#today is just that kind of day apparently

[foldingfittedsheets]

I cannot overstate how fucked up I am today. I’m operating on almost no sleep and I’m pound for pound more fatigue than person. But we needed cat food.

So I went in and the worker did a little shudder as she’s finishing up with the last customer.

“I had one of those days yesterday,” I commiserated.

“No, it wasn’t them, I was just- it’s kinda heavy.”

I waited.

“My coworker just passed a way,” she admitted. “I just saw her name on a receipt, it hit me kinda hard.”

I nodded. I was painfully aware how little energy was in my tank, and empathy uses so much, but this is not the kind of thing I am capable of brushing off. “Have you ever read Terry Pratchett?”

She looked very confused by the apparent non sequitur. Shook her head.

“He’s a really famous fantasy author,” I told her. “Very funny. But in one of his books he has a system kind of like telegrams. And if someone dies while operating that system, their name is put into it. Their name goes back and forth across the line forever, and he posits that people aren’t really gone as long as we see echoes of them and remember their names.

“That’s what it’s like when you saw her name on that receipt, right? It’s her memory, still going.”

Her eyes got wider as I went on. When I finished she gave herself a little shake. “That’s. That’s really beautiful, thank you for that. I. Wow.”

I smiled over my mask and left with my cat food.

[ainsworthluv]

Daughter of a Legend | Lando Norris

Lando meets the daughter of Formula One's greatest legend

Sorry everyone, but there was no way I could let you choose the name on this one.

Everything about Ayrton is true, Disney, the car, what Adriane thought.

Viviane Galisteu Senna da Silva — Vivi, to the lucky few—entered the world only a handful of months after that fateful first of May. Her hair, the color of sun-kissed sand, was Adriane’s through and through, as were the generous smile and warm, bronzed skin. But the eyes—those deep, espresso-dark eyes — were pure Ayrton. They reflected everything around her and, more importantly, everything within: kindness, determination, a stubborn refusal to look away when someone needed help.

Vivi had grown up well outside the camera flashes. She nursed a quiet, slow-brewing resentment for Formula One, the sport that hoisted her father onto a pedestal and then snatched him away. Strangers still approached her with reverence shining in their faces. “Your dad was the greatest driver who ever lived.” Vivi would smile—small, practiced, polite—and swallow the rest of the sentence she wanted to say.

She knew the legend, of course. Everyone did. Brazil’s unbeatable hero, Ayrton Senna. But Vivi also knew the backstage version—soft-spoken stories her mother shared in the half-light of their living room. Their apartment was a museum of love: a McLaren helmet in the hallway, the little Fiat Uno with the lovingly Brazilian vanity plate DR I (for “Dri”) tucked in the garage, ticket stubs and photographs everywhere. Yet the same memories carried warnings in their margins.

“No one loved racing like your father,” Adriane would murmur, tracing the outline of his grin in a photograph. “He gave his whole life to those cars. He wouldn’t even take a day to visit Disney—said it would steal training time.” The words landed like gravel in Vivi’s heart. Her father had lived for speed, and speed had taken him apart in a race that should never have happened.

That story defined her childhood. Adriane had just learned she was pregnant and told Ayrton—his joy nearly burst through the telephone lines. Hours later, the phone rang again. Brazil fell silent. Ayrton Senna was gone.

Six months afterward, Vivi arrived—no father, but a name he’d chosen himself: Viviane, in honor of his eldest sister, founder of the Ayrton Senna Institute and creator of Senninha, the cartoon boy who taught Brazilian kids to dream.

Engines made Vivi’s skin prickle for years; she’d change channels the instant she heard them. Yet today—thirty years since Imola—she stood in the paddock at Interlagos. This wasn’t about her hurt feelings. It was about him. And if Ayrton had taught the world anything, it was to keep driving forward.

•••

“Mate,” Lando whispered, jabbing Charles in the ribs while Charles chatted with Alexandra. “Tell me I’m hallucinating, or is that Senna’s daughter?”

Charles tilted his head, sunglasses glinting. “Looks like her.”

“She’s stunning—exactly like her mum,” Alexandra said, all effortless cool.

“Remind me who her mum is?” Lando asked, eyes still glued to Vivi.

“Adriane Galisteu. Super-model status, Brazilian icon.”

“I cannot believe she’s actually here,” Lando breathed. “She’s practically mythological—never shows up, never does interviews.”

“Probably here for the tribute,” Charles reminded him. “Hamilton’s taking the MP4/8 out for a lap. Big anniversary.”

“Right.” Lando nodded, brain clearly screaming focus, heart equally clearly ignoring the directive.

Alexandra snorted. “You’re practically drooling, Norris. Go talk to her.”

“Are you kidding? She’s Senna’s daughter. If Ayrton was the god of Formula One, that makes her, what, a demigoddess? I’m mortal at best.”

“Bring offerings,” Charles deadpanned. “Maybe a double espresso and a smile.”

Lando swallowed. He could handle 300 kilometers per hour and wheel-to-wheel combat, but apparently not a single conversation-speed approach to a girl with legendary eyes.

Still, every great race started on the grid. And Vivi—demigoddess or not—had just wandered into his pit lane.

•••

Vivi hadn't meant to sit down. Not really.

She had arrived at the paddock out of obligation—at least, that’s what she told herself. She wasn’t here for nostalgia. She wasn’t here for closure. She was here because someone had to remember her father as more than a highlight reel and a pitlane ghost. Someone who loved him had to be present.

So she sat, almost defiantly, in the corner of McLaren’s garage. Not drawing attention, but not exactly hiding either. The helmet—his helmet—rested in her lap, the colors still bold despite the passing of decades. Red, yellow, green. A symbol, a relic. A memory.

She stared out toward the track, half-lost in thought, half-holding herself together. Until a familiar voice cut through the buzz of the paddock.

“…and we’ll tweak the rear suspension, but otherwise it felt good,” Lando was saying, casually, like it was any other day. His engineer nodded, distracted. But Lando’s words trailed off when his eyes landed on her.

He froze.

There was no mistaking her. She wasn’t surrounded by cameras, she wasn’t giving interviews—but she didn’t need to be. Her presence said enough. The cheekbones, the sun-kissed skin, the unmistakable quiet pride in the way she held that helmet.

She caught him staring.

Instead of pretending not to notice, she tilted her head slightly and gave him a half-smile. It wasn't shy. It was amused.

“You’re Lando Norris, right?” she said, her voice low, steady. The kind of voice that made people pause.

“Yeah,” he replied, mouth already dry. “That’s me.”

“I’m Vivi.”

“I know,” he blurted, too quickly. “I mean—yeah. Everyone knows. You’re—” He stopped, because how exactly do you tell someone they’re famous for being the daughter of a legend?

“The daughter of Ayrton Senna,” she said for him, with a tired, soft smile. “It’s okay. You can say it.”

“I didn’t want to be weird.”

“You’re already weird,” she said, teasing. “But I don’t mind.”

He laughed, awkwardly brushing his hair back. “I’m a huge fan of your father. I mean, who isn’t? I think it’s basically mandatory if you love F1.”

“I always joke about that,” she said, eyes twinkling. “But you might be right. It’s probably a legal requirement.”

“I’m serious. They should put it on our FIA licenses: ‘Must worship Senna.’”

Vivi let out a real laugh—short, surprised, warm. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Oh? What did you expect?”

“Something colder. More serious. Maybe a little arrogant.”

“Well, ouch,” he said, clutching his chest in mock pain. “But fair.”

She glanced sideways at him, then back at the helmet in her lap. “You drive for McLaren, right?”

“Yeah. Feels surreal most days.”

“Are you happy?”

He nodded, a little more seriously. “I’m living my dream.”

Something in the way he said it made her shift slightly on the bench, creating a small space beside her.

She didn’t say anything.

But he understood.

Lando sat beside her, close but not too close, his eyes never leaving the helmet.

“Is that really his?” he asked, voice lowered like they were in a cathedral.

Vivi nodded. “Yeah.”

“Can I…?” He trailed off, unsure.

She handed it to him without a word.

Lando took it like she was passing him something sacred. And maybe she was. His fingers traced the edge of the visor, the curve of the shell. “This is incredible,” he whispered. “I never thought I’d even see it up close, let alone hold it. I think I might faint.”

Vivi laughed again, and Lando’s stomach flipped. That sound was magic.

“I’m giving it to Hamilton,” she added, gently.

“Careful,” Lando grinned. “He’s old. That much emotion might kill him.”

She laughed louder this time.

“He deserves it,” she said. “The tribute he’s doing for my dad… it’s beautiful. My father would’ve liked him.”

There was a pause. Not awkward—just heavy enough.

“Can I ask you something?” Lando said quietly.

“You just did,” she replied, lips tugging upward. But then she nodded. “Go ahead.”

“You’re the daughter of the Ayrton Senna. But you’ve kept your distance from all this. Why?”

She inhaled, then exhaled slowly. “Anger, mostly. Grief too, I guess. Formula One didn’t just make him—it took him from me.”

Lando didn’t speak. He didn’t rush in with reassurances or cliches. He just listened.

“My father gave everything to this sport,” she continued. “And in the end, they repaid him with a mechanical failure. A stupid, pointless error. A race that should never have happened. And now… all I have are stories. A name he chose for me before he died. A helmet. A country that mourned louder than my mother ever could.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, and Lando glanced down at the helmet in his hands.

He wanted to hug her. Every part of him itched to move closer. But instead, he just said,

“Your dad changed Brazil. He changed all of us.”

Vivi nodded, blinking tears from her lashes. “I know. And I’m proud. It’s just... complicated. In Brazil, people live and breathe football. We cancel school for World Cup games. We cry over it. But no one expected the country to stop for a race car driver. And yet—my father made that happen. He made a nation care about something no one noticed before.”

She paused again. Then smiled—wistful, broken at the edges.

“My mom told me once that his dream was to go to Disney.”

“Disney?” Lando echoed, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah,” Vivi nodded. “Silly, right? But he never went. Said it would steal time from training. That’s how much he gave to this. His life. His time. His joy. And it killed him.”

Silence fell. Except it wasn’t empty. It was full—of love, of loss, of a million unspoken things.

Lando handed the helmet back to her gently. “He would be proud of you, you know.”

“I hope so,” she said, brushing her thumb over the visor. “I really do.”

•••

Later, when the tribute finished and the engines fell silent, Hamilton completed his final lap in Ayrton’s McLaren, waving the Brazilian flag just as Ayrton once had. The crowd was louder than thunder.

Vivi stood near the pit wall, eyes wet, heart full. She watched Hamilton remove his helmet and break into tears. She had already given him the old one—the one—and he’d held it to his chest like it was made of his hero’s spirit.

Lando found her hours later, long after the crowd had left and the champagne had lost its fizz.

“Think he did okay?” he asked, voice softer now.

Vivi turned, smiling gently. “He did more than okay. I think my father would’ve been proud.”

“You heading out?”

“Yeah. I came, I remembered, I cried. Mission complete.”

“No after-party for you?”

She shook her head. “Not really in a party mood, to be honest.”

Lando hesitated. And then—well, bravery had won him a few races before.

“What about dinner?” he asked. “Just us. I mean… you’re Brazilian, I’m not. Maybe you can show me something new.”

Vivi blinked, surprised—but amused. “Dinner?”

“Strictly educational,” he said, grinning. “Cultural exchange.”

She looked at him for a beat longer than necessary. Then, finally—finally—smiled.

“Okay, British boy,” she said. “But only if there’s dessert.”

“Deal,” he said, holding out a hand like he was sealing a contract.

And just like that, Vivi stood, tucking the helmet beneath her arm. Grief would always live with her—but maybe, just maybe, joy had room too.

They walked off together—not as legend and fan, not as symbol and driver, but as two people learning what it meant to be seen.

[thirteenheavens]

I'm in ovulation (and missing Jeonghan) so consider;

So like, yeah yk he's been too lazy for sex these days. Like he'd tease and all but in the end he'd be like "ah im tired" or "I'm sleepy" and reader is like frustrated so she like gives him those ..hormonal chocolate idk what to call it bruh (CONSENSUALLY) he's like ? But takes it anw and oh shit. He fucks her till her head lolls back it was NASTY AND SHITTT like she's panting and whatnot

this was low-key based off a dream I had with a faceless man lol

Anw i love ur works 💕💕

Taste how much I love you|| Jeonghan

Word count:3.7k+

Notes: you hannie fans are being fed today! Hope you enjoy the long fics :)

Jeonghan has been teasing you all day, his touches lingering a bit too long, his whispers in your ear making your heart race. He knows exactly what he's doing to you, and he loves the effect he has on you. As the day comes to an end, you're both exhausted from work. Jeonghan yawns dramatically as he flops down onto the bed.

"I'm so tired," he says, stretching out like a cat. "I don't think I have the energy for anything tonight." You pout at him, clearly disappointed. "You were teasing me all day and now you're too tired?" Jeonghan chuckles and pulls you closer to him. "Aw, don't pout, baby. I just need some rest."

He wraps his arms around you, holding you against his chest. You can feel his body heat, and you can't help but notice the way his cock is pressed against your thigh. The next day, Jeonghan continues to avoid any sexual activities, claiming he's still tired from the previous day. You try to initiate things, but he always has an excuse.

"Not now, Y/N," he says, gently pushing your hand away. "I really need to focus on work." He spends the entire day holed up in his office, only coming out for meals and quick showers. You can tell that he's avoiding you, and it frustrates you to no end.

As the day drags on, you decide to take matters into your own hands. You go out and buy a box of hormonal chocolates, hoping that they'll help Jeonghan get in the mood. Jeonghan comes home later that evening, looking worn out. He notices the box of chocolates on the counter and raises an eyebrow.

"What's this?" he asks, picking up the box and examining it. You shrug nonchalantly. "Just some chocolates I thought you might like." Jeonghan opens the box and takes one out, popping it into his mouth. He chews slowly, a look of surprise crossing his face.

"These are... interesting," he says, swallowing the chocolate. "They taste different." He takes another one, and you watch as his expression changes slightly. He seems more alert, more aware of your presence.

As the movie plays, Jeonghan shifts in his seat. He's trying to act normal, but you can tell that the chocolates are starting to affect him. He keeps adjusting himself, crossing and uncrossing his legs. His breathing becomes a bit heavier, and he keeps stealing glances at you.

"Are you okay?" you ask innocently, pretending not to notice his discomfort. Jeonghan nods quickly. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just... feeling a bit warm."

He reaches for the remote and turns up the air conditioning, but it doesn't seem to help. He's starting to sweat slightly, and his cheeks are flushed. As the movie continues, Jeonghan's discomfort becomes more apparent. He keeps shifting in his seat, his eyes darting between you and the screen.

"Maybe we should watch something else," he suggests, his voice strained. "This movie is kind of boring." You shake your head. "No, I want to finish it. You picked it out, remember?" Jeonghan groans softly, running a hand through his hair. He's clearly struggling to focus on the movie, his mind obviously preoccupied with other things.

"I need to go to the bathroom," he suddenly says, standing up abruptly. "Be right back." He practically runs out of the room, leaving you alone on the couch. You can hear him muttering to himself as he disappears down the hallway. Jeonghan returns a few minutes later, looking even more flustered than before. He sits back down on the couch, keeping a noticeable distance from you.

"What's wrong?" you ask, feigning innocence. "You look... tense." Jeonghan glares at you, his eyes narrowing. "You know exactly what's wrong," he says through gritted teeth. He shifts again, trying to adjust himself discreetly. It's obvious that he's still hard, and the chocolates are making it worse.

"I can't believe you did this," he mutters, running a hand over his face. "Those chocolates... they're not normal." Jeonghan looks at you with a mix of frustration and desire. He's torn between wanting to give in to his urges and maintaining his composure.

"You're such a tease," he says, his voice low and husky. "You knew exactly what those chocolates would do to me." He moves closer to you, unable to resist the pull. His hand reaches out to touch your thigh, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your skin.

"I can't stop thinking about you," he admits, his eyes dark with lust. "I want you so badly." Jeonghan takes your hand and places it firmly on his crotch, letting you feel how hard he is. He lets out a soft moan as you touch him, his eyes closing briefly in pleasure.

"Feel that?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. "That's all your fault." He guides your hand up and down his length, his hips bucking slightly into your touch. He's clearly struggling to control himself, his breath coming in short gasps.

"I've been trying to resist you all day," he confesses. "But those chocolates... they've made it impossible." Jeonghan's pleas are desperate, his voice filled with need. He looks at you with a mixture of frustration and desperation.

"Please," he begs, his grip on your hand tightening. "I can't take it anymore. I need you. I need to be inside you." He leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear. "I've been so pent up all day, and those chocolates have only made it worse. I can't think straight." He presses himself against you, grinding his hard cock against your body. "Please, baby. I need to cum."

"I know you do," you say softly, a smirk playing on your lips. "But you've been teasing me all day too, remember?" Jeonghan groans in frustration, his forehead resting against your shoulder. "I know, I know. I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you, I promise. Just please, help me now."

He looks up at you with pleading eyes, his hand still holding yours against his cock. "I'll do anything you want. Just let me have you." Jeonghan watches you get up, his eyes following your every move. He stands up as well, adjusting his pants to try and hide his erection.

"Where are you going?" he asks, his voice laced with urgency. You don't answer him, simply walking towards the bedroom. Jeonghan follows closely behind, his footsteps quick and eager. Once you reach the bedroom, he closes the door behind him and pins you against it. His body is pressed against yours, his hands roaming over your curves.

"You're such a tease," he growls, nipping at your neck. "You know exactly how to drive me crazy." Jeonghan is impatient, his movements hurried as he quickly removes your clothes. He practically tears your shirt off, tossing it aside carelessly.

"No time for foreplay," he says, his hands roaming over your bare skin. "I need you now." He unbuttons his own shirt, revealing his toned chest and abs. He pushes his pants down, freeing his aching cock. It's hard and leaking precum, the head flushed a deep red. He spins you around, pressing you against the door again. His hands grip your hips tightly as he positions himself behind you.

Jeonghan lines himself up with your entrance, his breath hot against your ear. "I'm going to fuck you so hard," he promises, his voice rough with desire. He pushes into you in one swift motion, burying himself to the hilt. He lets out a loud moan, his fingers digging into your hips.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he groans, starting to thrust into you at a fast pace. "So tight and wet." He sets a relentless pace, his hips snapping against yours with each thrust. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixed with your moans and his grunts.

"You're mine," he growls possessively, his hands moving to grab your breasts, squeezing them roughly. "All mine to use and fill up." Jeonghan's cock is throbbing inside you, the veins pulsing with each thrust. He's completely lost in the sensation, his mind clouded with lust.

"I'm so close," he pants, his movements becoming more erratic. "I can't hold back anymore. I need to cum inside you." He reaches down to rub your clit, trying to push you over the edge with him. "Cum for me, baby. I want to feel you squeeze my cock." Jeonghan's hand slams against the wall, his knuckles turning white from the force. He's struggling to maintain control, his body trembling with the effort.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," he whimpers, his thrusts becoming more desperate. "Please, please let me cum inside you." He bites down on your shoulder, trying to stave off his orgasm. His cock is twitching inside you, signaling his impending release.

"Yes, cum for me," you moan, your own orgasm building up. "Cum inside me, baby." Your words push Jeonghan over the edge. He lets out a loud cry as he cums, his hot seed spilling deep inside you. He continues to thrust, riding out his orgasm as he empties himself completely.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he chants, his body shuddering against yours. "That was amazing." He collapses against you, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close as he slowly comes down from his high. Jeonghan's cock is still hard, despite his orgasm. He groans in frustration, his hips twitching against you.

"I can't believe I'm still this hard," he mutters, his voice filled with disbelief. "Those chocolates really did a number on me." He grinds his hips against you, his cock sliding against your sensitive folds. "I need more," he whispers, his hands roaming over your body again. "I need to keep going." Jeonghan lifts you up effortlessly, carrying you over to the bed. He lays you down gently, positioning himself between your legs.

"I'm going to make you cum again," he says, his eyes dark with determination. "And then I'm going to keep going until I'm completely satisfied." He spreads your legs wide, admiring the sight of his cum leaking out of you. He runs his fingers through it, gathering some on his fingers and bringing it to your lips.

"Taste yourself," he orders, pressing his cum-covered fingers against your mouth. "Taste how good you taste with my cum inside you." Jeonghan seems insatiable, his stamina unmatched. He continues to pound into you for hours, his cock never softening. Each time he cums, he's ready to go again within minutes.

"I can't stop," he gasps, his body glistening with sweat. "I'm addicted to you." He changes positions frequently, trying different angles and positions to prolong his pleasure. He's lost count of how many times he's cum, but he doesn't care. All he knows is that he needs you, needs to fill you up with his seed over and over again.

"You're mine," he repeats like a mantra, his voice hoarse from all the moaning. "Mine to use and breed." Jeonghan flips you over onto your stomach, pulling your hips up so that you're on all fours. He enters you from behind, gripping your hips tightly as he resumes his relentless pace.

"I love this position," he growls, his thrusts becoming deeper and harder. "I can go even deeper like this." He leans forward, his chest pressed against your back as he reaches around to rub your clit again. His other hand grabs a fistful of your hair, pulling your head back.

"Cum for me again," he demands, his voice rough and demanding. "I want to feel you squeeze my cock again." He bites down on your shoulder blade, his teeth sinking into your skin as he continues to thrust into you with animalistic force. You cry out in pleasure, tears streaming down your face as Jeonghan pushes you to your limits. Your body is exhausted, but you can't help but respond to his touch.

"Please," you sob, your voice hoarse from screaming. "I can't take anymore." Jeonghan ignores your plea, his pace never faltering. He pulls your hair harder, forcing you to arch your back.

"You can take it," he snarls. "You're going to take every last drop of my cum, whether you want to or not." He slaps your ass hard, leaving a red mark on your skin. "You're mine to use and break, remember?" Jeonghan is panting heavily, his muscles burning with exhaustion, but he refuses to stop. He's determined to make you his completely, to claim you as his own.

"I won't stop until I'm completely spent," he grunts, his movements becoming more erratic. "I don't care how tired I am." He can feel his orgasm building again, but he holds back, wanting to draw out the pleasure as long as possible. His cock is aching from overuse, but he ignores the pain, focusing solely on your body.

"I'm going to fill you up one more time," he promises, his voice strained. "And then maybe I'll finally be satisfied." You're both a mess of sweat, tears, and cum. Your bodies are trembling from exhaustion, but Jeonghan keeps going, his grip on you unyielding.

"I can't stop," he repeats through gritted teeth, his voice breaking. "I'm so close, baby. Just a little more." He's crying now too, tears mixing with the sweat on his face. The intensity of the situation is overwhelming for both of you, but neither of you wants to stop. The pleasure is too intense, too addictive.

"I love you," he chokes out, his voice cracking. "I love you so much." Jeonghan's movements become frantic as he nears his final orgasm. He's lost all sense of control, completely consumed by his need for you.

"I'm gonna cum," he sobs, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm gonna cum so hard." He buries himself deep inside you one last time, his body shaking violently as he releases yet another load of cum. He collapses on top of you, his chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath.

"I can't believe we did that," he whispers, his voice hoarse and weak. "I don't think I've ever cum so much in my life." He gently rolls off of you, pulling you into his arms. His hands are trembling as he strokes your hair, his body still trembling from the aftershocks of his orgasm. Cum leaks out of you, pooling between your legs and staining the sheets. Jeonghan watches it with a mix of satisfaction and exhaustion.

"Look at the mess we made," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're completely filled with my cum." He runs his fingers through the mess, scooping up some of it and bringing it to your lips again. "Taste it," he says softly. "Taste how much I love you." You take his fingers into your mouth, tasting the salty mixture of his cum and your juices. Jeonghan watches you intently, his eyes dark with desire even after all he's done.

"You're so good," he praises, his thumb tracing your bottom lip. "You took everything I gave you so well." He pulls you closer, his hand resting on your stomach. "I can feel it inside you," he murmurs. "My cum is inside you, claiming you as mine."

He kisses your forehead gently, his touch tender despite the roughness of his actions earlier. "You're mine now," he repeats, his voice filled with possessiveness. "And I'm never letting you go." Jeonghan holds you tightly against his chest, his arms wrapped around you protectively. He nuzzles his face into your hair, inhaling your scent.

"We need more of those chocolates," he says, a hint of a smirk in his voice. "They really did something to me." He kisses the top of your head, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin. "I can't believe how intense it made me feel," he admits. "I've never been that out of control before."

He pulls back slightly to look at you, his eyes filled with affection. "But I don't regret it," he adds. "I love you, and I love what we just did together."

[kanmom51]

JK's point of interest will ALWAYS be JM

Just a few examples from this chaotic 2 part 5 members (if you include Hobi's couple of seconds) live.

You cannot miss that second when JM walks into the room. All you need to do is look at JK's face. At JK's eyes. Lighting up when JM walks in.

The almost full interaction:

Auto translations, so kind of shitty, lol.

The second time JM walks back into the room (he was supposed to be going to Tae's but he came back):

And when not looking at JM directly, it's through the screen. Because we know how he loves to look at JM through screens.

Did you catch this part? I know it's a lot to follow, but...

So, JM found his way to Tae's room and then Tae, of course them being as chaotic as they can be, joined RM and JK on the other end of the live.

But no matter what, JK's attention was on JM.

Tae full buff body leaning on him.

Again, full attention on JM and what he is doing.

Even with Tae hanging off JK like a branch. With close to zero reaction from JK. Because his attention was clearly on the person on the screen, duh!!

Do we mention the dropping of honorifics? Nah, what for? it's kind of a JK normal at this point.

And we had this too.

Apparently it wasn't cute but funny.

Funny, cute, same same. It's JK gushing over JM. And we are talking about the person that gave JM the cute award, so there's that.

Like I said, his centre of attention.

Even as JK was going to the toilet.

Or not.

With JM wearing Tae's nippie viewing tops.

He just can't leave the room when there is something that interesting to see, right?

🤣🤣

Oh, and btw, I mentioned in my previous post that JM didn't know where Tae's room was even though he'd been there for a couple of days already, right? Well, JK didn't either.

So, JK didn't even know where Tae's room is. I guess he's been too busy filming JM sleeping (in his/ perhaps their room/s).

Burn, I guess...

Oh, one more thing before I go.

Did you guys notice how JM's been sporting that new silver necklace of his?

Yesterday, shopping and during the live. Today posting a pic with it on his IG account.

And during the live today.

Remember, when he came into the room shirt came off (JK told us so) and then put back on for the camera. Necklace was on and stayed on.

Can't help but wonder if that necklace might have some kind of significance to JM.

You know, like this one that also seemed to make an appearance after Silver day 2022:

And if this necklace is JK's Silver day gift to JM, maybe, just maybe, those new silver hoops JK was rocking on his left ear might be JM's Silver day gift to JK.

BTS chaos is back full swing y'all.

[7-wonders]

Workplace Injuries (and other hazards of working with Johanna Constantine)

Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x gender-neutral!reader

Summary: When you're concussed by a demon while on a job with Johanna Constantine, Morpheus takes it upon himself to care for you. The only problem? Concussion protocol dictates that the King of Dreams can't let you fall asleep right away.

Word count: 3.5k

A note from the author: I know that concussion protocols have been updated in the past few years and that best practice isn't to keep people awake for a certain time anymore, but the plot was just too fun to not write. Please forgive me for the inaccuracy!

(There's technically a work related to this that goes into a bit more of reader and Jo's dynamic but the reader in that is explicitly female, so it's really not required reading but it's here if you want it!)

It feels so good to be inspired to write for Morpheus once more, and to have the dramatic fics as well as the funny/goofy ones. I sincerely hope you enjoy; likes, comments, reblogs, and asks make me smile and are much appreciated!

“Right, here we go, easy does it.” Johanna Constantine shuts the car door behind you and slings one of your arms over her shoulders.

“Please slow down, Jo,” you beg as she starts to drag you along. “I’m going to throw up again.”

“We’re moving at a snail’s pace, babe. I physically can’t go any slower!”

Relying on people does not come easily to you. It’s hard to relinquish control, to admit that you need somebody to help you. Unfortunately, there’s no denying that today, you need help. You just wish it wasn’t so embarrassing as needing somebody to help you walk from the car to your front door.

While it certainly wasn’t a career path you had ever envisioned for yourself, you like to think that you’ve gotten pretty good at the whole “part-time occultist assistant” thing lately! After having first been put into contact with one Johanna Constantine due to her needing someone with your abilities as a medium, you found out that you worked very well together. So well, in fact, that she had started calling you every time she ran across trouble summoning or speaking to spirits (which was frequently, since she was not gifted in that particular area). Not that you minded. No, the work was honestly fun, and you enjoyed Jo’s presence—she joked now that you had forced her to be your friend against her will; a claim that you wouldn’t deny.

Today, you were meeting in an abandoned pub that was at least 600 years old, if not older (you had your reservations about doing this kind of stuff during the day, but it was kind of astounding how little people paid attention to their surroundings and to the things they didn’t believe to be real). There was a grassroots campaign to restore the pub and reopen it, but something kept thwarting even the most basic start of restoration efforts. The man leading the crusade contacted Jo to try to figure out what was haunting the pub, and to remove it if possible. Since it was unknown what entity it was, she brought you along in case it was the spirit of some long-dead patron who hadn’t figured out how to move on to whatever their afterlife was supposed to be.

It was decidedly not a spirit, as you found out when it broke the containment circle, morphed into some nasty horror of a demon, and threw you into a pile of crates like you were a ragdoll. 

Being that Johanna’s an accomplished occultist, there are a few healing spells and charms that can be used to patch up bruises and minor injuries. She absolutely will not fuck around with anything bigger than that, though, trusting doctors, medicine, and science over any of the magic that she possesses. So when you came to (you had been out for five minutes, apparently), she decided it was straight to A&E for you.

You attempted to plead your case almost immediately after Jo had made up her mind. Hospitals are not your favorite place in the world—you might even say it’s one of your least favorite—and you would love to stay out of them at all costs. Plus, it was just a bump on the head. Everyone deals with those!

“I’m fine!” you insisted as Johanna hauled your limp body out of the pub with strength reminiscent of those mothers who were able to lift cars off of their babies.

“It’s nothing to worry about!” you assured her when the harsh light of day made your head throb in an agony that had you dizzy and falling to your knees.

“Seriously, I just need to sleep it off,” you claimed after ordering resident getaway driver Chas to pull over and barely leaning far enough out of the car before throwing up from too much happening at once.

Okay, so perhaps the trip was warranted.

Two hours of waiting and tests and one concussion diagnosis later, you were set free from the dreaded hospital and finally on your way home (with Chas taking turns much slower this time, thankfully). Just getting from point A to point B, though, was proving to be an odyssey. You’re still little more than dead weight, leaning heavily on Jo to keep you upright while you stumble through the insurmountable task of putting one foot in front of the other. It’s extremely slow-going, and you’re really glad the only witness to this is Chas, for whom this is a completely normal day.

When you finally make it to the front door, Johanna starts feeling her coat with her free hand. “Keys, where did I put your keys?”

“Saw you slip them into your inside jacket pocket,” you mumble, forcing yourself to breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth in an attempt to ward off nausea.

Reaching into said pocket, she grins at you upon seeing that you’re correct. “Ah, look at you! No memory loss or anything. You’re golden.”

“I don’t feel golden.”

Indeed, you’re pretty sure you don’t look golden either. You’re wearing a massive pair of sunglasses that Jo had hidden in her purse (you can only guess what type of undercover work she’s done wearing these) to keep out any of the brutal sun. There are probably still wood chips on your clothes from being thrown into crates, and, if it weren’t for being held up, you’re almost certain you’d be sideways on the ground.

Some people compare having a concussion to being drunk. At this point, you think you’d rather take feeling shitty after too many drinks over the hit that’s sent your body haywire.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get you into bed, and in a couple of days you’ll be back to normal.” She pauses. “Well, your particular brand of normal.”

Johanna unlocks your front door and ushers you inside—

—right into the arms of Morpheus, who has, it seems, been waiting in your entryway for who knows how long. You stumble into his chest, and his grip around you tightens possessively as Johanna curses under her breath.

“What happened?” He’s absolutely furious, but your brain is still too foggy to clock things that aren’t obvious. Instead, you take off the sunglasses to stare at him in disbelief before turning to Johanna.

“How did you call him?” you ask. “He doesn’t have a phone.”

Morpheus looks visibly confused and on the verge of having a conniption. The air is charged with tension, and there’s only one person in the room level enough to diffuse it. To you, Jo says, “Don’t need a phone when you know how to summon his magic raven.” 

She then turns to Morpheus with an explanation. “You, Dreamlord, are looking at a concussion, courtesy of a very sneaky, very annoying demon who has already been banished back to Hell.”

“You should see the other guy,” you joke.

Jo rolls her eyes. “Happy to see your sense of humor’s still intact.”

“A…concussion,” Morpheus says slowly, as though testing the word out. It makes sense that he’s unfamiliar with this, both because he doesn’t ever deal with normal, human injuries and because he was trapped in a giant glass ball before brain injuries were really understood and studied.

“Aye,” Johanna confirms. “A hard bump on the head that jolts your brain a wee bit.”

Morpheus goes silent instead of beginning an expected volley of questioning, his form going slightly fuzzy and transparent around the edges as he stares ahead.

“Why am I watching him dissociate right now?” Johanna stage-whispers. “It’s creepy as hell.”

You’ve seen this before, and thus share none of her discomfort. “He’s back in the Dreaming, using the collective human unconsciousness to figure out what a concussion is. Give him a second.”

As expected, it only takes him a couple more moments to come back to himself in the Waking, eyes that were once filled with rage now concerned as he holds you at arms’ length as though to study you.

“You suffered a traumatic brain injury?” he asks.

“A mild traumatic brain injury, thank you very much,” you point out. Though you had stopped seeing double shortly after leaving the hospital, the minor physical exertion has brought that symptom back in force. Morpheus doubles in front of you, and you blink furiously in the hopes that he goes back to being one person-shaped being.

“Debatable,” Johanna murmurs, having had a front-row seat to see that it was definitely verging closer to moderate than it was mild.

“That does not make me feel better in the slightest,” Morpheus says.

The painkillers that the nurse gave you at the hospital (over-the-counter meds, just administered by a professional instead of your own hand) are quickly beginning to wear off and make the full brunt of your injury known. Through gritted teeth, you say, “While I’d love to stand in my living room and chat all day, it feels like somebody is hammering my skull from the inside out, and I’d like to go lie down.” 

Indeed, you can barely keep your eyes open right now, the pain so intense that you have to work to remember a language that normally comes so naturally to you. The ground under you has also started to betray you once more, swaying dangerously as though you’re on a boat. Your grip tightens on Morpheus’s coat and his bicep, actions that do not go unnoticed by the Endless.

Jo makes a small noise of sympathy. “Of course, love, let’s get you to—” 

Morpheus stops her. “Thank you for your help, but I will assume care now.”

“Will you now? Since you’re so experienced at caring for mortal injuries.” She sounds entirely unimpressed and instead asks you, “You remember what the doctor said?”

You shake your head before grimacing at the sharp reminder of why moving your head at all is not a good idea currently. “Was too busy trying to think something beyond ‘ow,’ so I left the listening to you.”

“Smart. You need to stay awake for the first eight hours after your concussion to make sure you don’t get a brain bleed or anything else that can make you slip into a coma. Right now, you have about,” Johanna checks her watch, “four hours before you can sleep. After that? Rest, rest, and more rest. Don’t look at your electronics, don’t do any reading, nothing that requires too much brain power. Here’s the list that A&E gave us. Doc wrote down a pain med schedule, too.” 

She hands Morpheus the paper she’s been holding, and he takes it as though it’s a foreign object.

“Look at me,” she commands, probably the only person on Earth who could speak to a being such as Morpheus like this without any noticeable fear. “I am mainly talking to you here, because this one is concussed and therefore unable to follow care directions. You need to follow these to the letter, do you hear me?”

Morpheus glowers, and you can hear the lights beginning to flicker as his anger surges the electricity. “Yes, Johanna Constantine, contrary to your belief, I am more than able to provide aid.”

She stops, realizing that she’s come off a little too harshly. “I’m sorry, okay? It’s just…it’s my fault. I’m the one who thought I was dealing with a spirit, and if I had just done some more research, I—”

“You know better than almost anyone that demons are crafty and cunning. No matter how much and how often you train, you are still mortal,” Morpheus reminds her. “It would be impossible for you to see through the tricks of every single demon. So no, it is not your fault.”

Johanna looks…oddly touched at Morpheus’s assurance. “Not what I was expecting from you, but I appreciate it all the same.”

“That was really nice of you, Morpheus.” You smile at him even though the action causes you pain. “Now, can somebody please help me to my bedroom? I’m not sure I could find it in my current condition.”

Morpheus is flustered by your and Johanna’s reactions to his unexpected kindness and quickly puts one of your arms around him in the hopes that everybody will forget and move past it. Johanna takes your other side, and together the two get you to your bedroom without you passing out or throwing up.

“Sorry, it’s kind of messy in here,” you apologize as you’re settled onto your bed, Jo arranging the pillows until she deems you comfortable. Morpheus seems poised to just stand by your bed and watch you, so you pull on him until he gets the message and sits next to you.

She laughs. “Pssh, you’ve seen my place. You look like a neat freak compared to me.” 

Jo searches in the pockets of her coat again until she finds the bottle of painkillers the hospital had given her, sets them down on your nightstand, and then disappears into the hallway. When she reappears, she holds yet another bottle of painkillers and a glass of water, presumably procured from your kitchen.

“Here, the drugs you have are different from the ones A&E gave you, so you can have a dose now.” Jo shakes out two of the pills into your waiting hand and hands you the water so that you can take them. 

“Thank you for all your help,” you say to her, settling into Morpheus’s hold now that he’s magicked his coat and boots away so that he can fully lie with you.

“Eh, what are friends for?” She turns her eyes to Morpheus. “Do you know how to use a phone?”

“Enough to get by.” The way he says it, though, makes it sound like he’s simply seen a phone a couple of times and thus thinks that he would be able to figure out if needed.

Still, Johanna is appeased with that answer. “Good. Text me if you need my help with anything.”

“We shall manage.”

She smiles at you and waves. “Ta, darling. Get to feeling better.”

Then she’s gone, leaving you in Morpheus’s care. While you’re happy to close your eyes finally in blissful silence, your beloved quickly realizes that he has no clue what caring for somebody with a concussion is like.

“Have the…drugs had any effect on you yet?” he asks, using the term that Jo gave them.

You hum. “Not yet, but I only just took them. Give it a few minutes, and then my headache should hopefully go from ‘agonizing’ to just plain ‘painful.’”

“Did you—”

“Sweetheart,” you cut him off, “I love you so much, but I need you to be quiet right now. Agonizing headache, remember?”

“Ah.” Peeling your eyes open is worth it when you see his embarrassed flush. “My apologies, dearest.”

Finally, quiet. Sometimes (often), when you find yourself trying to rest, it’s nearly impossible to shut your brain off. Especially since you started solving supernatural cases with a renowned occultist and dating a billions-of-years-old anthropomorphic personification, you’ve had a lot on your mind. Now that it hurts too much to even think, you find that, for once, there are no pressing questions or problems on your mind to keep you from resting. Huh, maybe you should get concussed more often.

As the adrenaline of the afternoon begins to wear off, you feel fatigued down to your bones. Not only did you get blindsided by a demon, but you also had to swallow your fear and sit in a hospital for hours. Even without the injury, that would constitute a very busy day. But in your current predicament, and resting in the arms of your love, it’s easy simply to let yourself drift off.

Above you, Morpheus straightens in alarm as he feels you begin to slip into unconsciousness. Johanna said that you were not to sleep, but does he really go against his function and keep someone from reaching his realm? He would never forgive himself if something terrible were to happen to you as a result of his inaction, though, so he begrudgingly shakes your shoulder and uses a touch of his power to turn you away from the Dreaming.

“Mmm,” you grumble, eyes landing on Morpheus and glaring at him. “Why do you hate me?”

“You must not fall asleep, beloved, not for a few hours.”

“But, like, what are the odds of something actually happening to me if I sleep before I’m supposed to?”

“Whatever they are, they are odds that I am not willing to take. I would not be able to live with myself if something were to happen to you.”

It’s sweet, of course, that he’s so worried about you. But right now, the only thing keeping you from snapping at him and demanding he leave so you can sleep is the fact. “Ugh, fine, I won’t sleep. I’m never letting a demon throw me into a wall again.”

“Which demon did this to you?”

“I don’t know, I wasn’t conscious when Jo banished it back to Hell.” You don’t need to look at him to know that there surely must be storm clouds gathering in the Dreaming, so you decide to keep talking in the hopes that it calms him. “We were called in on a job for an old pub that hasn’t been able to be restored due to repeated instances of paranormal activity. After doing some research, I truly thought that it was a spirit. So did Jo.”

“As I said earlier, demons can fool even the most experienced of occultists. The line of work that you have found yourself in can be dangerous, though you are lucky to have not experienced such danger until now.”

“I know it’s dangerous. But knowing that there are spirits out there who are lost, spirits that can cross over if I can just find them? I’m happy to risk getting injured.”

“You do what you can to help those my sister cannot. I find that quite admirable.” Smiling slightly at Morpheus doesn’t hurt like it did earlier, and he picks up on it easily. “Are you feeling less pain?”

“Yes, the meds finally kicked in. Still hurts, but I can handle having a small conversation. Now, I just have to wait until I can finally sleep.” 

“Shall I read to you to keep you awake?” Morpheus asks, hand already in the air as he prepares to summon a book from the Dreaming.

“No. Your voice is very soothing, so I would definitely fall asleep.”

After thinking for a moment of what might help you stay awake while also being enough of a non-activity that you’re not at risk of aggravating your concussion more, you voice-activate your phone and ask it to turn on your newest podcast obsession. Morpheus startles upon hearing your phone answer back to you before starting to play, and you snicker under your breath. Oh, the joys of dating a being so woefully behind on learning about modern technology. 

Even with the podcast being a topic you’re interested in, you still find yourself dozing off multiple times, Morpheus waking you when you get too close to his realm every time. When you’re not injured, you’ll have to thank him for doing what must feel entirely wrong and keeping you from dreaming. Just when you’re starting to wonder if you need to break the electronics ban and check the clock on your phone, it begins vibrating and playing an alarm. Johanna, bless her, must have set an alarm on your phone without you knowing.

“Can you turn that off, please?” you ask Morpheus, who studies your phone screen intently before hesitantly hitting the ‘stop’ button. “Thank you.”

“What does that mean?” he asks.

“That I can finally go to sleep.” You’re so tired at this point that you doubt you’ll need Morpheus’s help finding sleep, though you wouldn’t be surprised if he still tries. “Am I still going to have a concussion in the Dreaming?” you wonder.

Morpheus thinks for a moment. “I must confess that I am not sure. You are one of the only mortals who has ever visited the Dreaming proper, and probably the only one who has spent a significant amount of time there. Even if you are, I shall ensure that you are as comfortable as possible.”

“Y’know, you’re a pretty good nurse,” you whisper, leaning back against him and already feeling consciousness slip from you.

“That is a relief, considering I do not know what I am doing,” he admits.

A puff of air leaves you, the most laugh-like sound you can manage at present. “You know enough to have made sure I wouldn’t die in my sleep, so thank you.”

He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “Today is not the day that my sister takes your hand, nor is that any day soon. Rest now, and I shall see you soon.”

You think that you manage to mutter something that sounds close to ‘I love you’ before you pass out, but the only person who knows for certain is Morpheus. 

(Morpheus, who remains frustratingly tight-lipped when it turns out that you don’t still have a concussion in the Dreaming and thus immediately try to figure out if anything you said or did would be considered embarrassing by your non-addled self.)

[veevettel]

GOODBYES ARE BITTERSWEET

CHAPTER 1: Loving him was red 🏎️ CHAPTER SUMMARY: The internet goes crazy, so the Formula 1 paddock does. A song just went viral on YouTube by an anon user, but Seb remembers Diana's voice all too well and, to his not so surprise, he somehow realizes that's her... singing a song that might actually be about him. ⤷📚 SERIES SUMMARY: Diana Wagner's plans didn't include her finding out she was pregnant with her long time boyfriend, three-time Formula 1 world champion, Sebastian Vettel. Neither was breaking up with him in 2013... or having to face him again 5 years later when she became viral after posting a song dedicated to him.And, of course, having his daughter he knows nothing about. ‼️ WARNINGS: Curse words, mentions of sex and one night stands.

SERIES MASTERLIST ✰ WATTPAD

2018 April 27th Baku, Azerbaijan

Sebastian woke up as soon as he felt the sun's rays hitting his face and, at that moment, he noticed a strangely warm presence beside him in bed.

Glancing at his phone, the Ferrari driver saw that it was already half-past seven in the morning. Not only had he realized that his alarm hadn't gone off and he'd overslept by an hour and a half, but it was also Diana's birthday.

As every year, there was no response to the email he had scheduled to be sent at midnight.

After nearly five years of barely knowing anything about her and only catching glimpses of her a couple of times in Heppenheim, he understood, deep down, why he kept reaching out in this small way. He still loved her as much as he did the first day they met... if not more. He longed for a reunion where they could catch up on their lives and restart a simple friendship as if nothing had happened, as if she hadn't chosen to leave his life and pretend not to know him.

Vettel decided to turn over and see what was crowding him to the edge of the bed. He found himself staring into a pair of blue eyes, definitely not the green ones he'd dreamed of. This girl had brown hair instead of blonde, though her fair skin matched that of the woman who, apparently, had shared his bed last night.

Suddenly, hazy memories from a few hours earlier started to surface. A few beers at a local pub to escape the blurred memory of Di had led to meeting this charming young woman with a bright smile.

He couldn't piece together how they'd ended up here, but her persistence, his invitation for her to come to his hotel, and possibly a taxi ride he paid for, were all part of his attempt to escape reality.

This had become his routine since realizing his ex-girlfriend wasn't coming back into his life. He didn't like this version of himself, and despite efforts to find a stable partner, fleeting kindness and temporary refuge had been his best attempts to forget Diana Wagner, who always managed to slip into his thoughts when least expected.

Seb quickly got out of bed, and without thinking twice, he headed for the shower, trying to let the warm water wash away the events of the previous night. Closing his eyes, he let himself drift, hoping to organize his thoughts and find a way out of the problem he had created. But it was impossible.

Exiting the shower faster than he'd have liked, the German returned to the room with just a towel wrapped around his waist, leaving his torso exposed, only to find the last person he wanted to see at that moment.

The brunette was stretching in bed, dawdling as though reluctant to leave.

"Would you mind leaving?" he asked.

His rhetorical question made her look at him in surprise, her eyes still sleepy.

"Why, Seb? Can't we spend the day together? I could go with you to the paddock and we could repeat what we did last night in your room... or whatever you call it," she suggested with a playful smile. "You know as well as I do that it would be fun."

A knot formed in his stomach. It wasn't that he hadn't enjoyed her company or was forbidden from doing so, but knowing who was turning thirty today, and that this exact invitation was something he used to do with Diana...

"I don't think it's a good idea..."

Damn, he didn't remember her name.

"Alessia."

"That's it, Alessia," Sebastian confirmed. "You know how these things are and what it could mean if we're seen together. We could meet another day as... friends."

Neither his response nor hers matched what the other expected. Hearing her name triggered a memory of the brief introduction she'd given him the night before: a musician just starting out, and a member of a successful Italian orchestra.

An Italian version of Di and, unfortunately for him, and perhaps the blonde, a successful one.

"The way you moaned my name last night so many times isn't exactly what friends do. You made me feel special last night. A lot, in fact."

"I'm really sorry, Alessia, but that wasn't what I meant," he clarified, cheeks flushing slightly at her words. "I hope you enjoyed what we did, but it's time for you to get dressed and head back to your hotel or wherever you're staying. I have to get to work," he added, fighting against her evident charms.

After several more attempts to persuade him, the girl finally resigned herself and reluctantly accepted his suggestion. He felt uncomfortable as she tossed aside the sheets and began gathering her clothes, entirely unclothed. He felt even worse as he noticed her slow, deliberate movements, as though she was prolonging the inevitable farewell and trying to tempt him.

He bit his lip and refrained from saying anything when she asked for help to zip her dress. Though Seb could've refused, he didn't want to come across as rude, especially given that their time together had made him feel, just for a moment, like he had with his ex-girlfriend.

Once they were finished, Alessia approached him with determination. Before he could react, her lips sought his with clear intent. Instinctively, he turned his face, causing her kiss to land on his cheek.

"Alessia..."

What could he say in a moment like this? Did she deserve the disappointment he was about to cause her, even though they'd only shared one wild night, like so many others he'd had since Diana?

"I'm sorry," she murmured, quickly glancing away. "I thought... you know, that we could have something more than just a one-night stand."

Seb's heart sank at her words, and, as he had foreseen because it always happened in these situations. Guilt overwhelmed him.

He knew he had been unfair to her by letting this happen, allowing her to think there could be more between them, that the issue lay with her, when the truth was he hadn't moved past the love of his life in nearly five years of no contact.

"Alessia, you're an incredible person," Vettel started, choosing his words carefully, trying not to hurt her more. "But right now, all I want to focus on is my work and... on myself. It wouldn't be fair to involve you in all this, only for you to end up hurt."

"I understand," the musician said softly, nodding with a sadness that, though expected, still surprised him. "Thank you for letting me spend this night with you, Sebastian."

A mixture of relief and remorse surged through the driver as he watched her leave, not even glancing back.

After waiting long enough to be certain he wouldn't cross paths with her again, he made his way down to the hotel lobby, still weighed down by guilt. He tried to shake it off, but the moment he saw Britta standing by the entrance, arms crossed, her expression stern and angry, he knew it wouldn't be easy.

"Sebastian, again?" she asked, full of frustration. 

"Yes, and I'm not going to apologize for something I don't regret," he replied sincerely, knowing there was no way to avoid the upcoming conversation. 

"Are you going to keep playing this game much longer?" Britta reproached, quickening her pace to avoid drawing attention. "You've gone longer than I'd like to admit without settling down."

"I will when I get tired of sleeping with girls I don't know, I suppose. Having sex is good for health, you know? Be thankful I don't cause you many problems after these nights," he replied with a smirk.

Britta sighed, visibly losing the little patience she had left.

"I know you didn't ask for my opinion, but I think what might make you tired of this routine of sleeping with strangers almost every Grand Prix weekend would be having some kind of interaction with Diana."

The mention of Diana's name stirred up a flood of emotions Seb had tried to bury for years, suddenly hitting him with full force.

"You know I can't do that. It's impossible. I've tried, but she doesn't want to cooperate."

"You should, at least, try once more. I know there's nothing, nor anyone, who can change her mind," Britta said, and it was true: Diana was the most stubborn person he'd ever met, for better or worse. "But I also know that if you keep avoiding your feelings and don't try to forgive yourself, you'll never find the peace you're not only wishing for but deserving of."

"I know, Britta, but..."

"But what, Sebastian?"

"Have you ever heard of the invisible string theory?"

She raised an eyebrow, surprised by the sudden change of subject and likely at being interrupted mid-sentence. Slowing her pace, for the first time that morning, the PR looked at him with a calm, understanding expression.

"Yes, I've heard something about that," she said, after what felt like an eternity. "What does that have to do with getting over your ex-girlfriend?"

"Well, everything, really," the driver replied. "Di and I "dated", if you can even call it that, for ten days during Christmas of '99. She was eleven, and I was twelve. I was a bit stupid because I ended up breaking up with her when I fell for a classmate who'd just moved to Heppenheim and who eventually started dating my cousin."

"But..."

"Then Di and I kept being friends," he continued, not letting her interrupt, "and it took us six years until she told me she loved me. I didn't want to admit my feelings and thought ignoring her for four months was the best way to deal with it, not even offering my condolences after her grandmother's death. And yet, in the end, I asked her to go out with me."

Britta sighed, perhaps tired of hearing the story yet again, a story he never tired of telling, because sometimes reality was stranger than fiction.

"I'm going to tell you what I've always told you since Di left, and I don't care if you don't want to hear it: you're still clinging to the hope that things will go back to how they were, even though you know it's not possible," Roeske said firmly. "Even if you ran into her and had a deep conversation, your lives have changed. Yours has, and I'm sure hers has too."

"I mentioned the invisible string theory because I feel there's something else. I feel there's an unknown tie between us, and... that the third time's the final one," he confessed.

Vettel's words seemed to catch her off guard. Britta slowed her pace and passed her accreditation to enter the paddock much more slowly than usual, visibly affected by his revelation.

Maybe Britta was right. Maybe he was holding on too tightly to the hope that everything could go back to how it was. But Seb really couldn't shake the dreams he'd been having about Di lately. After months without any, she'd slipped back into his nights, almost as though she'd never left, always close yet out of reach.

The last time he'd felt this way it ended with him watching her from afar, playing with a little girl, likely someone she was babysitting for extra cash. He hadn't dared approach; she seemed happy, genuinely so, and he didn't want to disrupt that.

"I'd like to keep talking about this," Britta's change in tone broke his thoughts, "but I need you to stop thinking about Diana, at least for a few hours, and focus on today. We have a lot to get through."

"Then enlighten me, master."

"First, you have a team meeting to discuss strategies for practice and ideas for tomorrow's qualifying," she explained, flipping open her planner to go over the day's schedule. "Then you've got an interview with SkySports... Nico Rosberg, I think, and maybe a chat about a potential brand collaboration, though I'll confirm that one."

"What time is the meeting with the engineers?"

"Around nine-thirty, but..."

Sebastian yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth, as Britta continued. Exhaustion from the previous night weighed on him, and he felt his eyelids drooping. He checked his phone: it was only eight-fifteen.

"Got it," he replied, pretending to have absorbed every detail. "By the way, do you mind if I head to my driver's room for a quick nap?"

"Sebastian..." Britta's arms were crossed, her gaze stern.

"I had a fantastic night," he admitted, earning an unimpressed look from her, "but I didn't get any sleep. If I want to perform well, I need at least a little rest, don't you think?"

"You have forty-five minutes, tops," she snapped. "Don't be late, or we'll have problems. Set your alarm, and make sure your phone's on in case someone calls."

It won't be Di, he thought bitterly.

"I will, don't worry."

After sharing a few more words with Britta, Seb headed off, feeling the fatigue settle in with each step. He knew he should have slept longer but had fallen into his usual habit of trying, unsuccessfully, to forget Di on her birthday.

As he walked through the pit lane, faint, distant chatter filled his ears, but he struggled to focus. All around him, people murmured excitedly, their words blending together in a low buzz. "Viral" and "song" seemed to be the day's main topics, particularly coming from Max, Daniel and Charles.

"Have you heard this song?" Verstappen asked, stopping Sebastian from walking as he recognized the opening piano chords. "It's like a pandemic, it's everywhere."

"I don't know who the girl singing is, but I must recognize she's incredibly talented," Ricciardo added.

"You don't even know if it's a girl!" Leclerc protested, playfully smacking Daniel on the arm. "What if it's a guy with a high voice?"

Sebastian chuckled at their antics, wondering if his former teammates had seen him that way back when he was their age.

Losing him was blue like i'd never known Missing him was dark gray all alone Forgetting him was like trying to know somebody you never met Cos' loving him was red

If his eyes were almost closing automatically, after hearing the chorus or whatever it was called, it felt as if Sebastian had taken an energy drink that jolted him awake.

The moment that voice, both raspy and sweet at the same time, penetrated his ear, his hair stood on end. Its familiarity was incredible... but no, it couldn't be her. It was impossible.

"God damn, who can play the piano while singing?"

"I have two questions," Daniel blurted out, ignoring Charles' words. "The first one is who the hell it could be, and the second is how they've gotten so much attention out of nowhere."

It's Di, who else could it be, Sebastian thought.

He tried to control the flood of thoughts racing through his mind. He knew his ex-girlfriend's voice perfectly, and the one coming from the Dutchman's phone was eerily similar to hers.

"Maybe it's a marketing strategy. At least that's what Fernando thinks," Max always had the Spaniard's name in his mouth. "What if it's a record label's plan to generate interest in an artist or a song?"

"I highly doubt it. If they wanted that, the YouTube account wouldn't be named 151206010614."

Lewis appeared next to Sebastian out of nowhere. Quickly taking off his headphones, he unplugged them from his phone, letting the song play at full volume.

"Seb, are you okay?" the Brit insisted.

"Yes, yes... I was just a bit distracted," he replied hurriedly.

Lewis didn't seem satisfied with his answer, but Seb didn't care. All he could think about was reaching the hospitality area and taking a short nap.

"Are you also distracted by that anonymous person?"

"I can't be distracted by someone I know nothing about except for their voice," Vettel replied, gesturing toward the three drivers still engrossed in the topic.

"I've managed to hear a bit," Lewis replied. "I think I understand music a little more than they do. I'm almost sure this has nothing to do with a record label, and that someone simply uploaded it without any expectations. And look where it took them."

Sebastian looked at him, intrigued, understanding very little of what he was saying.

"Since you look confused, I'll explain a bit," Lewis continued. "It seems they uploaded this song, called Red, to YouTube," he hit play and started it again from the beginning, "It seems to be about a failed relationship, but no one knows who sings it or the story behind it."

"Does no one really know anything?" Seb asked, finding the situation strange.

Why was the voice only familiar to him? Could it be because it was Di's birthday, and everything reminded him of her more than usual?

"All we know is that the song is wonderful. I don't know who's behind it, but if they discover that girl, if it is a girl, and give her a chance, I'm sure she could achieve great things."

They decided to move further down the pit lane, exchanging a few words with others. Lewis kept talking about the song. Seb, however, couldn't stop analyzing the melody, the lyrics, the voice and, especially, the username. He sensed something hidden behind that combination of numbers, and now, the priority of getting some sleep before the first practice session had faded.

He tried all possible combinations, numbers from front to back, in pairs, trios, even quartets, but none seemed to fit. As the melody of Red resonated from Lewis's iPhone, Seb's mind kept probing, convinced that something about it was tied to Di.

Eventually, he thought he had the answer, recalling significant dates for them. If he divided the username into three segments, each with two pairs of numbers, the first one matched June 15, 2006: the day he had asked Di to be his girlfriend.

If that was true, the second pair corresponded to January 12, 2014. He wasn't dating Diana by then, but he knew her too well to be convinced that date must have been important to her if it was alongside their anniversary.

He wished he could know that meant to her.

"Are you listening to me?"

Remembering him comes in flashbacks and echoes Tell myself it's time now, gotta let go  But moving on from him is impossible When I still see it all in my head In burning red

Seb ignored Hamilton after hearing, for the first time paying extremely attention, that bridge. 

Somehow, the song described his feelings perfectly, and he didn't know why he felt that way. The truth is that he couldn't let go of Di, not when she had been, and still was, the love of his life. 

He entered WhatsApp almost automatically and went into his ex's profile. She had no profile picture, but he knew perfectly well that it was her because her contact was still saved with the same name. Seb then quickly wrote to her that he knew it was her hiding behind the song and that somehow, he knew she was talking about him. 

Vettel then saw Britta approaching them quickly. She was also engrossed in her phone, her fingers constantly moving over it. Seb didn't pay much attention to her because once he showed his desperation to Di, he moved on to conveying it to Hanna, trying to convince her to reveal that it was her best friend. 

"Seb, we need to talk," Roeske hurried to say, almost out of breath, her gaze still fixed on her device.

"Britta, I can't right now, I'm sending..."

"Sebastian Vettel, this is serious."

When Britta yanked the phone from his hands and made eye contact with her, Sebastian assumed things didn't seem to be going very well. The moment she turned her gaze to Lewis and he walked away, patting him on the shoulder, he knew.

"What's wrong with you?" Seb asked, quite angry. "Why are you acting like a neurotic who seems to have lost a million euros on a ridiculous bet?"

"I don't want you to answer anything related to that song that went viral, Red . I'm telling you, Sebastian, don't you dare answer anything about that damned song."

And again, this was another sign that happened to make him feel like he hadn't gone crazy.

"Sebastian, trust me," Britta remained firm in her expression, crossing her arms. "I don't want you to get into trouble because the song was uploaded by..."

"Di."

Sebastian Vettel saw the answer in her eyes. He knew her ,and knew she longed to answer him and, at the same time, she didn't. 

Britta Roeske knew that, but he also had the feeling she seemed to want to hide something. 

Looking at her face and considering her not only as the person he trusted the most, bust as a second mother, Seb knew his PR was definitely hiding something from him.

"It's her the one singing, right?" he insisted, but she didn't answer. "Britta, please: tell me."

Seb was desperate, and it was more than obvious. A sigh and a few seconds filled with uncertainty preceded her response:

"If you already know, why do you ask me? You know the sunshine of your life, as you still call her, much better than I do. Of course, it's Diana," she finally revealed, lifting a great weight off his shoulders and, above all, making him believe he could have faith in the future.

[unsociableraccoon]

Invicta

You have rules.

Dancing and stripping are okay. You like it, even. To feel wanted, desired. Eyes burning into your skin. The power injected straight into your veins after a particularly good set. Lap dances are also on the table, but those are rationed. You don’t hand them out to just anyone. The spark must be there. And the money, of course. A good, fat amount of money to make it worth the sweat.

This job wasn't on your what-do-you-want-to-be-when-you-grow-up list. But here you are. One hand on the pole, shiny pleasers dragging through the sticky floor, hips rolling like you were born for this.

Your boss hates your conditions, though. Calls you “picky” and says you’re “not that special”. But he likes money more than he dislikes you. And he, too, loves to bleed the pockets of the countless drunk, pathetic losers who keep crawling back week after week, thirsty for something only you can offer. 

So he gives in. 

“As long as you keep the cash flowing,” he says. 

“Yes, boss,” you smile.

Fucking is off limits. Non-negotiable.

No matter how much gold or jewelry they offer. The Rolexes or the empty promises of a summer vacation on a yacht in Mykonos. You don’t sell this kind of access to your body. Not for politicians or big shots. Not for anyone. Having their greedy (and greasy) hands on you during a dance is already enough. That’s all you’ll give.

Except there's this one regular you'd fuck for free. Any day. 

He's shady. So fucking shady that Cherry (real name Amanda, but no one calls her that in the club) runs to the dressing room every time he walks through the purple, velvet(ish) doors, begging you to take her place.

Not that he notices. Or gives a fuck, apparently. 

He comes in silent. Hoodie up. Black mask covering half of his face like COVID is still a thing. Orders a bourbon. Neat, always. Drinks it slow. Leaves.

You know that because you've been watching him. Just like any observant person would, not like a stalker or anything (at least that’s what you tell yourself).

The pitiful men crawling up on one another, throwing crumpled bills at you and whistling like cartoon characters, are just that: pitiful. Noisy flies around your head.

Him? He’s different. 

Maybe it’s the indifference. Blame it on daddy issues or whatever, but you like the chase. The win.

Funny enough, the latter is what actually kills most of your relationships after a couple of months. It’s just not interesting anymore.

As soon as you have them eating out of your hand, it’s time to move on. Thank you, next. You simply press the self-destruct button every time something feels slightly real. Which also explains why this job feels so good. It’s not you on the stage. It’s her. The empress. Or whatever you want to call it.

The act, the performance. That’s what you live for.

It’s always a game. 

One you only play to win.

The only problem is that Ghost plays it too.

Had this little piece collecting dust over here, hope you like it!

Make a raccoon happy today: likes, comments, reblogs, and follows are very much appreciated! 🦝🖤 You can also buy me a coffee.

Divider by @cafekitsune

Title inspo from this song

[cuteniarose]

Tagged by @katkastrofa for the WIP game :)

Rules: make a new post with the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! Then, tag as many people as you have WIPs

Okay, so.. I’m very much like Kat in that I don’t sort my stuff into folders (well.. I do with my art, but only after it’s been finished and posted because if I stick a WIP somewhere I can’t immediately see it I will forget about its existence. I have the object permanence of a newborn. Also, once something is labelled a WIP it is never getting done. Either I complete it in one sitting or I might as well delete it), and the thing is, I don’t name my WIPs either. For reference, my gdocs literally looks like this:

I really don’t write that much, the docs above are all either already posted or abandoned, and my notes app is full of stuff I cannot post on here so I have close to nothing to show off, but.. I suppose I can scavenge around for some scraps here and there

Feat. improvised descriptions, because as much as I would love to play russian roulette with a bunch of “untitled document” and “new note” options, no one’s gonna care for that (no one’s gonna care anyway, but you know…):

Haya fic

How to explain self harm to a five year old

Gentle and sweet hair cutting scene (that is three weeks overdue because my life fell apart and the last thing I wanted to do was write)

Cruel and painful hair cutting scene (that I completely forgot about but actually never finished, and it could stand to be rewritten, so it counts)

Angsty UtOS bit (that I’m never gonna finish because I wrote like 100 words then had a breakdown 🫠)

And I don’t have anyone to tag, so this bloodline (read as: tag game) ends with me :P

[itsallaboutbl]

Peterpan Tadsapon as Thada Reset, ep. 6

[batboopp]

I really hope all you people insisting Bruce Wayne is a mother figure to any of his children know he canonically spends 80% of his Mother’s Days lashing out + isolating himself from everyone while woefully perching in the trees above Martha’s grave. and if he’s not doing that he’s spending the other 20% thinking about how he fundamentally failed Leslie Thompkins as a person.

He’s not a ‘Mother’ because he doesn’t know what cemented motherhood is LIKE, or how to experience it in a healthy way!! Which I think is wayy more interesting to explore (especially when you take that in relation to other characters) without forgetting the actual wonderful dc moms <3

[coquelicoq]

dreams that you don't remember are so annoying. i spent the last two days completely convinced that daylight saving starts at two am tomorrow morning, wrote down "change clocks" in my planner and shit, and i was just about to do it when suddenly it occurred to me - hey don't we usually not change clocks in june? isn't it usually in march and november? what the fuck am i doing? and the only explanation is that i recently had a dream that it was going to be daylight saving and woke up and forgot the dream but the idea remained in my consciousness somehow. like what am i even supposed to do with a brain like this. which of my thoughts are for normal reasons and which are just totally made up???

[icewindandboringhorror]

Some (late) holiday photos of the boye~!

[sodapopcurtis-dx-asks]

As he plays along she laughs slightly, throwing a wink his way

“Hey, maybe I was kiddin’ about kiddin’” Cola teases, and then gives a wave (or tries her best to with the box in her hands)

“Have fun with cardboard eater over there” she nods to the kitten, “and talk to you later” she adds, then pushes the door open with her back and heads back to her van, likely to Bucks next.

Soda giggles, shaking his head and putting the kitten he took in a box by the counter. Along with the other things he's aquired for Ponyboy today...

“See ya!” He yells over to her as she ducks out. He watches for her to leave, and takes about an extra 2 minutes after her van pulls out to sit still and process.

“Shit.” He mumbles to himself, staring at the kitten and stifling a laugh. “We'll get it done, right? Doesn't even have to be in the same area...”

The kitten meows at him, and Soda sighs. It probably wasn't a judging meow, but it sure did feel like one.

Ring ring!

Fuck, the phone. Soda got up instantly, picking it up. He waited a good second just to hear if maybe there'd be some sound that came to be familiar, only to be disappointed that it wasn't what he was hoping.

Instead of Steve on the other end, it was Mark.

There's a loud cough and wheeze from the other end and some protesting from what sounds like Ponyboy. Mark is giggling, high off his ass. It pisses Soda off just to hear him.

“Hey, loser. You got a real nice boyfriend, y'know that?”

Soda's eyes go wide with confusion. “The fuck are you talking about?”

“Your boyf– ain't that what he is?” He asks to someone on the other end, some mumbling between the two, and an abrupt "oh" comes from Mark. “My bad. Not boyfriend.”

“Anyways, it's funny. He's a real nice guy when he's boozed up. Sorry–” He pauses, going quiet before coughing. He just took a hit off something. He laughs again. “Uhm, anyways.”

“I forgot what we called you for.” He looks around a bit as more mumbing comes from the other end. “Oh! Right, we wanted to– Pony wanted to talk to you.”

Ponyboy snatched up the phone from Mark, he was sobbing. Soda heard it as soon as Pony came close to the phone. “I'm real sorry, me n' Steve both.”

“Wha– you're both together? High? Right now?” Soda was in disbelief.

“Y-Yeah. He's been real bad after, uhm. Well, he didn't tell us. I-I dunno. I'm sorry, Soda. I'm real, real sorry.”

Soda stood there silently for a moment, looking around and laughing dryly. “Fuckin' hell, Ponyboy. I love you, okay? I'm just– Please, go home with Steve when you can. Where even–” Soda huffed. He was frustrated now. “Just, go home. Both of you.”

Ponyboy sniffled. “Okay, yeah. We will. I promise. I'm sorry, Soda. I'm so sorry.”

“It's okay, baby. I love you, kid. Just go home, okay? Let Mark and Steve take you home.” Soda began to move away from the phone. “I'll come and check on you for my break here in a bit, alright?”

Ponyboy wailed, he couldn't speak with how bad he was sobbing. “O-Okay.” Was the only thing he could manage.

Soda hung up the phone, and he just stood there. What the FUCK?

[seaofreverie]

This is the only album in the world I'm afraid

[friend-crow]

Maybe it's time to examine that instinct to automatically one-up or otherwise try to invalidate people who mention hardship, whether that be pain, illness, trauma, grief, etc.

Suffering isn't a zero-sum game. I assure you, there's enough to go around.

[dr-gl0rbiez]

Running on fumes and wondering what to eat