickering on the coffee table.

You poured glasses of wine, passing them around before curling up next to Paige on the couch. She stretched her arm around you, fingers gently tracing your shoulder as you sipped.

“Alright,” Dijonai said, settling into the beanbag like she owned it. “Spill. We need the entire story. Like… Paige Bueckers has a family. Who would’ve guessed?”

Paige smiled, leaning into you a little. “It’s not as dramatic as you think.”

You nudged her playfully. “Kinda is.”

NaLyssa raised her glass. “Let’s hear it.”

You glanced at Paige, who gave you the go-ahead. So you started.

“Well… we met at UConn. I wasn’t a player—I was studying sports medicine and doing photography for the women’s basketball program.”

“She had a camera in her hand every time I looked up from the court,” Paige added with a soft laugh.

“I got pregnant right around the start of my second year, basketball season was just beginning,” you said, tone quieting a little. “It was… unplanned. The baby daddy didn’t stick around.”

Dijonai’s smile dropped. “Damn. That sucks.”

You nodded. “Yeah. It was rough. But Paige… she just showed up. Not all at once. Just… little things. Bringing me food. Walking me back to my dorm when my ankles were too swollen. Sitting with me during appointments when I couldn’t reach my mom.”

“I didn’t know what I was doing,” Paige said. “But I knew I wanted to help her. I wanted to be around.”

“And then one day, she showed up with a crib she built herself,” you continued, laughing softly. “Badly built, by the way.”

“Hey!” Paige protested. “That thing held perfectly until month six.”

NaLyssa giggled. “So when did it… become more than friendship?”

You looked at Paige, your eyes softening.

“It was slow,” you said. “But honest. I think I loved her before I realized I did. Before I even knew I was allowed to.”

“I fell first,” Paige admitted, rubbing the back of her neck. “But I waited until she was ready. I wasn’t going to push it.”

You looked down at your wine, smiling. “And by the time our daughter was born, it was just… obvious. She was already her mama. Her name deserved to be on the birth certificate. We got married shortly after Emma was born. No doubts whatsoever.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Dijonai let out a long whistle. “So I guess the ‘Pazzi’ rumors are just rumors, huh?”

Paige burst out laughing. “Yeah. Definitely. Azzi’s actually Emma’s godmother.”

NaLyssa choked on her wine. “What?! Y’all are out here playing chess while the whole internet’s writing fanfics!”

“Yeah,” Paige smirked. “And I read some of them. Wild stuff.”

You gasped. “Paige!”

“What?” she grinned. “Some of ‘em are kinda flattering.”

Dijonai shook her head, laughing. “I love this. I can’t wait to see the look on people’s faces when they find out.”

You looked at Paige, her cheeks flushed with wine and happiness, and smiled. “We’re not rushing that. But it’s nice to finally share it with someone.”

She leaned over and kissed you softly, letting her hand drift over your thigh. “Yeah. Feels good.”

NaLyssa raised her glass again. “To chosen family. And duck soap. And a little girl with the coolest moms in Texas.”

You all clinked glasses.

And in that living room—warm with love, filled with quiet laughter and soft confessions—you realized just how full your life had become.

Not just because of what you had with Paige.

But because of everything you’d built together.

The morning started with pancakes and cartoons, as it usually did. Paige had an early shoot around, but it was her first open-practice session with the team since the season officially kicked off — and she insisted on making it a family affair.

“You sure they won’t mind?” you asked as you buttoned your daughter’s little Wings jersey, the one with Bueckers on the back and “#5” in glitter iron-on patches.

Paige gave you a look like you’d just asked if basketballs were round. “They’ll love it. Trust me — they’re already obsessed with her and they haven’t even met her yet.”

You raised a brow. “They’re gonna be obsessed with me too, right?”

Paige leaned in, kissed you softly, and murmured against your lips, “I already am.”

The College Park Center buzzed with energy when you arrived. The team was mid-practice, music bumping through the speakers, sneakers squeaking across the court. Trainers and staff bustled around, but when Paige jogged in with you and your daughter in tow, heads turned.

A few players paused their drills, doing double takes.

“Is that…?”

“Oh my god, she’s here!”

NaLyssa was the first to run over, already beaming. “Hey! My favorite tiny human!” she called, bending down with arms open.

Your daughter squealed and took off across the hardwood — all bouncing curls and flashing sneakers — throwing herself into NaLyssa’s arms.

“You see that?” Paige said proudly, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Star player in the making.”

“You mean star recruiter,” you teased. “She’s already got the team wrapped around her finger.”

Practice paused for a bit — not because it was scheduled to, but because your daughter had singlehandedly hijacked the gym.

Maddy Siegrist taught her how to spin a ball on her finger (badly), and Teaira McCowan gave her piggyback rides down the sideline. Arike pretended to “lose” to her in a 1-on-1 dribble showdown, flopping dramatically every time your daughter drove the ball (slowly pushed it across the court while making car sounds).

Paige, watching from the bench with you tucked under her arm, just smiled like her whole world was right there on that hardwood.

When Coach Chris Koclanes walked over, hands on his hips, you tensed — but the coach just looked at Paige’s daughter, then at you, and broke into a warm grin.

“So,” he said, “this is the little MVP we’ve been hearing about?”

“She’s the real star of the family,” you replied.

Coach nodded sagely. “Well, we’ve got open tryouts in 2042.”

Later, after a water break and some light drills, the team settled into a shooting competition, and Paige brought your daughter onto the court with her.

“Alright, baby girl,” Paige said, handing her a mini basketball, “show ‘em how we do it at home.”

Your daughter squinted at the toddler-sized hoop they’d rolled out, took three steps back, and chucked the ball with everything she had.

It bounced off the rim, hit the floor, and rolled to NaLyssa’s feet.

And everyone still cheered like she just hit a buzzer-beater in the Finals.

“She’s got that dog in her!” NaLyssa yelled.

“Sign her now!” Dijonai called from the baseline.

Emma spun around, arms high in the air, and shouted, “I WIN!”

The team exploded in laughter and applause, and Paige scooped her up and spun her around.

“You always win,” she whispered, kissing her cheek. “Always.”

Practice wrapped up with team stretches, and your daughter sat in Paige’s lap, mimicking every move with a dramatic flair that had half the players in tears from laughing.

You took a few pictures — one of Paige mid-stretch with her daughter copying her pose, both of them giggling, sweat-slick and sunlit under the gym lights. Another of the whole team posing around your daughter like she was their mascot.

By the time you were heading out, your daughter’s head rested sleepily on Paige’s shoulder, a little snack in one hand and her other thumb tucked in her mouth.

“She did great,” you whispered.

“So did I,” Paige murmured back with a grin. “I was so nervous.”

You looked up at her. “About what?”

“Bringing my world together,” she said. “You, her… them. I just didn’t want it to feel weird. Or too much.”

You kissed her gently on the temple. “You didn’t bring your world together, Paige. You built one. And we’re all lucky to be part of it.”

Paige glanced down at your daughter, kissed the side of her head, then looked at you like she couldn’t believe she’d gotten this lucky.

“Let’s go home,” she whispered. “I’ve got my whole team right here.”

The next morning, you were still in pajamas, your daughter sitting in her high chair absolutely covered in oatmeal, when Paige’s phone started blowing up.

She frowned at it, brushing oatmeal off her hoodie as she picked it up. “Uh… babe?”

You looked up from your coffee. “Hmm?”

“I think… I think we just went viral.”

You raised a brow. “What do you mean ‘we’?”

Dallas Wings – Instagram (@/dallaswings) [“Golden” – Harry Styles] “The Bueckers Era has officially begun 💙💚”

The video opened with Paige walking into the practice facility holding your daughter’s hand — her tiny legs moving double-time to keep up, her jersey bouncing as she walked.

Cut to:

Paige tying her daughter’s shoes on the bench

A shot of you sitting court side with your camera in hand, smiling at them

Your daughter making a shot in the toddler hoop and doing a victory dance as the team erupts

Paige picking her up and spinning her in the air, both of them laughing

Finally, a close-up of your daughter asleep on Paige’s chest during cool-down, Paige’s hand protectively over her back

And then…

Overlay text at the end: “Family.”

The comments? Unhinged.

@/wnbastan69: wait... PAIGE IS A MOM???

@/wingsnation: WHO IS THAT WOMAN ON THE BENCH. SHE'S GORGEOUS. IS THAT HER WIFE???

@/bucketsqueen: this is not a drill. paige bueckers is a MILF. i repeat—

@/azzistan: I KNEW she wasn’t with Azzi. THE BABY IS CALLING HER MAMA.

@/uconnfan1 ok. hear me out. that woman has a tattoo of Paige’s number on her arm. go back to the February UConn Gala photos. it's her. they've been together.

The TikTok version? Hit 1.2 million views in three hours.

And your DMs? Albeit being private. Piling up with everything from “CONGRATS OMG” to “how did you pull her???” to “tell us your love story pls pls pls.”

You just turned your phone over and looked at Paige, who was feeding your daughter a blueberry while trying not to panic.

“Well,” you said, sipping your coffee. “Hard launch.”

That night, the Wings media team reached out about doing a feature for their upcoming mini docuseries, “Inside the Paint.” Paige hesitated, but you looked at her and said:

“If we’re gonna tell it… let’s tell it right.”

You, Paige, and your daughter sat side-by-side on the couch in your home, camera crew set up across from you.

“She’s my whole heart,” Paige said, glancing at Emma who was now climbing into her lap with a granola bar. “She’s not technically mine. But she is.”

You nodded. “We met at UConn. I was pregnant — alone. Paige was just… Paige. Gentle. Always there.”

The camera caught Paige’s hand finding yours.

“She helped raise her. Changed diapers. Did midnight feeds. Built cribs badly,” you teased.

“She was the first person who made me feel like I wasn’t alone in it,” you continued. “And somewhere along the way, we just… fell in love.”

“My name’s on the birth certificate,” Paige added softly. “And my last name’s on both of theirs now.”

“Mama was all she knew Paige to be.”

The crew filmed the bookshelf with framed family photos. Paige carrying your daughter on her shoulders at the beach. You three asleep on the couch in a tangle of limbs. A picture of Azzi Fudd holding your daughter at her baptism with tears in her eyes.

“She’s the godmother,” Paige confirmed, grinning. “Azzi. The real MVP.”

The episode dropped on YouTube and Instagram the following weekend. And in under 24 hours, it was the top trending topic on WNBA Twitter and TikTok.

The reactions? A mix of sobbing emojis, fan art of your little family, and people just melting over how soft Paige was the whole time.

@/bballdreams: I thought I couldn’t love Paige Bueckers more. And then she became a wife and a mom. I’m DONE.

@/fanbrushfire: [art of Paige in uniform holding your daughter’s hand, with you in the background cheering them on] “Mama Bueckers”

@/sidelineheart: Paige Bueckers being a quiet, private wife and mother and then casually dropping the most beautiful love story I’ve ever heard?? How is this real??

That night, curled up with Paige on the couch, your daughter asleep upstairs, you scrolled through the chaos while Paige played with your fingers.

“You okay with it?” she asked softly.

You nodded. “I’m glad it’s out there. You deserved to be known like this.”

She kissed your temple. “We deserved to be known.”

The Wings had just pulled off a thrilling win against the Mercury. Paige had dropped 19 with 8 assists, but the real surprise came postgame.

As the buzzer sounded and the crowd erupted, the arena lights dimmed for the usual fan-appreciation wrap-up — but then the Jumbotron lit up with something unexpected.

“Special Presentation” — the screen read, flashing between highlights of the game and a video montage.

Your daughter appeared on-screen, wearing an oversized Wings hoodie, shyly grinning.

“Hi Mama,” her tiny voice said, echoing across the arena. “I proud of you. You my favorite player ever and ever. Can I give hug now?”

The arena melted.

Paige turned, stunned, and saw you at the tunnel — holding your daughter, her eyes bright and excited.

The crowd parted like the sea as the two of you walked onto the court. Your daughter wriggled out of your arms and ran straight to Paige, who dropped to her knees to catch her.

The ovation was deafening.

Tears welled in Paige’s eyes as she kissed her daughter’s cheek, holding her tightly, forehead resting against her tiny one.

The announcer laughed through the mic. “Ladies and gentlemen… the real MVP of the night.”

@/espnW: Paige Bueckers just got surprised on court by her wife and daughter after the Wings win. There wasn't a dry eye in the house. 🥹💙

@/wnbatalk: “Can I give hug now?” I’m SOBBING. Who raised that little angel?!

@/courtsidechronicles: Paige crying while hugging her daughter, then looking at her wife like she hung the moon? Love is so real.

@/fanartfridays: [Art of the three of you walking off the court hand-in-hand, with the Wings logo glowing behind you.] “The Heart of Dallas.”

You tucked your daughter into bed, her plush Wings blanket pulled up to her chin. Paige leaned down and whispered, “You were so brave today, baby. I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Mama,” she mumbled, already drifting.

You walked back downstairs together, hand in hand.

On the couch, Paige wrapped her arms around you from behind, chin on your shoulder.

“I think they really know us now,” she murmured.

You tilted your head toward her. “They do.”

“And they love her,” she added, a proud smile blooming across her face.

“She’s impossible not to love,” you whispered. “Just like her mom.”

Paige kissed your cheek and pulled you closer, the glow of the moment still radiating through every room of your home.

“Thank you,” she said. “For letting me have this life.”

You turned in her arms, looked into her eyes, and smiled.

“We built this life together. And the best part? We’re just getting started.”

The WNBA season had hit its brief midseason break, and for the first time in months, the house was quiet. You were curled up on the couch flipping through a book while Paige lay on the floor with Em lying across her chest, both completely still except for the rhythmic rise and fall of Paige’s breathing.

Then Paige’s phone buzzed from the coffee table.

She carefully reached for it, glancing at the screen without disturbing the sleepy toddler snuggled into her.

Azzi: I swear to God if I don’t see my goddaughter in person soon I will riot

Paige smiled and nudged you with her foot. “Guess who’s demanding visitation rights.”

You looked up, already grinning. “Azzi?”

She showed you the screen and you snorted. “She’s obsessed. But, fair. You know we’ve been meaning to visit.”

Paige’s voice dropped to a softer tone as she looked down at the little girl sleeping peacefully on her chest. “I think it’s time we go back. Just for a few days.”

“Back to where it all started?” you asked.

Paige met your eyes, voice thick with nostalgia. “Back home.”

[amirasainz]

So I read a lot of stories similar to my requests. But I just think you are the best author on tumblr, so I wanna ask you😅☺️

Secret marriage with Oscar. They married really young and the drivers reaction. She is always at the races, but just in the shadows. The only one that knows is Charles, because he is Oscars "dad" 😭😍

Enjoy reading and send some requests!!!

-xoxo babygirl 💕

Secret marriage

The F1 paddock buzzed with the usual energy and tension. The race weekend was in full swing, and every driver, mechanic, and team member was focused on the task ahead. It was Friday afternoon, and most of the drivers had just finished media sessions and were now lounging around in the driver's hospitality suite, swapping stories and strategies. Oscar was among them, scrolling through his phone with a relaxed expression.

Nearby, Lando noticed a familiar face in the crowd. A woman, sleek and stylish, with a British Vogue ID around her neck, had been lingering around Oscar’s side of the paddock all day, chatting with him occasionally before darting off to interview other drivers. Lando squinted, intrigued.

“Oi, Oscar,” Lando called out, leaning back in his seat. “Who's that Vogue chick? She’s been following you around like a shadow.”

Oscar glanced up from his phone, trying to keep his expression neutral. “Who, Y/N? She’s just here for work. We know each other pretty well.”

George, who overheard the conversation, raised an eyebrow. “Pretty well? Mate, you guys looked like you were practically whispering sweet nothings before she left the garage.”

Oscar shrugged, but his eyes glinted with mischief. “Maybe we were.”

Lando sat up, fully interested now. “Wait… what? Are you and Miss Vogue dating?”

Oscar chuckled, keeping his cool. “Not exactly.”

Pierre, catching onto the conversation, leaned forward. “Come on, spill the beans! There’s definitely something going on.”

Oscar finally sighed, looking up at his friends with an amused smirk. “Well… actually, Y/N and I… we’re married.”

The room fell silent.

George blinked. “You’re what?”

“Married,” Oscar repeated, his tone casual as ever. “Been married since we turned eighteen, actually.”

The explosion was immediate. Lando gasped, practically jumping out of his seat, while Pierre clapped a hand over his mouth in shock.

“No way!” Lando exclaimed. “You’ve been married this whole time?”

Oscar nodded, barely reacting to the chaos unfolding around him. “Yep. Just never made a big deal out of it.”

“You’re telling me,” George said, his voice high-pitched with disbelief, “that you’ve been secretly married for… what? Three years now?”

“Three and a half, actually,” Oscar replied calmly, clearly enjoying their reactions. “We wanted to keep it private. Just worked out that way.”

Pierre looked like he was about to faint. “Mate, do you realize we never even knew you had a girlfriend, let alone a wife?”

Oscar gave a little shrug. “Guess I’m good at keeping secrets.”

George put his hands on his head. “I thought I was the reserved one around here! But this? Oscar, this is next level. How did we never catch on?”

Oscar chuckled, glancing over at Y/N, who was currently chatting with a journalist a few feet away. “She’s at most of the races. Just… behind the scenes.”

“I don’t even know what to say,” Pierre muttered, shaking his head in amazement.

Just then, Charles strolled into the room, looking curious as he caught the tail end of the conversation. “What’s everyone freaking out about?”

Lando grinned, looking ready to explode with excitement. “Charles, you’re not gonna believe this. Oscar’s married! Secretly married, since he was eighteen.”

Charles’s reaction was far more subdued. He simply nodded, a knowing smile spreading across his face. “Ah, yes. I know about Y/N.”

The room went silent again as every driver turned to gape at Charles.

“You knew?” George demanded, wide-eyed.

Charles gave them a smug shrug. “Of course. I’ve known for ages. I’m Oscar’s ‘dad,’ remember?” He winked, referencing the Monaco joke that had become a running gag between them. “It’s my job to know these things.”

Oscar snorted, smirking over at Charles. “Guess you can’t keep secrets from your ‘Monaco dad.’”

Lando threw his hands up in the air. “You’re all insane! Charles knows, Oscar’s been married for years, and we’ve all been left out!”

Pierre shook his head, still processing. “Wait, how did you find out, Charles?”

Charles leaned back, crossing his arms with a grin. “Oscar told me after our Monaco podium. Said he needed someone to know in case he ever needed advice. Before we went partying, I met Y/N and let me tell you, she is a lovely girl. And, you know, as his ‘father’ in the paddock, it was only a matter of time.” He gestured grandly, making everyone laugh.

George narrowed his eyes playfully. “So all this time, we could’ve been calling him ‘married man Oscar’ instead of ‘little Oscar’?”

Oscar rolled his eyes, amused. “Yeah, well, it wasn’t exactly a talking point. We wanted to keep things between us. Y/N’s work with Vogue keeps her busy and traveling too, so it worked out.”

Oscar turned his head towards Y/N, calling out softly with his arm outstretched. " Love, came here for a second, please."

Y/N approached just then, noticing the group staring at her with a mix of shock and admiration. “Is everything okay?”

Pierre looked at her, still in awe. “So… you two are really married?”

She glanced at Oscar with a smile, nodding. “Surprise?”

Lando leaned in, grinning like a kid at Christmas. “How have you kept this a secret all this time? You must have some insane spy-level skills.”

Y/N laughed. “I wouldn’t say that. We just wanted to enjoy it without all the attention.”

“Respect,” George said, tipping an imaginary hat to her. “You two might be the most low-key power couple I’ve ever seen.”

Charles looked proud, wrapping an arm around Oscar’s shoulder. “That’s my boy.”

Oscar rolled his eyes, shoving Charles off. “Alright, alright, let’s not make a big thing out of it.”

Lando looked at Oscar, eyes still gleaming. “Mate, this is a big thing! You’ve been living like some kind of undercover superhero. ‘Married Piastri’ is a whole new level of cool.”

Pierre nodded eagerly. “Right? It’s like finding out Clark Kent was Superman all along.”

Oscar chuckled, clearly enjoying his friends’ reactions. “Well, maybe now that you guys know, I’ll bring her around a bit more.”

Lando lit up. “Please! And maybe you can finally get that double date with George and Carmen going!”

George chuckled. “Right, because that’s exactly what we need. A bunch of drivers swapping marriage advice.”

Pierre smirked, nudging Oscar. “You’re making the rest of us look bad, you know. Now everyone’s gonna ask why we’re not secretly married.”

Oscar smirked back. “Hey, don’t blame me. You all had just as much chance to find out as Charles.”

As the group laughed, Y/N leaned into Oscar’s side, whispering, “Well, I guess the secret’s out.”

Oscar grinned, wrapping an arm around her. “Guess so. But I don’t mind. Not if it means we don’t have to sneak around anymore.”

Charles rolled his eyes playfully. “Alright, alright. Now, can we get back to racing, or are you going to give us a honeymoon slideshow too?”

The group burst into laughter, and Oscar looked around, more comfortable than ever. His secret was out, but he couldn’t be happier to finally share it with his friends.

[pookalicious-hq]

i don't even like you that much ...

library | navi | more here

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ has anyone noticed that paige has a staring problem, but only with you? tags: paige bueckers x reader, bball player reader, not proof read so many typos, pre-relationship

There’s a difference between zoning out and staring. One is an unconscious habit, the other—a deliberate choice.

And Paige? Well, everyone had started to pick up on the fact that she had a bit of a staring problem. Or maybe it was just with you. No—truthfully, it was undoubtedly just you.

At first, it had been subtle. A glance here, a lingering look there. The way her eyes would find you in the middle of a drill, during warm-ups, or when conversation buzzed around her. It wasn’t obvious—not yet. You never really noticed. You were always too wrapped up in the chaos of the game, the chatter, the moment.

But lately?

Lately, something had shifted.

Now, when your eyes flickered in her direction, her stare wasn’t just lingering—it was locked in. A gaze so steady it felt almost tangible, the kind that wasn’t meant to be caught. And when you actually met her eyes? Her expression would soften, the corners of her mouth curving just slightly before she abruptly looked away, pink blooming along her cheekbones, feigning distraction.

Still, you didn’t think much of it. You weren’t the type to overanalyze, and besides, on the court, your mind was always somewhere else—set on the next play, the next move, the next win.

But the cameras? The cameras saw everything.

The post-game interview was routine. You stood front and center beside KK, answering the usual questions about the game, the energy, the pressure. The lights were hot, the buzz of reporters constant, but you handled it with ease. Paige stood just off to the side, listening.

Or at least, she was supposed to be listening.

What she was actually doing—what the whole world saw—was watching you.

Not just watching. Staring.

The footage caught it all: the unwavering focus, the slight upturn of her lips, the way she unconsciously leaned in every time you spoke. Paige Bueckers, reigning leader on the court, utterly transfixed—like you were the only thing worth seeing.

And by the time the interview hit the internet, everyone had the same thought.

Paige didn’t just have a staring problem. She had a you problem.

And everyone knew she had no intention of fixing it.

a/n: lover girl paige

[pucksandpower]

Seeing Color

Lando Norris x soulmate!Reader

Summary: the average person goes their whole life without seeing so much as a drop of color, so safe to say you’re quite surprised when the sky suddenly turns blue while you’re covering Formula 1 for the first time

The sky’s a muted gray, just like every other day of your life, as you stand in the bustling paddock of Silverstone, trying to ignore the knot in your stomach.

This isn’t what you signed up for. Football’s your thing — sweaty players, goals, and post-match interviews in rain-soaked stadiums. But motorsport? Formula 1? It’s a different beast altogether.

“Just one race,” your supervisor had assured you. “It’ll be fine, Y/N. You’re a pro.”

Easy for them to say. The paddock is a maze of garages, team colors (which are a uniform grayscale for you, of course), and a cacophony of sounds that’s more overwhelming than a packed Premier League stadium.

You’ve been briefed on the basics — Max Verstappen’s the reigning champ, Lewis Hamilton’s the legend, and Lando Norris, the homegrown young talent, just secured P2.

P2. The words feel alien, even though you repeat them to yourself over and over, willing them to become familiar. Podium finish, second place. You’ve got this.

But the truth is, you don’t. Not really. And it’s showing as you fumble with your notes, trying to prepare for the post-race interviews. Your heart’s racing faster than any of the cars on the track.

“Hey, you alright there?”

The voice comes from behind you, startling you out of your thoughts. You turn around and see a young man — not too tall, with curly hair, and a faint smirk playing on his lips. You recognize him immediately, even in black and white.

Lando Norris.

“Yeah, just-” You scramble for professionalism, straightening your back and offering what you hope is a confident smile. “Just getting ready for the interviews.”

Lando’s eyes flicker down to the notes in your hand. “First time covering F1?”

Your smile falters. “Is it that obvious?”

He chuckles softly, and for a moment, it’s as if the world around you narrows down to just the two of you standing there in the paddock, the sounds and chaos fading into the background.

“A little,” he admits, leaning casually against the wall, as if he’s got all the time in the world. “But don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you.”

You can’t help but laugh, the sound surprising even yourself. There’s something about his easygoing manner that puts you at ease, just for a moment. “I appreciate that.”

“Y/N Y/L/N, right?” He asks, and you’re caught off guard that he knows your name.

“That’s me,” you reply, slipping into the role of interviewer as best as you can. “Congratulations on P2, by the way. How was the race for you?”

He glances at you, and for a brief second, his expression changes. It’s subtle — almost imperceptible — but it’s there. Something shifts in his eyes, something that makes your breath catch in your throat.

“Thanks,” he says, but the word comes out softer than you expect. There’s a pause, a moment of hesitation, before he continues. “The race was … it was intense. But honestly? Standing here right now … it feels like something else is happening.”

You frown slightly, not understanding. “What do you mean?”

Lando looks at you again, more intently this time, and you’re acutely aware of the way your pulse is thumping in your ears. “Look around,” he murmurs, his voice low, as if he’s sharing a secret. “Do you see anything different?”

You blink, confused. You glance around, expecting to see the same monotone world you’ve always known, the same dull shades of gray. But instead … you see it. A soft glow in the distance, a faint tinge of color in the sky.

It’s … blue.

A gasp escapes your lips before you can stop it. “What …”

Lando steps closer, his expression as bewildered as yours. “You see it too, don’t you?”

“I-I don’t understand,” you stammer, your heart racing even faster now. “This can’t be real. I’ve never seen color before.”

“Neither have I,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “But … I’m seeing it now. Because of you.”

The air around you feels electric, charged with something you can’t quite name. Your eyes lock onto his, and suddenly, the world isn’t gray anymore. It’s alive with hues and shades that you’ve only ever imagined. His eyes, a stunning shade of fluid green, meet yours with the same wonder.

“This can’t be real,” you repeat, more to yourself than to him. You’re trying to make sense of the impossible, of the vivid blues and greens and reds that are slowly seeping into your vision, like the world is waking up from a long sleep.

Lando reaches out, his hand hovering near yours, not quite touching. There’s a vulnerability in his gaze that’s startling — like he’s just as unsure of what’s happening as you are. “I think …” he starts, then stops, swallowing hard before trying again. “I think it’s because we’re soulmates.”

“Soulmates?” You echo, the word feeling foreign on your tongue. You’ve heard the stories, the myths — how the world is black and white until you meet the person you’re meant to be with.

But it’s just that, isn’t it? A myth? A fairytale? With over 8 billion people on Earth, the chances of actually meeting your fated match are slim-to-none. Most of the population has grown to accept that they will never see anything other than black and white.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “That’s what they say, right? You don’t see color until you meet your soulmate. But I never thought it’d actually happen. Not like this.”

You’re silent for a moment, trying to process it all. The colors, the implications, the fact that this person — this stranger — is suddenly supposed to mean everything to you. It’s overwhelming.

“I don’t even know you,” you whisper, voicing your fears. “How can we be soulmates if we don’t even know each other?”

Lando’s smile is small, almost shy. “I guess we’ll have to change that, won’t we?”

The words are simple, but they carry a weight that you’re not sure you’re ready to bear. But when he looks at you like that, with such sincerity, you find yourself nodding.

“Yeah,” you agree softly. “I guess we will.”

He takes a step closer, and this time, his hand does brush against yours, sending a jolt of electricity through your body. You feel it in every nerve, every inch of your being. It’s like the world has shifted on its axis, and you’re standing at the center of something much bigger than yourself.

“Can I ask you something?” Lando’s voice is quiet, almost tentative.

“Of course,” you reply, your voice just as soft.

“What’s your favorite color?”

The question catches you off guard. It’s such a simple thing, and yet, in this moment, it feels like the most important question in the world. You look around, taking in the colors that are now flooding your vision — the vibrant greens of the trees in the distance, the deep blues of the sky, the bright reds and yellows of the cars and team logos.

“I don’t know,” you admit, and the honesty of it feels right. “I’ve never had a favorite color before.”

Lando smiles, a real smile this time, and it’s like the sun breaking through the clouds. “Pretty sure I’m legally obligated to say mine’s papaya,” he laughs, and you notice it for the first time — the vibrant hue of his team’s colors, standing out against the grayscale world you’ve known until now. “I think you’ll like it.”

You smile back at him, feeling the connection between you deepening with every passing second. It’s terrifying, and exhilarating, and everything in between.

“I think I might,” you say, and the words are full of a promise that you’re not sure you fully understand yet, but that feels right nonetheless.

For a moment, the world falls away, and it’s just the two of you, standing there in a kaleidoscope of color that’s bursting into life all around you. The roar of the engines, the clamor of the crowd — it all fades into the background as you look at each other, truly seeing each other for the first time.

“So … what happens now?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Lando’s hand tightens around yours, and there’s a steadiness in his gaze that grounds you. “We take it one step at a time,” he says. “We get to know each other. And we see where this goes.”

The simplicity of his words is comforting. There’s no grand declaration, no rush to figure everything out. Just a promise to take things as they come, to let whatever this is between you grow naturally, in its own time.

“I’d like that,” you say, and you mean it.

He grins, that boyish charm back in full force, and you can’t help but smile in return. “Good,” he says. “Because I think we’re going to be seeing a lot more of each other.”

There’s a warmth in his tone that makes your heart skip a beat, and for the first time since this whole whirlwind began, you find yourself excited about the future — about the possibility of what’s to come.

“Yeah,” you reply, your smile widening. “I think we are.”

And as you stand there, hand-in-hand with Lando Norris, surrounded by the vibrant colors of a world that’s finally come to life, you can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, this is where you were always meant to be.

[paucubarsisimp]

surprise gone wrong

pairings: lando norris x reader

summary: in which you try surprising lando...

warnings: angst, cheating

melbourne, australia – sunday night

you hadn’t been this excited in weeks.

the plane landed thirty minutes early, but it still felt like it took forever to reach the city. every step off the plane, through customs, into the cab—it all buzzed with a kind of electricity that made your fingers twitch. you were barely keeping it together.

you were going to surprise him. your boyfriend. your person.

lando.

you hadn’t seen him in three weeks. the season had barely started, but it already felt like the world was swallowing him whole. interviews, practice, media, debriefs. your conversations had gone from long, late-night calls to quick voice notes and blurry facetimes while he was on the move.

but today was different.

he won. first place. finally.

you watched it on the tiny tv at home, hands over your mouth, heart pounding with his. and when he crossed the finish line, when the team screamed over the radio, when his voice cracked through the headset—you felt it all. pride. joy. love.

you booked the flight that same hour.

you didn’t tell him. didn’t want to. it was supposed to be a surprise. you wanted to show up, wrap your arms around him, and whisper, “you did it. i’m here.”

the rooftop bar was chaos.

you barely made it through security, but someone from mclaren must’ve recognized you and let you up. the elevator was packed with strangers—some people dressed like they lived here, others clearly part of the racing circus. cameras were already out. music thumped through the walls.

when the doors opened, the night hit you full force.

neon lights. booming bass. drinks spilling over glasses. laughter, loud and echoing. flashes from phones and disco balls and champagne bottles. the kind of party that blurred together like a fever dream.

but your eyes were searching for one thing. just one.

him.

and then you saw him.

lando.

halfway across the rooftop, surrounded by a crowd of familiar faces—some engineers, a few of the pr team, people you’d met once or twice. his curls were a mess, shirt slightly untucked, a drink in one hand, and that signature post-win smile stretched wide across his face.

your breath caught in your throat.

god, you’d missed him.

you stepped forward, your fingers gripping your purse a little tighter, heart ready to burst.

and then everything stopped.

because she was there.

a girl. standing too close. laughing at something he said, one hand on his chest.

and before you could even blink, he leaned in. and kissed her.

slow. familiar. like it wasn’t the first time.

you froze.

it was like your body short-circuited. like someone hit pause on the world, but forgot to tell your heart to stop breaking.

his hand was on her waist. hers tangled in his curls—the curls you used to touch when he couldn’t sleep, when he was anxious, when he needed grounding.

and he was smiling into it. drunk. relaxed. like there was nothing wrong.

like you weren’t even real.

you didn’t know how long you stood there.

you couldn’t move. couldn’t blink. couldn’t even breathe properly.

the music was too loud. the lights too bright. the room spinning too fast.

lando norris—your lando—was kissing someone else.

and you were just… standing there.

uninvited. unseen. the girl who showed up late to her own story.

your heels clicked too loudly as you turned around. pushed through the crowd. passed people who didn’t know you, didn’t care. the elevator took forever. someone asked if you were okay. you nodded without hearing them.

once outside, the air hit you like a wave.

melbourne at night was still buzzing. people celebrating. cars honking. the city alive.

but your world had gone completely, painfully still.

you walked. didn’t know where. didn’t care.

you just needed to get away from that rooftop. away from the music. the cameras. the kiss.

you had come here to surprise him. to celebrate with him.

but he had already moved on.

sunday night – 1:42 a.m.

you didn’t remember getting to the hotel.

your phone said it was fifteen minutes away, but your mind had gone quiet somewhere between leaving the club and stepping into the empty, too-clean lobby. everything felt hazy. like you were watching yourself from the outside, like you were just playing a part in a story that was never really yours.

the keycard slid into the door with a beep. you stepped inside the room. lights off. no sounds. just the low hum of the air conditioning and the dull ache behind your eyes.

you dropped your purse on the chair. kicked off your heels. the dress, once so carefully picked for him, slid to the floor with a whisper.

you stood there in silence. bare. weightless. like if you closed your eyes, you could just disappear.

but you didn’t.

you walked to the bed, sat on the edge, and finally—finally—let it out.

not the sobbing kind of cry. not the messy, movie-scene breakdown.

this one was quieter. smaller.

it started in your chest. then your throat. then your eyes, slow and warm and unrelenting.

you buried your face in your hands. curled in on yourself.

this wasn’t how tonight was supposed to go.

you’d imagined it so many times.

lando opening his hotel door and seeing you there. his eyes going wide, grin stretching across his face as he pulled you in, lifted you off your feet like he always used to. his voice thick with disbelief, “you’re actually here?” followed by kisses, laughter, maybe even tears.

you would’ve run your hands through his curls, whispered, “you did it, baby,” and he would’ve held you like the world had stopped.

that was the version you flew across the world for.

but instead, he kissed someone else.

and smiled while doing it.

your phone lit up on the nightstand.

1:51 a.m. text from: oscar

hey, lando’s pretty out of it. you coming by? he’s been looking around like he forgot something. maybe you?

you stared at it.

what were you supposed to say to that?

you started typing.

i saw him.

paused.

deleted it.

typed again.

i’m here.

no. not right.

you sat there, thumbs hovering over the screen, heart pounding in your ears.

finally, you sent:

tell him congrats.

short. distant. detached.

you turned the phone face down after that.

you laid back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, arms crossed over your chest like you were trying to hold yourself together. the sheets smelled like hotel bleach and artificial lavender. the kind of clean that made everything feel more sterile. more empty.

you used to feel so close to him, even when he was halfway across the world.

but now?

you’d never felt farther away.

you thought about calling someone. your sister. your best friend. anyone who could make this moment less sharp. less lonely.

but how do you explain flying across the world to surprise someone, only to find out they stopped waiting for you?

how do you explain watching the person you love put their hands on someone else like it meant nothing?

you didn’t want to talk.

you just wanted to forget.

your eyes fluttered shut. and for a second, the image played again behind your eyelids.

lando, laughing. her fingers in his hair. his mouth pressed to hers.

your stomach turned.

you rolled over, facing the wall, trying to breathe past the ache.

you came all this way. you were the surprise.

but he didn’t even notice you were gone.

flashback – eight months ago, london

the rain had come out of nowhere.

you were both soaked—shoes squishing, clothes clinging to skin, hair plastered to your faces as you ran down the narrow london street, laughing like idiots.

lando had forgotten an umbrella. of course.

“i told you to check the weather,” you teased, huddled under a shop overhang, trying to catch your breath.

“you did. i just didn’t listen.”

he was grinning. water dripping from his lashes, curls a mess. he looked ridiculous. beautiful.

you stared at him, heart full, cheeks aching from smiling.

“we’re actually drenched.”

“romantic, though.” he leaned in, bumping your forehead with his. “like a movie scene.”

“a very soggy movie scene.”

he laughed. and then he kissed you. right there, in the middle of the street, while strangers rushed past and the sky kept pouring.

it wasn’t rushed. it wasn’t perfect. but it was real.

that was the thing with lando—he made even the messiest moments feel soft. warm. like something you wanted to wrap yourself in.

later, back at his place, you sat on the kitchen counter in his hoodie while he made tea. music playing low, windows fogged up from the cold. the quiet kind of night that felt like home.

he walked over, pressed a mug into your hands, then stood between your legs, hands resting on your thighs.

“i hate how much i love you,” he said softly, eyes on yours.

you raised an eyebrow. “that a bad thing?”

he shook his head. “no. just scary. i’ve never had this before.”

you swallowed.

you’d never had it either.

“what’s ‘this’?”

“you.” he smiled, just a little. “you feel like the only thing that makes sense when everything else is insane.”

you leaned forward, resting your forehead against his.

“then hold onto me, yeah?”

“always.”

and you believed him.

present – melbourne, 3:13 a.m.

you were still awake.

still staring at the ceiling like it had answers.

the hotel room was quiet except for the occasional car down on the street below. you hadn’t moved much. your body felt heavy. not tired, just… hollow.

you kept replaying that night. london. the rain. his hands. his words.

he said he’d hold onto you.

but somewhere between then and now, his grip slipped.

or maybe yours did.

maybe the distance got too loud. maybe the silence in between texts got too long. maybe love needs more than belief to survive.

you reached for your phone again.

no new messages.

not from him.

not from anyone.

you considered texting him. asking why. asking if he meant to do it. if he even knew you were there. if she was just some mistake or someone he’d already planned on seeing long before tonight.

but deep down, you knew the answer.

lando never did things by accident. not like that.

you turned your phone over again. shoved it under the pillow.

whatever you had—whatever you were—maybe it wasn’t enough anymore.

taglist: @barcapix, @universefcb, @joaosnovia, @ilovebarcaaaa, @levidazai, lmk if you want to be added!

[lazysoulwriter]

the trouble we cause. - pedro pascal x wife!actress!reader.

requested!!! thank you for sending, love doing this one.

---

It had started as a joke.

"Imagine if we ever worked together," you had laughed, curled up against Pedro’s chest one night. "We’d get absolutely nothing done."

Pedro had only grinned, pressing a kiss to your hair. "I'd be professional... ish."

You should've known better.

Because now, six months later, you were sitting across from him at a press junket, cameras rolling, mics hot — and you were this close to bursting into laughter because of the dumb little face he was making at you from across the table.

It was a losing battle from the start.

From the very first day on set, you and Pedro had been... a problem.

It wasn’t intentional. You were both professionals — award-winning, seasoned actors. But professionalism had limits when it came to your husband whispering Spanish nonsense into your ear between takes just to make you giggle.

It wasn’t your fault he kept sneaking glances at you during serious scenes. It wasn’t your fault you kept blushing and ruining your lines. And it definitely wasn’t your fault when the director had to physically separate you two during lunch breaks because apparently, "you're distracting each other too much."

Not that the separation helped much. Pedro had a whole arsenal of "across the room" tactics: raised eyebrows, secret smiles, a whole silent language only the two of you understood.

You were, in short, insufferable.

And everyone else loved you for it.

The junket was the worst (or best) example yet.

Initially, they had placed you and Pedro side by side, thinking it would be cute — married couple! same movie! adorable!

It took all of ten minutes for chaos to erupt.

You couldn't stop leaning into each other, whispering jokes under your breath. Pedro kept trying to "discreetly" hold your hand under the table. At one point, you straight-up started laughing so hard at something he muttered that you had to hide your face behind your coffee cup.

The publicist eventually gave up and moved you to opposite ends of the panel.

Big mistake.

Now, you were playing silent games of charades across the stage — winking, mouthing jokes, making faces until the moderator very politely asked if "the married couple could please focus."

You bit your lip, cheeks flaming. Pedro just shrugged, grinning like the devil himself.

Later, during the one-on-one interviews, it only got worse.

Every time someone asked a serious question, Pedro would somehow manage to derail it.

"What's it like working together?" Pedro: "Dangerous. I fear for my life daily." (said while giving you a full-on heart-eyes look.)

"Was there a lot of on-set chemistry?" Pedro: "Wouldn’t know. I was too busy trying not to propose again."

You smacked his arm for that one — gently, lovingly, the way you did everything with him.

The interviewer laughed. Pedro just looked ridiculously pleased with himself.

When you got home that night, exhausted but buzzing from the day, you collapsed onto the couch together, still in your fancy clothes.

Pedro immediately pulled you into his lap, arms locking around your waist.

"You know," you murmured, tracing lazy patterns over his chest, "we're a menace."

Pedro laughed, deep and warm. "I think they’re just jealous," he said, nuzzling your temple. "They wish they had this."

You smiled, feeling that familiar, overwhelming rush of love for him.

"This," you echoed, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

And you wouldn't have it any other way. Even if it meant getting scolded like teenagers every time you were in a room together.

Especially if it meant this.

---

[superbatsfam]

clark comes over to the manor so much that all of the kids just assume clark and bruce finally realized their feelings and are dating

dick giving a lecture to the kids: do not say a word to them, act like it's normal. we don't want them to get scared of their feelings and break up. this is the healthiest relationship bruce has ever been in.

whenever clark gets to the manor, the kids will always coincidentally disappear (they're lurking and watching them)

after 11 months, at dinner, steph turns to bruce and clark and asks: so what day is your anniversary? i was thinking of planning a party.

bruce stops mid-bite: our what?

clark blushes the deepest shade of red

steph: your anniversary? you know the day you started dating?

clark, sheepishly: we aren't dating

the whole table erupts into chaos

tim: what-

jason screeches: you AREN'T?

bruce: why would you think we're dating?

jason: OH I DONT KNOW, maybe because you two hang out 24/7, clark literally flies from metropolis to gotham almost daily just to see you, you have tons of inside jokes, and stare at each other like no one is watching, you also flirt in every single interview you do. WHY WOULD WE NOT THINK YOURE DATING?!??

bruce and clark: oh...

[disgustingtwitches]

MDNI

Working at a restaurant with 141!(Part 5)

The shithead owner decides that he needs to sign up for a "restaurant renovation" show. Chaos ensues.

"A fucking TV show?"

Gaz frowns while polishing glasses.

"Told him it was a bad idea."

Price shrugs, lighting a cigar. You are horrified, being on the screen for millions of people to see was nerve wracking. And it'll be the first time you meet the owner.

"Restaurant renovation... Lik' he gives twa fucks aboot renovating this shitehole."

Johnny ashes his smoke and passes it to you. You take a deep drag and sigh, this is gonna be a disaster.

~

Cameras are set up everywhere, everyone's mic'd up, there are too many people in too small of a space. Some obnoxiously loud man introduces himself. He seems to be an amalgamation of every TV host you've ever seen, wearing too much cologne and too much hair gel. He puts a hand on your shoulder,

"The place looks terrible but at least they got something nice to look at here."

He flashes a smile, cheap veneer blindingly white. You awkwardly laugh while Price steps in, introducing himself. You scurry away to the back where the rest of the boys are,

"I want everyone to be on their best behavior today. No fucking around. Don't make me look bad."

The owner is a bland man, average height and weight, with a shitty haircut and wearing an ugly flashy shirt. He turns around and briefly introduces himself, he already smells like liquor. Great. He gets waved over to get interviewed by the host. You and the guys watch from the other end of the restaurant. It's quite embarrassing, the host pointing out how run down the place looks, the menu is confusing and overwhelming, and then asks if he's drunk,

"I can smell the alcohol from here Carl... it's only 11am buddy."

The owner stutters and blinks,

"I- just uh, just a crazy night is all."

The host stares, unconvinced. Carl shifts awkwardly in his chair. The next segment was ordering food apparently, so you were up. You walk up to the table as the host asks you a barrage of questions,

"How would you say the fish is here? Is everything fresh? What do you think of the steak? Do you have any recommendations?"

When you say you only ate the fries from here and he laughs loudly,

"That is not a good sign folks!"

He stares at the camera, showing off teeth that were too big for his mouth before you walk off and punch in the order. There's a cameraman recording John and Simon cooking,

"Steak and potatoes."

John reads the slip out loud, they move around the kitchen while the owner watches. For such a simple dish there's a lot of chaos, Carl is yelling at them to move faster and cook properly, John is busy arguing with Carl and burns the steak, Simon plates up the food and hands it off to you. You place the plate down in front of the host,

"Oh...oh my God..."

You keep a straight face, hands behind your back. The host looks back up at you,

"Does the food usually come out like this?"

There's a tone of disgust and concern, his eyebrows turned up, you shrug. He stares back down at the filet and cuts into it,

"It's very impressive that one is able to overcook such a large piece of meat. That takes...skill."

You watch concertedly as he picks up a piece and puts it into his mouth, it looks like he wants to cry.

He goes on to complain about the quality of the food to the camera as he walks to the kitchen,

"At least it's clean back here. I've seen kitchens in wors- is that a fucking pigeon?"

Sure enough, there is. How the fuck did it get in here?

"Oh! I just left the door open to let some fresh air in..."

Carl awkwardly tries to catch the bird while the boys watch amusedly, even the camera crew stifle a laugh.

"Christ Almighty, what is wrong with you man?"

The host shakes his head, watching the whole scene in disbelief. Eventually, the bird is out of the building and the sweep of the kitchen continues.

"Food is not expired, everything is stored properly, it's all very well organized. I was honestly expecting worse."

The host walks up to the bar next, plucking up bottles and examining them,

"So, Kyle is it? How long have you been working here for?"

"Just a little over five years."

Gaz leans against the bar. There's a gasp and the host waves the camera over,

"Look at this shit,"

He points at the label,

"Expired in August,"

You look over at Gaz and Soap, they look like they're about to piss themselves, holding back laughs.

"Of 2012!"

The host looks disgusted,

"Why didn't you throw this away?"

"Carl told me to not toss anything."

Kyle shrugged. Soap is almost in tears, shaking, trying to bite back a howl of laughter.

The next two days are like this, you don't know why Carl hasn't pulled the plug on this fiasco yet,

"I think he's getting drunker as the days go by."

Johnny says, ashing his cigarette. There's a nod from Simon,

"I think he enjoys being embarrassed, seems like the type to get off on that."

'The big finale' as the host calls it, means getting a new menu, refreshing the cooks(John's) skills, and cleaning out the bar. The place is opened and there's a line out of the door. It's overwhelming, the customers are putting on a show, acting like dickheads and sending everything back even when there's nothing wrong with the food. Simon and John are on top of everything, putting out food as fast as possible, Carl is shitting himself running around the kitchen like a headless chicken. The night goes by fast and everyone is at the bar,

"So the cooks are for the most part competent, the waitress is amazing, and the bartender is well... The man can do no wrong. The problem here is you,"

The host points at Carl who is fucking sloshed swaying back and forth,

"I genuinely think this restaurant would be better off without you."

Carl starts bawling. The host is visibly uncomfortable. The boys and you are looking at each other. Then when all the cameras and lights are gone, it's all back to normal. Carl is looking for reassurance from anyone and you and the boys just pack up and head home, Price patting him on the back,

"You'll be alright."

~

A few months later, you're all sat on the couch watching the TV. Johnny's over the moon pointing at the screen,

"Look thare A am! See hou sexy A look?"

He's smiling and waving at the camera in the background of the scene where Carl is crying his eyes out. That gets a laugh out of Gaz,

"You're a sick bastard, Soap."

Once the episode dropped, the restaurant got busy for a few months. Most of the customers are horny women ogling at Kyle. On occasion you get the request to bring out "the scary looking one" and you just laugh it off.

"You're so lucky working with all these guys, I don't know if I'd be able to control myself,"

A particularly drunk woman said to you one day. You just smile while Kyle winks at you over his shoulder.

[retrowitchy]

katniss & peeta vs haymitch watching the 50th quell replay, 25 years apart (a textual comparison)

sunrise on the reaping:

"The recap opens on the reading of the card, which I watched from home with Ma and Sid in the spring. A little girl all dressed in white, the picture of innocence, lifts the lid on a wooden box filled with envelopes. They widen the shot to include President Snow, who intones, "And now, to honor our second Quarter Quell, we respect the wishes of those who risked all to bring peace to our great nation." He leans over and carefully selects the envelope marked with a 50 and reads the card inside. "On the fiftieth anniversary, as a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district will be required to send twice as many tributes to the Hunger Games. Two female and two male. In this doubling of reparations, we remember that true strength lies not in numbers, but in righteousness,"" (SOTR, pg. 340)

catching fire:

"After the anthem, they show President Snow drawing the envelope for the second Quarter Quell. He looks younger but just as repellent. He reads from the square of paper in the same onerous voice he used for ours, informing Panem that in honor of the Quarter Quell, there will be twice the number of tributes," (CF, pg. 221)

sunrise on the reaping:

" "Maysilee Donner!" There's Maysilee, Merrilee, and Asterid clutching one another in the crowd. One of the tearful good-byes captured by Plutarch." (SOTR, pg. 340)

catching fire:

"...and then I hear the name "Maysilee Donner". "Oh!" I say. "She was my mother's friend." The camera finds her in the crowd, clinging to two other girls. All blond. All definitely merchants' kids. "I think that's your mother hugging her," says Peeta quietly.

And he's right. As Maysilee Donner bravely disengages herself and heads for the stage, I catch a glimpse of my mother at my age, and no one has exaggerated her beauty. Holding her hand and weeping is another girl who looks just like Maysilee. But a lot like someone else I know, too. "Madge," I say.

“That's her mother. She and Maysilee were twins or something,” Peeta says. “My dad mentioned it once.”" (CF, pg. 221 )

sunrise on the reaping:

"Incitatus Loomy could not have masterminded a finer parade. The frantic backstage prep never makes an appearance, just a amjestic, orderly rollout of the tributes. There's a final aerial shot of all twelve chariots cruising along the route in perfect sync, which ends about fifteen seconds before that blue firecracker exploded, sending the whole event into chaos. This is all the country saw anyway. You had to be there in person to know about the crrashing chariots and me holding Snow accountable for Louella's death." (SOTR, pg. 341)

catching fire:

"The chariot rides — in which the District 12 kids are dressed in awful coal miners' outfits — and the interviews flash by." (CF, pg. 222)

sunrise on the reaping:

"Lou Lou's reduced to a girl wearing live-reptile fashion, Maysilee's and Wyatt's memorable turns are entirely ignored, and I get one snarky exchange with Caesar:

"So, Haymitch, what do you think of the Games having one hundred percent more competitors than usual?"

"I don't see that it makes much difference. They'll still be one hundred percent as stupid as usual, so I figure my odds will be roughly the same."

The audience laughs, and I give them this grin that confirms me as a stuck-up, selfish jerk. No mention of my support of the Newcomers. No silly interplay about making booze for Peacekeepers. The rascal's just a jackass." (SOTR pg. 342)

catching fire:

"There's little time to focus on anyone. But since Haymitch is going to be the victor, we get to see one full exchange between him and Caesar Flickerman, who looks exactly as he always does in his twinkling midnight blue suit. Only his dark green hair, eyelids, and lips are different. 

“So, Haymitch, what do you think of the Games having one hundred percent more competitors than usual?” asks Caesar.

Haymitch shrugs.

“I don't see that it makes much difference. They'll still be one hundred percent as stupid as usual, so I figure my odds will be roughly the same.” The audience bursts out laughing and Haymitch gives them a half smile.

Snarky. Arrogant. Indifferent. “He didn't have to reach far for that, did he?” I say." (CF, pg. 223)

sunrise on the reaping:

"The jackass, meaning me, grabs his gear and hightails it out of there and then we get to watch the bloodbath, where eighteen kids are killed in excruciating detail." (SOTR, pg. 342)

catching fire:

"The beauty disorients many of the players, because when the gong sounds, most of them seem like they're trying to wake from a dream. Not Haymitch, though. He's at the Cornucopia, armed with weapons and a backpack of choice supplies. He heads for the woods before most of the others have stepped off their plates. Eighteen tributes are killed in the bloodbath that first day." (CF, pg. 224)

sunrise on the reaping:

"Up until this point, I think the recap's been a fair record of what occurred in the arena. However, on Day 2, things start to go wonky. At some point, Maysilee, on her own, kills the boy from District 1, Loupe, which I believe to be true because she told me this. There are a lot of tributes still recovering from the poison and the Career pack's hunting Newcomers. That, too, seems likely. But the recount of what happened in the woods, my tale, begins to deviate almost immediately. Timelines are twisted. Connections misleading. It's less flat-out lying than lying by ommission. For instance, I see myself fighting squirrels, although they weren't around until the third day when I fought them to save Ampert. But we haven't even met up yet, so I seem to be trying to save my own life. They show Lous Lou gasping in the flowers, only I'm nowhere in sight. Later, I'm just running from the butterflies without even a glimpse of my feeling with her body, hiding in the willows, and bringing on the shockers as punishment." (SOTR, pg. 343)

catching fire:

"Others begin to die off and it becomes clear that almost everything in this pretty place—the luscious fruit dangling from the bushes, the water in the crystalline streams, even the scent of the flowers when inhaled too directly—is deadly poisonous. Only the rainwater and the food provided at the Cornucopia are safe to consume. There's also a large, well-stocked Career pack of ten tributes scouring the mountain area for victims. Haymitch has his own troubles over in the woods, where the fluffy golden squirrels turn out to be carnivorous and attack in packs, and the butterfly stings bring agony if not death. But he persists in moving forward, always keeping the distant mountain at his back. Maysilee Donner turns out to be pretty resourceful herself, for a girl who leaves the Cornucopia with only a small backpack." (CF, pg. 224 )

sunrise on the reaping:

"In fact, our picnic, the campout, the bombing of the tank, my rampage, and the arena going haywire- not a bit of that appears. The horrors of the volcano take center stage. The tributes experience the flame-shooting eruption, asphyxiation by the ash cloud, burns from the chemical lava. Twelve die." (SOTR, pg. 343)

catching fire:

"With the mountain spewing liquid fire, and the meadow offering no means of concealment, the remaining thirteen tributes — including Haymitch and Maysilee — have no choice but to confine themselves to the woods." (CF, pg. 225)

sunrise on the reaping:

"With the tank plot erased, my whole agenda seems to have been about getting to the end of the arena, which was, I guess, my cover story. It rains, but they've concealed all the bombing's damage. The arena's as perfect as ever. I get trapped in the hedge, follow the gray rabbit to freedom, and run into Panache and company." (SOTR, pg. 343)

catching fire:

"Haymitch seems bent on continuing in the same direction, away from the now volcanic mountain, but a maze of tightly woven hedges forces him to circle back into the center of the woods, where he encounters three of the Careers and pulls his knife." (CF, pg. 225)

sunrise on the reaping:

""We'd live longer with two of us." Oh, Maysilee. I am mortified to be sitting here." (SOTR, pg. 344)

catching fire:

"“We'd live longer with two of us.” “Guess you just proved that,” says Haymitch, rubbing his neck." (CF, pg. 225)

sunrise on the reaping:

"Is it Day 4 or 5? Maysilee and my attempts to carve our way through the hedge have merged into one big sequence that involves the ladybugs and blowtorch. We're on the cliff that looks down on the treacherous rocks, but they steer clear of the generator. They've edited out the cannon announcing Maritte's death and with it the part where Maysilee says she's just going back for the potatoes, so it looks like we've really decided to split up." (SOTR, pg. 344)

catching fire:

"When they finally do make it through that impossible hedge, using a blowtorch from one of the dead Careers' packs, they find themselves on flat, dry earth that leads to a cliff. Far below, you can see jagged rocks. 

“That's all there is, Haymitch. Let's go back,” says Maysilee. 

“No, I'm staying here,” he says.

“All right. There's only five of us left. May as well say good-bye now, anyway,” she says. “I don't want it to come down to you and me.” 

“Okay,” he agrees. That's all. He doesn't offer to shake her hand or even look at her. And she walks away." (CF, pg. 226)

sunrise on the reaping:

"The pink birds attack Maysilee and she screams. For the first time, I look like I might be redeemable because I run to her aid. Oh, no. They haven't turned this into a redemption story, have they? Selfish rascal learns to care about others? Please tell me no." (SOTR, pg. 344)

catching fire:

"The alliance is over and she broke it off, so no one could blame him for ignoring her. But Haymitch runs for her, anyway. He arrives only in time to watch the last of a flock of candy pink birds, equipped with long, thin beaks, skewer her through the neck. He holds her hand while she dies, and all I can think of is Rue and how I was too late to save her, too. " (CF, pg. 227)

sunrise on the reaping:

"I appear to have finally remembered that I belong to a wider alliance so I'm going to the rescue, when the cannon sounds and I come upon Silka, Wellie's head in hand. Smash cut to the golden squirrels stripping Maritte to the bone. No matter that she's been long dead by this time." (SOTR, pg. 345)

catching fire:

"Later that day, another tribute is killed in combat and a third gets eaten by a pack of those fluffy squirrels, leaving Haymitch and a girl from District 1 to vie for the crown." (CF, pg. 227)

sunrise on the reaping:

"Silka dies, her cannon fires, and I'm hanging on by a thread. The sunflower bomb, the quartz, the flint striker- there's no record of any of them. All of them gone or tucked away from sight. The hovercraft removes Silka's body. Trumpets declare my victory. A claw closes around me." (SOTR, pg. 345)

catching fire:

"The cannon sounds, her body is removed, and the trumpets blow to announce Haymitch's victory. Peeta clicks off the tape and we sit there in silence for a while." (CF, pg. 228)