#Generation Three: Get Me Out of the Spotlight!

[pawnshopbleus]

Callback: Chapter One - 2025

Ellabs x Reader

Summary: Ellie Williams, former actress turned maid is tired of wasting her talents scrubbing floors of mansions in the Hollywood Hills. She knows she destined for greatness, but she just needs to be given another chance.

Abby Anderson, Hollywoods most in demand actress with several accolades under her belt has a duty to fulfill. She must remain at the top.

Two former best friends cross paths to fight for a role both of them need, but as their rivalry becomes even more cut throat, there is something that remains constant: their love for you.

Basically Challengers but Ellabs Hollywood AU

Authors Note: I wrote this at work so sorry if there’s any mistakes. Let me know if you’d like to be on a tag list.

ELLIE Williams was broke.

The actress was finding it hard to get a job after her agent dropped her. Apparently, no one wanted to hire some washed-up actress whose last project aired thirteen years ago. She was once on everyone’s radar, a burgeoning actress destined to be the voice of her generation. Now, she is living out of a Motel 6 on the Hollywood Walk of Fame while keeping houses in the Hollywood Hills nice and tidy. One of those houses could have been hers if she was given another chance.

Ellie walks out onto the busy street littered with tourists and locals taking pictures with the stars. Their bodies and hands splayed out on the ground covered in remnants of bodily fluids released by the city's unhoused residents. They didn’t care though. This was Los Angeles, the city of broken dreams and piss stained streets. The palm trees were nice though. They offered a nice shady spot to contemplate if all the sacrifices you made to follow your dreams were worth it in the end.

No one recognizes her anymore, but she didn’t blame them. She was out of the spotlight for so long that even if her face was vaguely familiar, they’d simply steal a glance and go about their day. When she was at the height of her stardom, being recognized in public was annoying and an inconvenience, but now, when she’s been reduced to nothing more than a maid, she misses the people who swarmed her asking for pictures and autographs. It made her feel important, and wanted.

The cool air conditioning welcomes Ellie as she steps into the threshold of the liquor store on the corner of Hollywood and Wilcox. It’s a hot day out, but when you’ve been living in California for a few years, you get used to the sweat covering your forehead and the back of your neck. She can feel her shoulders start to burn and the musk clinging to her white tank top, but sunscreen was too expensive and she was out of detergent.

She traverses the aisles in search of the things she needs most. Bud Light, Doritos, and a pack of Swisher Sweets. She wasn’t a big cigar fan, but weed cost too much, and when you’re on a tight budget, you don’t really get to have a preference.

The cashier rings her up and her total comes out to $45. She scoffs. Last week she came for the exact same items and it all came out to $35.20. Either inflation was at an all time high or this cashier hated her. This, though, was the cheapest place in the area, so she swipes her card. Five hours of work wasted on a total of three items.

“Declined,” the cashier says, his voice laced with anything but sympathy.

Ellie furrows her brows. Last time she checked her account she had exactly $45. She should still have $45. She didn’t pay for any subscriptions, her phone was from one of those free phone stands, and she already paid her hotel room off for another month.

She hastily opens the banking app on her phone, fingers dancing across the screen. Fuck. Fuck. When Ellie meant she didn’t have any subscriptions, she meant she didn’t pay for them. She always cancelled the free trials before they could ever charge her account, but sometimes things just slipped her mind. Like the fact that her free HBO Max trial ended yesterday and she was charged $9.99. Nine dollars and ninety nine cents might not seem like a lot, but for someone who makes that amount for an hour's work, that’s huge.

The TV screen above the cashier's head plays the dreaded sound of the theme song for the entertainment segment of the nightly news. For years she hoped that she would see something about herself displayed on the screen: gossip, drama, anything, but her hopes died every time she saw her on screen.

Abby Anderson was Ellie’s worst enemy. She had everything Ellie knew she deserved. The house, the cars, and you. They were all once within Ellie’s reach, but Abby was selfish. Going behind her back to ruin Ellie’s life.

The TV screen, while rickety and outdated, displays several photos of a wedding. You look beautiful as always, dressed in a custom white Vivienne Westwood gown. You were nothing like the brides in wedding dress catalogues. You were extraordinary, otherworldly. There wasn’t a word in the English language that accurately described how much you meant to Ellie, but none of that mattered now. It was already too late. You took Abby’s last name and wore her ring on your finger. You were forever bound to someone that leached off of your talents and disguised it as “inspiration.”

Ellie might be an unsuccessful actress and only have $30 to her name, but she had something she knew Abby could never have, memories of the countless nights spent unraveling you, pleasuring you. She had you first, and that was something not even money could buy.

The headline accompanying the pictures of your wedding read “Hollywood's hottest couple tie the knot in Italy.” The reporter is buzzing about how perfect the two of you look as Ellie walks out of the store empty handed.

Being a maid wasn’t cutting it. It was a fine job, and the ladies she worked with were nice, but that wasn’t her life’s purpose. She was fit to bring life to characters that only ever exist on a script page. She remembers how important she used to be. She had her own parking spot on the Universal lot for fucks sake!

She was Ellie Williams, and she wanted to make sure that people never forgot that. So, she does something an actress should never do. Something so frowned upon by industry professionals that it might get her permanently blacklisted. She calls her agent and begs to be given another chance.

[simsbyjo]

As promised, Charlotte met up with Celeste at the old chapel.

This is where Celeste mentioned, that this old chapel, is part of the Straud Estate that her family protects for decades now.

Inside the chapel there's a passageway underground that leads to this grand hall full of books - collected over the years by Celeste's ancestors.

She also mentioned that whenever she wanted to escape the world above, she'll be just right here.

[hanafubukki]

Thinking about book 7 and I am really glad that they are taking their time with it?

I know that it’s longer than the other twst books and more lore, but I think it needs that.

It’s needs the length and it needs all these events to occur.

It needs its time to spread out these events so we can not only learn about the characters but the events that influenced these characters.

Which we didn’t need before in previous books, but this one we do. Because of the situation at hand compared to previous books would not work the same way if they followed the pattern nor would it give that effect.

We need to know why certain events took place. How certain characters came to be and what influenced their relationships.

What led to these events.

And while, yes, the angst is painful and tear jerking, these moments were very much needed.

Because without learning them first hand, without seeing it, we wouldn’t be as hit as we were in the previous books. And this is the only way for us to get that same effect as previously.

We can be in their shoes now and feel the pain they went through.

It’s very different when you’re told about an event that happened versus actually seeing the characters go through it and experiencing it.

So despite the length and the pain, I like that they are taking their time and hashing it out the way they are.

The wait was definitely worth it just for that. And I know it can be frustrating, but for a dorm that was always mysterious and we had barely no info on, it is what they needed to do.

So we, the players, can get a grasp on the story and these characters really well.

And I am thankful they are taking their time with it, despite wanting everyone to be happy you know? And wanting to see that happy ending and for them to be a family again.

Because it will be all the more satisfying once we get there, once we travel through that distance, and we finally get to that ending. As we also feel their relief and happiness after such a long and hard won journey, and that’s what I’m looking forward to.

That’s feeling of happiness, relief, and affection because it was all worth this long journey we had.

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Thirty

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, strong language, time-skips, the absolute shit-show that was the first half of the 2023 season.

Notes — Amelia being McLaren's literal saviour? IKTR

2023 (Saudi Arabia — Silverstone)

The paddock in Bahrain had started to quiet down after qualifying, the desert heat finally slipping away into a cooler breeze. Amelia was walking through the paddock, steps quick and stride polished, muttering statistics under her breath and trying to burn off some extra energy before debriefs were due to begin.

“Amelia.”

She turned. Adrian stood just outside Red Bull’s motorhome, hands in his pockets, watching her with a thoughtful expression.

“Hi, Adrian,” she greeted, smiling politely at the man she’d once idolised who had become something more reminiscent of a friend over the last two years.

“Do you have a minute?” He asked.

She gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Sure.”

He gestured for them to walk a little away from the thinning crowds. “I’ve been wanting to speak with you since testing, but I figured it was better in person rather than on the phone.”

Amelia waited, quiet.

Adrian glanced toward the Red Bull garage, then back at her. “You have done something incredible,” he said. “The car — it’s… brutally efficient. Elegant, even. It’s the cleanest thing I’ve seen come out of our CFD pipeline in five years. Maybe longer.”

Amelia’s brow ticked up. “Thank you.”

He studied her for a moment, brow furrowed slightly. “So why did you leave, Amelia? You could’ve ridden that thing straight through another championship with Max. Earned the credit. The spotlight. A long, solid legacy.”

“I didn’t need to,” she said simply.

He blinked, thrown off. “Didn’t need to… win?”

“I didn’t need credit,” she clarified. “That was never the point. Max knows that this years car is ours — mine and his, in a way. You know, too. That’s enough for me.”

“You designed one of the most dominant aero concepts I’ve seen in a decade,” Adrian said, still incredulous. “And walked away before it even hit the track?”

Amelia nodded. Shrugged. “I didn't build the car for glory. I built it because I knew what it could be. And then I gave my concepts to you, so that you would make them happen, and you did.” She pursed her lips. “Max didn’t need me anymore. He knows how to handle a championship. He’s done it twice, now.”

“And McLaren does need you?” Adrian pressed.

“Yes,” she said. Smiled. “They do. Oscar too.”

Adrian looked at her like he was trying to understand a language he didn’t speak. Slowly, he said, “You’ve created a car that will be remembered for generations.”

“I know.”

“And you don’t care that you won’t get the credit?”

“No,” she said. “Doesn’t change what I did.”

There was a long silence, the dusk settling over them in a soft hush.

Adrian let out a slow breath, almost reverent. “I admire it, you know. Even if I don’t understand it.”

Amelia gave him the faintest smirk. “That’s okay. I’m not an easy person to understand.”

“No,” Adrian agreed. “But you’re very, very good.” He paused. “God, sometimes, Amelia, I wonder if maybe you’re better than me.”

“I might be. One day,” she said, and turned to go.

—

The debrief room was quiet, too quiet.

Oscar sat back in his chair, legs outstretched, eyes on the floor. His race suit was half-unzipped, his undershirt sweat-darkened at the collar. Amelia sat at the head of the small conference table, her iPad flat in front of her, her stylus spinning slowly between her fingers.

“Well,” Oscar said dryly. “That was shit.”

Amelia’s lips twitched. “You’re not wrong.”

He tilted his head. “Can I ask something?”

“Of course you can.” She frowned at him.

Oscar looked over at her, brow creased faintly. “You knew the car wasn’t going to be good this year. You warned me. So why did you still come back to McLaren?”

Amelia leaned back in her chair, thought about it, then shrugged. “Well, you were a big part of it.”

Oscar blinked at her.

“You needed somebody who was able to make the most of a bad situation,” she said. “Not someone who’d write it off before the lights went out. You’re better than the car right now. But the car won’t stay this way forever; I promise you that.”

Oscar was quiet for a moment. “Right. Thanks,” he said eventually, voice low.

“Don’t get sentimental,” Amelia said, flicking a button on her iPad. “We’re both going to be angry for a while, at least until I can fix this.”

He nodded, some of the stiffness leaving his shoulders. “Fine by me.”

She tapped through to the race data, then looked up. “Okay. So. Let’s talk lap one.”

Oscar squinted. “What was wrong with lap one?”

“You braked late into Turn 10. Just like you did in qualifying.”

“Maybe the corner needs to come sooner,” he muttered, deadpan.

Amelia rolled her eyes. “Maybe you just need more time in the sim.”

Oscar made a face. “If I spend any more time in it than you already make me do, I might merge with the chair.”

They dove into the telemetry together then — back and forth, sharp and focused, their language slowly becoming shorthand. She pointed out throttle traces, he challenged her on strategy calls. She fired back with sector deltas, he offered precise corner feedback.

By the time they were done, an hour had passed.

Oscar leaned back, drained but calmer. “You’re intense.”

“Yeah,” Amelia said, unapologetically. “I’m also right, most of the time.”

He nodded. “Yeah. You are.”

She packed up her iPad, stood, and gestured toward the door. “Come on, ducky,” she said. “My husband is probably pacing somewhere, lamenting about how shit his car is. We need to stop him before he spirals.”

Oscar made a face as he got to his feet. “I don’t like being ducky.”

Amelia shrugged, unconcerned. “Too bad. You are.”

He sighed. “Why can’t I just be Oscar?”

“You can,” she said simply. “But you’re ducky too. Both can be true.”

Oscar blinked at her, clearly expecting more of an explanation. Amelia paused in the doorway, tilting her head like she was debating whether to explain. Then she did — bluntly, honestly, in her Amelia way. “Nicknames are… structure,” she said. “They help me sort people. Feelings. Connections. If I nickname you, it means I’ve decided I trust you. It’s like… mental shorthand. Emotional filing.”

Oscar’s brow furrowed. “Like… categories?”

“Exactly,” she said, eyes lighting up slightly. “It’s not random. It means something. I call you ducky because you’re calm on the surface and all chaos underneath, and also because you look like someone who would fall asleep in a bathtub. And because I like you. You’ve earned it.”

He stared at her. “I… don’t know what to do with that.”

“You don’t have to do anything with it,” she said, already halfway down the hall. “Just know that it means I’ve put you in the ‘safe’ column.”

Oscar followed, a little dazed. “That’s a lot to attach to a duck.”

Amelia smiled to herself. “Also, my husband kept saying that I imprinted on you like a mother duck, so…”

They rounded the corner and found said husband, Lando, in the corridor, muttering to himself with a piece of tyre compound data pulled up on his phone.

Oscar pointed wordlessly.

Amelia just sighed. “See? Spiralling. I told you.” She stepped forward, nudged the phone down, and gently took her husband’s hand. “Hey,” she said. “You did well with what you had.”

Lando looked between the two of them, Amelia’s steady face, Oscar’s unreadable one, and let out a breath that was mostly a laugh. “We’re going to be fucking shit this year, aren’t we?” He asked.

Amelia sighed. “I hope not. I’m already trying to get my hands on the car, but the cost cap is preventing me from making any significant changes this early…”

Lando pouted at his wife.

“Pizza?” Oscar asked.

Amelia’s head snapped around in his direction. “Yes!”

Lando was still pouting when he said, “Sure. Yeah. Whatever. Depression pizza. Yay!”

—

The glass walls of the office reflected the glow of early evening. Outside, the MTC lake was still, pale with late-winter. Inside, Amelia sat at the head of the table with her knees drawn up in the chair, a pink, battered notebook open in front of her.

Andrea leaned in to look closer. “You did this all by hand?”

Amelia didn’t look up. “I think better with a pen and paper.”

Her dad, seated opposite her, turned a few pages. His brows rose as he scanned carefully drawn schematics, annotated calculations, wind tunnel projections, notes in tiny, slanted handwriting. Everything from ride height tweaks to theoretical suspension layouts to predicted competitor development trends.

“This is a full concept,” Andrea said, quietly impressed. “This is… years worth of work.”

“Just a few weeks,” Amelia said. “That’s not just theory in there, though. That’s a car.”

Zak sat back, flipping to the final page. It was labelled, in block capitals, with an underlined title.

PROJECT: MCL38-AN

Underneath, in her neat writing.

It’ll win if you trust it.

He looked up. “This will put us back on top?”

“I know it will,” Amelia said, finally meeting their eyes. “Everything I’ve learned — from Red Bull, from Max, from every telemetry graph and CFD failure and stupid porpoising issue in the last two years — I used it all. And not just to make something clever. To make something fast. Reliable. Adaptable.”

Andrea gently closed the notebook. “This is championship-level ambition.”

“It’s more than ambition,” Amelia said. “It’s your 2024 car. The notebook is yours now.”

Her dad raised his eyebrows. “You don’t want to keep it?”

She shrugged. “No. I won’t need it, but you will. I’ve already made a million copies, but I’d like you to keep the original.”

Her dad looked at her and reached for the notebook again with something like reverence. “We’re going to need to start assembling a team around this immediately.” He said.

“I already started,” she told him. “Tom in aero’s got preliminary CFD models. Jordan’s been mocking up rear suspension geometry in CAD for two weeks.”

Andrea laughed softly, almost disbelieving. “You went over our heads?”

“I’m not very good at leaving things to chance,” she said. “And our car this year is awful. So bad. I needed to start making something happen, even if most of it will have to wait until next year.”

Her dad stood and leaned across the table, hand on the notebook. “Honey, this is…”

“Yours. Ours.” She said.

Andrea let out a breath.

Her dad stared at her for a beat, and then he was beaming.

—

It was nearly midnight, and the MTC was mostly dark — save for the soft hum of light in the engineering wing. Amelia sat on the floor of her office, legs crossed, iPad glowing in her lap.

Oscar lay stretched out on the rug in front of her, still in his training kit, a protein shake abandoned next to him. Lando was in her desk chair, spinning gently, half-asleep and barefoot.

“This is the weirdest sleepover I’ve ever been to,” Oscar muttered.

“You say that every time you hang out with us,” Lando replied, yawning.

“I mean it every time.” Oscar said.

Amelia didn’t look up. “Shut up. I’m trying to change the trajectory of your entire careers right now.”

That got their attention.

Lando leaned forward. “What are you doing, baby?”

Amelia turned the iPad so they could both see the screen. Her voice was calm, even, but there was a thread of something bright underneath it. “This is going to be your 2024 car.”

Oscar blinked. “You—what?”

She tapped through a few screens: 3D renders, rear suspension models, aero flow maps. “Codename MCL38-AN. I told you both that I already had it planned out, didn’t I?”

Oscar sat up straighter. “You really think that’ll put us at the front of the grid?”

“Yes,” she said. “You’re driving scrap metal right now, I won’t lie. It’s holding you both back. But this car—” she tapped the image again “—this is what we’re building toward. This is the one. The team just needs time. I need time.”

Oscar was staring at the iPad, wide eyed. “You’re sure.”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything. All I need is for you to keep showing up. To keep believing. We’re not going to be at the back of the grid forever.”

Lando stood, walked over, and looked down at the designs for a long moment. “It’s beautiful,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

“Why are you showing us now?”

“Because,” she said, glancing between them, “I can’t ask you to keep suffering through this season unless you have a reason. A future. This is your future. You’ll win races in this car.”

Oscar laughed, breathless and stunned. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” Amelia said, finally smiling. “Holy shit.”

Lando slid down onto the floor beside her, shoulder brushing hers. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Us. This team. This sport.”

“Thanks,” she said.

Oscar pointed at the iPad again. “Can I name it?”

“No.” She said.

“Can I drive it now?” He asked.

“It doesn’t exist yet.” She told him.

“Then can I keep being your ducky?”

She looked at him, bemused. “You want to be ducky now?”

“I’m reconsidering my argument,” he muttered. “Out of loyalty…”

Lando was grinning. “We’re going to win championships, aren’t we?”

Amelia nodded. Smiled at her husband. Kissed him. “Yes. We are.”

—

They got back to Monaco well past midnight, Lando wordless beside her in the car. The race had been brutal. Another pointless race. Another weekend where the car hadn’t performed, and the looped back data had made her want to throw her laptop into the Red Sea.

But home was home.

Amelia dropped her bags in the entryway, kicked off her trainers, and walked straight to the kitchen, wordlessly opening the fridge. She fished out a can of Diet Coke and pressed it to her forehead.

Behind her, Lando wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder.

"You gonna fire me?” He asked quietly.

She laughed despite the burning itch under her skin. “No. You did your best.”

“Yeah.” He exhaled against her neck.

They stood like that for a beat. Amelia breathed in the scent of his hoodie and let the familiar weight of him soothe the static in her chest. He was solid. Warm. Hers.

Finally, she turned around and kissed his jaw. “It’ll get better.”

Lando nodded. “Good. Because I’m getting real tired of seeing you more frustrated than smug.”

She cracked a smile. “I’m always smug.”

“There she is.”

—

Amelia didn’t cook often, but when she did, it was loud, chaotic, and always somewhat efficient.

Oscar sat at the breakfast bar, watching her with mild horror as she chopped onions at a blinding speed.

“You’re a very violent chef,” he observed.

“The quicker it’s done, the better,” she said. “Now pass me the basil, ducky.”

He handed it over. “Still don’t particularly like being called that.”

“Don’t care.” She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Do you want red or white wine?”

—

The living room was littered with discarded Uno cards, an empty pizza box, and the remains of someone’s sprite can that Max Fewtrell had been using as a drum for the last ten minutes.

“You are cheating,” Pietra said flatly, accusing Lando with a pointed look.

“I’m just playing strategically.”

Amelia, half-asleep on the sofa with her feet in Lando’s lap, mumbled, “Strategically being a little shit, yeah.”

“Don’t hate the player,” Lando shot back, tugging her ankle gently. “Hate the wife.”

“You’ll sleep on the couch for that,” she muttered, eyes still closed.

Max Verstappen arrived late, as usual. Amelia opened one eye when he collapsed beside her on the sofa and started picking at the leftover cold garlic bread.

“Missed you.” She told him sleepily.

“Missed you too, zusje.” He said.

She leaned her head briefly against his shoulder.

—

The Spanish GP had been marginally better than the ones that’d come before. Still not good. But better.

Back at the airport, Oscar sat cross-legged on the floor, headphones in, while Amelia reviewed strategy notes and Lando bought three Snickers and two iced teas.

Lando dropped next to her with a huff, his arm winding around her waist, hand flexing before squeezing her hip. “I’m considering sabotage.”

“Of?”

“The car. I’m gonna drive it into a lake or something.”

Oscar pulled one headphone off. “Wouldn’t it sink?”

Lando stared at him. “That’s your concern?”

“Hydrodynamics are important.” Oscar smirked.

Amelia sighed. “You’re both ridiculous.”

Lando grinned. “You love it.”

She didn’t reply, just leaned closer, then passed him a highlighter. “Help me mark the wind tunnel data.”

—

They’d flown into Spielberg a little early to prep and decompress. Amelia had her notes. Lando had brought five pairs of sunglasses and absolutely no socks. Oscar was, predictably, already on his fifth stretch of the legs down the paddock.

The three of them walked the track together at sunset, shoes crunching against the gravel.

“You know,” Amelia said, glancing between the two drivers, “if either of you crashes this weekend, I won’t be happy.”

“Would you leave me for dead?” Oscar asked, deadpan.

“Yes.” She lied.

“She wouldn’t,” Lando said.

Amelia looked ahead, wind tugging at her hair, then back at the boys; her husband and her ducky.

This job was hell. The car was beyond flawed. The season wasn’t what they’d hoped.

But this, this team, this family, this effort, felt like something worth holding onto.

—

Silverstone came, and there was a shift.

It wasn’t everything. But it was something.

Amelia stood just outside the McLaren garage, arms crossed over her chest, watching the mechanics finish prepping the car for FP1.

The upgraded floor. The reshaped side-pods. The altered rear suspension geometry she’d argued over for weeks.

It was all here. On track. Real.

It wasn’t perfect — of course it wasn’t. The budget cap had demanded compromises. She hadn’t been able to implement the full package she’d thrown together back in March. That version of the MCL60 was meaner, leaner, cleverer — a little monster of a thing. A title fighter.

But this was the one they could afford. And she’d made it the best it could be.

Oscar stepped beside her, helmet tucked under his arm, race suit halfway unzipped. “Doesn’t look like a paper towel on wheels anymore.”

She hummed. “No. More like... a reinforced napkin. Maybe a placemat.”

He gave her a sideways glance. “How confident are you?”

She exhaled slowly. “Seventy percent we’re in the points. Fifty percent one of you surprises me. Zero percent we DNF. I’ve triple-checked the aero modelling. You’re safe.”

He nodded, quiet for a moment. Then, “I know it’s not what you wanted.”

“No,” she said honestly. “It’s not. But it’s what we’ve got. And it’s good enough to fight for points rather than the chequered flag.”

Oscar squeezed her shoulder. Tight. “I trust you.”

There was something boyish in the way he said it. Uncomplicated. She smiled and nudged him toward the car. “Go, ducky.”

“Still don’t like that.”

“Don’t care.”

—

By Sunday, the paddock was electric.

The buzz was real. The performance gains were visible. And people were talking.

After qualifying, someone from Sky asked Lando if he felt like McLaren were back in the fight for ‘best of the rest’.

He didn’t even hesitate. “Yes. We’ve got Amelia Norris to thank for that.”

That one made her throat pinch.

Later, back in the garage, she caught Andrea’s eye as he leaned over the pit wall screens. He grinned, then gave her a thumbs-up.

Even her dad, who’d spent the last several months managing expectations to sponsors and shareholders, gave her a bear hug that nearly knocked her clipboard out of her hands.

“You’ve made believers out of us again, kiddo,” he said into her ear. “They’re already asking about 2024.”

Amelia stepped back and smiled tightly. “Let us get through this race first.”

—

Lando was flying. Oscar was right on his gearbox. And Amelia was vibrating in her seat, headset digging into her ears.

The car wasn’t just competitive; it was racy. Bold. Alive.

She and Will traded glances as they watched Lando chase down Lewis.

“This is all you,” Will said.

She didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Her heart was somewhere near her throat.

Oscar’s voice crackled in her ear. “Is this what driving a real car feels like?”

Amelia couldn’t help it, she laughed. “Keep it clean, ducky. Still a few laps to go.”

“Is my wife crying tears of joy right now?” Lando asked over his radio. “I bet she is.”

“She is.” Will said.

“Liar.” Amelia laughed, and okay, maybe she did sound a bit choked up.

—

The crowd was still roaring and Amelia was frozen beside the pit wall, headset hair sticking out from under her cap, breathing like she’d just done the full length of the race herself.

It wasn’t a win.

But it was enough.

Lando ran up behind her and flung his arms around her shoulders, lifting her slightly off the ground as she shrieked.

“Put me down, you sweaty idiot—!”

“We did it!”

“You did it.”

“No,” Lando said, spinning her once before finally setting her down. “You did.”

He kissed her, quick and messy, and the cameras were definitely watching, but she didn’t care. She’d earned this moment.

Oscar wandered over and offered her a half-hearted fist bump.

“Better than a placemat,” he grinned lopsidedly.

“Almost a dinner plate,” she agreed.

He laughed, and then he took her to watch the podium.

Max on top. Lewis next. And then her Lando.

Her husband.

Beaming right at her.

She made Oscar hug her. Needed the deep-pressure to cut through the overwhelming joy coursing through her veins. Somebody took a picture and posted it on Twitter with the tag ‘Best racer/engineer duo EVER’.

—

Amelia was sitting cross-legged on their hotel bed, notebook open in her lap, notes scribbled in every margin.

Lando walked out of the shower, towel around his waist, hair damp.

“You’re still working?”

She looked up. “I’m trying to figure out how to sneak in another mini upgrade before Qatar.”

Lando crossed the room and kissed the top of her head. “You’re mad, you know.”

Amelia frowned. “I’m not.”

He slid into bed beside her. “C’mere. Work can wait till tomorrow.”

She paused, then closed the notebook and handed it to him. “Don’t lose it,” she warned. “That’s the future in your hands.”

He looked at the cover, scuffed, dented, covered in papaya and coffee stains, and held it like it was a sacred text.

“We’re going to have podium celebration sex now.” She told him. “I bought chequered flag lingerie.”

His eyes went wide. “Oh—Holy shit. You did?”

She smiled. 

NEXT CHAPTER

[onsomenewsht]

I've got peace and I've got love

About a surprise for your birthday even if you hate your birthday

》 Alexia Putellas x Reader

》 words count: +1k

》 for anyone who needs to feel celebrated

Birthdays are a complicated matter.

You don’t hate them, no one really does.

People should be loved loudly, their mere presence on Earth should be reason enough to celebrate them.

You care about your family and your friends, baking cakes and inflating balloons and dressing up for a themed party are not a problem - you’re the first one to arrive and the last to leave.

Celebrating your birthday though? Hell, no.

For most, it doesn’t make sense.

A day in a whole year when anyone is entitled to be under the biggest spotlight, getting gifts and all the wanted attention. Yet, you’d rather hide in the remotest corner of the planet than hear someone sing “happy birthday” to you.

Despite the insistence and the repeated attempts over the years, your mother has finally accepted that you don’t want to make a big deal out of it. Your best friend has accepted that you’ll avoid a surprise party like the plague. Everyone who knows you, knows it.

Alexia included.

At least she knows now, after last year.

The two of you got together just shy of three months before your birthday. Bless her good heart, she thought a surprise ambush might be appreciated.

She’s not going to make the same mistake twice in a row, but she wants to do something.

“You told me she hates birthdays”, Alba points out, a bit confused, sipping her coffee as if her sister isn’t in the middle of an inconclusive rant.

“She hates her own, not birthdays in general”

“I still think you should just buy her a nice present, wish her a happy birthday and move on like she asked you to do”

“It seems so, I don’t know, incomplete?”, the blonde tries to explain, “How do I make sure I show how much I appreciate her if I can’t celebrate her?”

“You better celebrate her every day, not just on the birthday–”

“I do it, idiot!”

Alexia is quick in her jab, but thankfully the younger girl is used to her attitude by now.

Cup saved from any spill, Alba barely has enough patience to give another, simple pearl of wisdom, “So do it like any other day, but, you know, on her birthday”

It’s good advice, even if she’d never admit it.

Alexia spends most of her day off plotting, her free time during the week before your birthday completely taken over by careful planning and prep.

You can tell immediately that something is off, but you let it slide because she’s cute when she’s on a mission, and you don’t really want to spoil her fun.

At the stroke of midnight, like a mischievous fairy godmother, your best friend calls you to sing a personalized rendition of “Die, Die My Darling” like every year since you’re sixteen and think you’re oh-so-funny.

Your mother sends a present from the entire family, along with a picture of a cake you’re not going to eat but you’re glad they’ll enjoy in your name. Alexia’s mother and sister send flowers, and you have to reassure your girlfriend that it’s a genuinely appreciated sentiment.

Said girlfriend kisses you for every year spent on this Earth and then moves on, as if nothing happened. As if nothing is going to happen.

It’s suspicious, really suspicious.

The day passes by without any major incident.

At work just a few colleagues know it’s your birthday, they politely hand you a card with bad jokes written all over it. You mindlessly send the same three reactions at every text message, nonetheless appreciating everyone who remembered and took the time to wish you a happy birthday. A kind waitress adds a slice of dessert as you pick up take-out at your favourite Mexican place, probably prompted by Alexia when she ordered over the phone and sent you to the restaurant.

Guard down, you open the door to your girlfriend’s apartment, still not connecting the dots.

Thank the goddesses and gods above for that nice waitress, because what you find inside is definitely a first and the food wouldn’t have survived the surprise if not for the well-secured package.

Soft music - that, to your shame, you only realise too late is your favorite record - resonates through the room, which is filled with dozens of floating balloons reaching the ceiling.

You take a few tentative steps inside, noticing pictures carefully tied to each string with numbers scribbled on the corners.

Snaps of the past year, memories so simple in their significance you sometimes fail to give a good measure of. Dinners out with friends, an unflattering portrait of an early morning during the summer, the first time holding your niece. You linger over a photo of you and Alexia talking on Mapi’s couch, neither of you looking at the camera, as it’s clear you had eyes only for each other.

“I’ve never seen this one”, you whisper, emotion thick in your voice.

Your girlfriend is leaning on the further wall of the entrance, a confident stance failing to hide a note of nervousness. The way her hands are buried in the pocket of old sweatpants and her eyes are studying every single macro-expression shifting on your face are a clear tell for you.

"Ingrid sent it to me some times ago”

“It’s beautiful”

“It is”, she agrees easily, still not daring to come closer.

Alexia’s gaze drops as soon as you notice there’s a handwritten message on the back of every photo, her cheeks flushing slightly.

You take the time to read each one attentively, smiling at her thoughtfulness and the care she put into all the moments chosen. People and occasions that hold meaning for you, no matter how big or small. You feel love in every single one.

“You put a lot of thought into this”

“I had to sacrifice a couple of good ones”, she mumbles, almost upset with herself.

The commitment to matching the number of pictures to your age it’s impressive, you have to admit.

A burst of laughter fills the entire apartment, Alexia finally meeting your gaze and taking in how moved you’re by her surprise.

The fear of overstepping had been like an annoying voice, whispering in her ear as she scribbled on the back of the photos or tried to wrap gifts without running out of patience or tape.

“Do you like it?”, her doubt creeping in her voice.

“I don’t hate it”, you joke, still eager to ease her worries, “No one has ever put this much thought or effort into– I don’t know, celebrating my birthday, I guess”

“You deserve to be celebrated”

You take the few steps to fill the gap between you two, food forgotten somewhere behind, and throw yourself into her already open arms.

“Thank you”

“I love you”

The kiss you share is a clear enough answer. Sometimes, it’s not even necessary to spell it out - action speaks louder than words, they say. She holds you for as long as you need, music still playing softly in the background.

“Is this a good moment to mention that you have to open as many presents as you have in years?”

“Alexia!”

[interact-if]

Happy New Year everyone!

I’m delighted to announce that Interact-IF is officially back in business! I (Allie @allieebobo) will be taking the reins as the new mod, and I’m very excited to get this blog up and running again!

First, a heartfelt thank-you to the original mod team for everything they’ve built. Interact-if has become such an invaluable resource and hub for interactive fiction fans and authors alike. It’s a tough act to follow, but I’ll do my best to keep the spirit of this wonderful space alive :)

A little bit more about me: I’m the author of two WIP interactive fiction games, @collegetennisoriginstory and @merrycrisis-if. Interact-if was one of the first blogs/places that I discovered almost three years ago now, and it led me to so many amazing stories, authors, and resources.

When I saw that the blog was going into archive mode, with a call for a new generation of mods, I wanted to do my best to help out. I reached out to the original mod team and worked out a gameplan for the future of Interact-if, which I’d like to share with all of you today.

P.S. If you would like to join me, I’d love to have you on the team! Scroll down to the section on ‘open call for mods’.

Without further ado, here’s the plan!

My goal is to focus on retaining the aspects that made Interact-IF so special: spotlighting diverse authors, and creating a warm, inclusive space to talk about and share wonderful games.

🟢 Active:

Game Updates & Intros: If you’re an author with a new game or demo update, or if you’re organizing a game jam or event you’d like to share with the community, simply tag @interact-if in your posts, and I’ll reblog them. It would also be helpful if you added tags stating the IF's genre (e.g. horror, romance), has a demo/no demo.

Themed Author Features: I’ll continue the tradition of spotlighting authors and games based on monthly themes (e.g. Pride Month, Disability Month). These interviews are such a great way of celebrating diversity and inclusivity in the IF community, and I’d love to keep these going! Stay tuned for a detailed post on this soon!

Community Spotlight: Once every quarter, I’ll also do a call for reader recs around certain categories/themes (e.g. Fave RO, Fave Worldbuilding/setting, Fave plot-twist etc.) and compile these recommendations to share. Think of it as a bulletin of crowdsourced faves and a way of sharing a little note about an IF you love!

🟡 Remain open/active, but not modded:

Game directory: The Interact-IF repository of games (excel) will remain open for authors to update/list their games and/or readers to discover their next read. (Feel free to continue to update/populate the repository, though do note it will remain completely crowd-sourced/author-updated).

Discord: The discord will remain open and active for discussions, resource sharing, and casual chats, though again, this will not be officially modded (though I, and some of the original mods like roast, may be active from time to time)

🔴 Not active:

Asks: I will not be answering asks except for specific submissions (e.g. for author features, reader recommendations etc.). If you would like to ask for specific game recommendations, or have questions/just wanna chat, the discord channel is a great place to do just that! :)

Keeping track of events/game updates: As mentioned, I’ll rely on authors / readers to tag me in updates posts and/or flag any games with questionable content/anything that might need my attention, as I won't be able to search out update posts or do any extensive vetting.

Open call for mods:

Finally, I’d love to have some company! If you’re interested in helping out—whether with reblogs, interviews, or brainstorming new features—please reach out. Having a small team would make this space even more vibrant!

Thank you for your support, your enthusiasm, and for being part of what makes Interact-IF such a special corner of the internet! :)

If you have any suggestions or ideas on how Interact-If can be improved, feel free also to drop the blog a direct message or an ask. I look forward to getting to know all of you better. Here's to an awesome year of interactive fiction (and many more!)

[nashusglasses]

3. snakes in the wild (m)

+ based off nsfw prompts: 18.  “I don’t care if it’s wrong.” + 57. “I won’t stop until you pass out.”

note: thirsty thursday was going strong until i took the plot too seriously oops. thirsty friday it is :P these prompts are from this list. send me two prompts and a lads man for next week if u wanna!

note 2: uh oh. saw college AU zayne and caleb by @akiisks and my brain immediately rewired itself. if i say fratboy Caleb three times in front of my mirror will he appear in front of me? also, caleb is nawt a virgin in this story. i know there was some discourse around this on twt so i'm warning you now! SUMMARY.

“Can you stop treating this like I’m your teacher? And don’t call me sir.” You narrow your eyes down at him. “Then would you prefer master?”

or, fratboy!Caleb and a lesson on riding

PAIRING. caleb/reader GENRE. college AU/friends with benefits AU WARNINGS. penetrative sex, squirting, the awkwardness and insecurities of learning sex in general WORD COUNT. 2.9k

“Please don’t look at my dick like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like it’s the most disgusting thing you’ve ever seen.”

You try to school your face into something more placid, but it can’t be helped. Every time his boxers come off you’re reminded that he’s hiding a third arm under his pants. He flicks the spot where your eyebrows are furrowed. “I bet you’re into that,” you goad. 

“Into what?” Caleb adjusts where he sits at the top of his bed, teetering into what looks like the urge to hide. A habit borne from your intense staring, because it’s hard not to. You like making him nervous when you sit half-naked on his thighs. 

“You know. Condescension. You ever seen that video where the girl jumps on the guy’s dick?”

He gawks at you. “Wha–no!”

“And it’s like–there’s a hole for his dick to come out of a piece of wood so that she’s literally jumping on it.”

Caleb pinches the bridge of his nose. “You need to stop talking before I go flaccid.”

The threat hangs empty. You don’t think he could be any harder with the pre-come leaking down to his bellybutton. You almost want to praise him for letting you bear witness to such a lewd sight, but you know every compliment you give him will go straight into feeding his ego. 

“Prude,” you sneer instead. He looks like he’s about to insult you back, but you slide your shirt off as concession. He immediately goes for a fistful of your tit, and your throat swells with a grateful moan. “Mm. I’m ready for my lesson today, sir.” 

“You–can you stop treating this like I’m your teacher? And don’t call me sir.”

You narrow your eyes down at him. “Then would you prefer master?”

Caleb looks like he’s about to cry. He pinches your nipple in retaliation till you whine. “Stop trying to psychoanalyze me and come over here.”

He doesn’t wait for your initiative, grabbing you with both hands by your ass to get you level with the warmth of his cock. You blush at how much you enjoy the visual: coating the entirety of his length with the slick he’d coaxed through the most brutal fingerbang he’d ever subjected you to five minutes ago. (It’s a testament to how far you’ve come in this relationship, because you’d cried the first time he’d gotten one finger inside you. One. Damn his thick knuckles.) It’s tempting to forgo lube, but Caleb’s a stickler for good condom etiquette, and you don’t want to spend the rest of the evening with an ice pack stuck to your mound.

Which reminds you:

“Will we ever do a creampie lesson?”

You feel Caleb’s dick twitch. “I am this close to sewing your mouth shut,” he croaks. You feign ignorance, grinding down just to hear him hiss through clenched teeth. “Oh. You’re so wet.”

You think you like this version of Caleb the most. Mouthy, a little desperate – like you’re the one commanding the spotlight and he’s following your every move. For a second you convince yourself the roles are reversed. The innocence of discovering hot pleasure in the girl sitting pretty on his cock, pleading with too-wet eyes to let him make her feel good.

But you know you’ll never have the upperhand, and that’s what gets you shivering with every drag of your hips. “Do you like it?” You’re timid in the question.

Caleb forces a deeper curve, bucking up to your downstroke and your clit snags into heat in the most delicious way. “More than you realize,” he confesses. “You’re hot like this.”

Something in you sings. You know you’d never come from grinding alone, but Caleb makes you want to try. The sounds he makes are enough to get your blood rushing fast. 

“Haah–” You whine when you pick up speed to chase his pleasure, and he gives your ass a squeeze in thanks. “You r-really tried to tell me you’d go flaccid on me.”

He’s too breathless to respond to your jab. “Fuck. If you – ngh – keep going like this, I’m coming.”

In other words: lesson’s over. It’s tempting. Getting him fucked out first just to gloat about your god levels of stamina. But you came to his room today on a mission, and you refuse to let him tap out now.

You stop all movement and you almost groan from the loss. “Condom.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Caleb reaches over to his bedside stand, ripping open a pack. He juts his chin out to the bottle of lube. “Want more?”

“If you don’t want me bleeding out all over your sheets, then yes.”

You watch his ears turn red. Rolling a condom probably doesn’t rank that high on the list of sexiest moves, but damn if you aren’t mesmerized with the way Caleb fits it over his dick. “It’s not that big.”

“It’s not that big,” you mock. “This thing is a pole. God. Looking at it is making me sweat.”

“Why are you always so crass?” But he goes for the lube regardless, squeezing out the gel on his palm. He shivers when he fucks his tight fist. You almost sigh from the show, greedy for every sign of pleasure he’ll give you.

“I like watching you jerk off,” you say next.

Caleb sighs like he’s defeated. “Y-You’re such a pervert.” 

“You like it.”

“I do.” He takes his sticky hand, dragging wet heat on your aching core to get you prepped. You’re spreading your knees before you even think about it. Anticipating the feel of his fingers inside, but he only teases with a shallow thrust. He rubs your clit in apology when you whimper. “C’mere, pretty.”

He beckons with his other hand, lifting up to meet you for a quick kiss. “You nervous?” He asks. There’s no bite to his tone, just a softness that bleeds into genuine concern. 

“Maybe.” You clutch at his shoulders, anxiety melting into the numb feeling he’s massaging into you. “Ah… Just–don’t laugh if I get it wrong.”

Caleb rewards your honesty with another kiss. Swipes the hand playing with your clit on his bare thigh to clean the shine of lube off. “I don’t care if it’s wrong. Do what feels good to you.”

You don’t know what that’s supposed to entail, and that disconnect between your knowledge and his is what pisses you off the most. You almost wish porn could be a symbiotic thing, a literal watch and learn. Your thighs are already starting to burn. “Oh my god. What if I snap your dick in half?”

That gets a hard laugh out of him. “You said it yourself. It’s a pole. Poles don’t break that easily. And you’d know once I start screaming in pain.”

“Don’t say that.” It’s an awful thought – one you don’t dwell on because Caleb just laughs again, taking a hand you have on his shoulder to guide down to his dick like a silent invitation. You at least know this much: squeezing a fist around the head the way you know he likes, dragging a stroke down slowly. 

His chest shrinks with a shaky exhale. “You’re killing me.”

Caleb always does this, you think. Letting you set the pace at the expense of his patience.  Chivalry died and came back to life as the man shivering from you pumping his dick. 

You don’t care to announce it. You shift on your knees, position the tip of his dick where you’re leaking. Dig your nails into his shoulder blades as you watch yourself try to sink down. 

(Your cheeks grow hot, thinking back to the very first time Caleb tried to fit his dick inside you. You’d kept squeezing him out with every threat of a push, and he had to pin you down by your hips to stop you from squirming so much. “You can take me,” he’d whispered. “You’re my good girl, right?”)

You let that feeling wash over you now; a pull of reverence like somehow you’d sinned and he’d bring you salvation. You roll down till the stretch burns too much for you to comfortably pace yourself on. 

Caleb suddenly claws at your hips, and you look up to see his head tossed back, groaning deep.

It’s dangerous, how downright erotic he looks. You hide the thrill racing down your spine with a quip you know he can barely hear from how hard he’s breathing. “You good there big boy?” 

“Ne-ver better.” His voice cracks around the edges. “Yeah. Yeah. You good?”

“It’s–” you still struggle with the feeling, like your pussy is computing the pleasure of the angle just as slowly as your brain is– “okay.”

You think. It’s not bad. If anything, Caleb’s reaction is enough material for you to fantasize about for the next fifty years. He gathers his bearings quickly, though, twitchy with embarrassment, still gripping hard at your hips. (As if you’d ever laugh at such a show of vulnerability. You’re not that cruel.)

He says nothing. You rock into the gravity of his pelvis, hiss with every additional inch you bury into until you’re down to the hilt. “O-Oh,” you whimper. The ache blooms into something else now. Better. Heat that swells and swells into your ribs, and you realize you’ve never felt so full before.

Caleb hugs you close, kissing you in place of verbal praise. “Need my help now?”

You nod, stuck in the wrong-right headspace of feeling impaled, barely finding the will to hinge at your knees to ride him properly because you’re still so clueless. He does it for you with ease. Lifting your ass just to get that delicious upstroke, and when you come down his balls smack a lewd noise on your skin. 

“Caleb,” you hiccup. “That’s–oh fuck.”

He’s red down to his chest. “S’okay?” 

“Mhm–!”

It’s a bit easier to settle in the rhythm, finding a bounce in your own movement that makes Caleb’s hands deadweight. The only guidance is your shared pleasure, and you coax him down to his back with a push to his chest to test a better angle.

It works. Sort of. You choke with the heavy drag of your cunt squeezing him raw. “Oh, this–oh. This. Feels…” 

“Good?” He asks. You can’t decide. You try again, tensing at your knees when a downstroke pinches too tight on your walls. “Lean into me. Take what you need.”

You keep up with a stilted rhythm, clenched fists over the beating of his heart. You try to match every pulse. Up, down, swiveling into the roiling feeling in your core, but it’s not enough.

He teases clammy hands up your navel to your breasts, squeezes in time with your next downstroke to steal your inhale. “Fuck–I’m–already out of breath,” you complain. 

“You barely started.” At least he has the decency to look sympathetic. “Does it still feel okay though?”

“It does. I think.” The burn lingers, though it comes second to the way Caleb arches into you with every mini-stroke you offer on tired knees. You’d be happy without coming, you decide, if only to see him fucked out like this.

He blinks. “Think you can keep going?”

It’s almost hurtful, his doubt. But even you can’t deny you’re starting to quiver with frustration, all the bravado of finding purpose in your ability to fuck going straight out the window the longer you hover. 

You watch him. Dilated eyes, lips chapped, shining forehead. Pulsing wet inside the deepest he can be. He won’t buck up for his pleasure, not unless you answer him truthfully. 

“I want to,” you say weakly. God do you want to. You get the sudden and overwhelming urge to keep him here forever. “Fuck. I wish you could just – tell me what to do.”

Caleb shakes with quiet laughter. “I just want you to feel good.”

“That’s the thing. You keep saying that. I don’t – it feels good and then it doesn’t and it’s so – like – do I look sexy? Do I – feel good to you? For you?”

You’ll probably laugh about this later. His cock is lodged inside you and you’re asking him if he thinks you look good like you’re showing him a cute outfit for a date. 

Caleb just pulls you down by the nape of your neck. Hovers his lips over yours when he whispers: “You’re right where I want you to be.”

Your core blossoms into a pure, needy ache when he jerks his hips up. Hard.

“Let’s end the lesson early then.” He kisses you, and you melt into the sweetness. “I’m proud. Try to keep up now, yeah?”

He’s done easing you into it. A part of you was done a while ago, you think.

“Lesson number two,” he grunts. “Just let me make you feel good.”

“Oh–Caleb–ngh–!” 

You yelp with the borderline carnal pace he sets, hands barely finding leverage on his sweating chest. All that stored energy from his patience releasing with every wet thrust he bucks through. Your thighs go numb.

One hand grips your ass, the other seizing the roots of your hair to keep your eyes on him. He grunts: “You like when I fuck you hard?”

You’d nod if his fist wasn’t so tight on your head. “Uh–uh huh,” you breathe, trying hard to angle your ass back in a way that feels nice. There’s no guarantee of an orgasm like this but the sound of such thorough fucking has your head already clouding into a faux-high. 

“I like it too baby. Love the way you feel on my cock.”

Your insides squeeze at the confession. There. You steel your knees, the tip of his dick finally hitting a spot you can grind into and you urge with wet eyes, “Keep talking.”

“Yeah? Fuck. You just squeezed me so hard. You’re so good for me, baby. So wet. So hot. You’re so perfect for me, you did such a good job. Let me take care of you now.”

Your clit pulses with every dirty word, and you’re near-desperate to blackout with your fingers rubbing heat into it. It’s not enough. You sob. “I wanna–ugh–”

“Hm? What does my pretty girl want?” 

You don’t know how he can look so calm when you’re being fucked fifty ways to hell. You shake your head till he lets up on his hold, and with the extra space for movement, you immediately shoot a hand down to where your cunt weeps. “Shit,” he says. “You wanna come?”

“Please–”

If you gloat about stamina, Caleb has drive. You feel him shift in his heels, digging into the mattress for the extra leverage he can drill up inside you’re dripping. “There you go,” he moans, watching your fingers slip on your clit and you whine with the attention. 

“Oh god,” you say through clenched teeth. Your brain relaxes into that floaty state indicative of a mind-numbing fuck, like it knows you’re well on your way to nirvana if you just give in already. Caleb’s good at that. Rendering your body so useless all you can do is take what he gives you.

“I won’t stop till you pass out,” he threatens, nails digging moons into your ass. You sob at the thought. “You want that? Fuck you so good all you can do is take it. Like. A. Good. Girl.”

There’s nothing for you to do. Your fingers numb to the motion of stroking your clit till you’re wailing, letting every word soothe your muscles into lax pleasure. “C-Close,” you squeal.

You feel Caleb’s abs tense under your belly, chin tilting up to swallow your groaning. He kisses you like he’s parched. And you don’t ask, but somehow he already knows you’re waiting for his command.

“Come on, baby. I’ll take you there. You’re so pretty when you sound like that,” he whispers, breath stilting into exhaustion. “Can you show me how you come for me?”

Your body answers for you. The heat curls out from your gut at such frightening speed you almost teeter off out of his arms, burying your forehead into his shoulder as you come hard, clit taut against your spasming fingers. 

You blank into white-hot pleasure, throat dry from your crying, and something–something is wet and sticky against your mound. You don’t know. You think Caleb’s coming too, stuttering with heavy strokes and he holds you so tightly you stop breathing for a second.

Your hearts race in tandem. You’re sweating in every awkward crease of your body, and you begin the feat of pulling off from his softening dick. “Ugh,” you groan, core fighting with a squeeze to keep him in, “stupid fucking fat dick, ow.”

You collapse onto your side. Caleb is just as dead to the world, arms akimbo. “So mean,” he breathes. “What it’d ever do to you.”

“Fuck me till I squirted, apparently.”

You clench, seeing his abs practically shine. He tries to laugh, but it comes out like a sad wheeze. “Good job. A plus plus.”

“Man.” You don’t know how you’re even talking. It’s taking every bit of your consciousness to converse right now. “You have to tell me who taught you how to talk like that.”

It takes a while for Caleb to say anything. The air settles with your breaths trying to catch a calmer tempo. 

“Well.” When you open your eyes to look at him, he’s staring blankly at the ceiling. “You know I don’t say stuff I don’t mean.”

He doesn’t explain any further. You don’t ask. 

(You never do.)

[princeanon]

To anyone who’s finding it really hard to read the Fantasy High webtoon without being upset about the changes made, here’s a headcanon that has helped me accept the changes and I think could really help a lot of you:

(Keep in mind I’ve only read the first three chapters)

In the canon universe, the webtoon is a comic series that the Bad Kids decide to make sometime post-canon to recount their adventures in a fun and somewhat fictionalized way. (Think of it like mythology, changing their stories to become more linear and easier to tell across generations.)

This would explain a lot of the changes made that I’ve seen upsetting people:

D&D (and real life) is great because even though plot is important, it’s just enough to leave a lot of room for a bunch of different main characters to share the spotlight. Comics aren’t (especially webtoon comics that you only read a bit at a time), so even though all of the characters can have their moments, there has to be one character that is focused on more to really drive the plot.

The Bad Kids recognize this, and since they refuse to use a different medium (a movie is a lot of work for six kids; they already have a podcast; longer, non-illustrated books would be bad for Ragh and frankly, not nearly as cool), they all eventually come to a consensus that at least for freshman year, their little angel and licensed PI Riz Gukgak should be the lead, since he can justifiably drive the plot. In real life, it doesn’t make sense to have one lead since none of them knew about the big scheme to begin with, but in retrospect it works.

Of course, Fabian’s not gonna be as charming to start out because he recognizes that he was kind of a jerk for a bit before joining the squad and especially before single-handedly killing toxic masculinity.

Of course, Fig is gonna be the last Bad Kids introduced because that’s how she’d want it to go. It’s so much more badass to be mysterious for a few chapters and then show up in a blaze of glory!!

Of course, Riz is gonna look ever so slightly cooler than he actually was as a freshman, because that’s how he viewed himself and the others don’t have the heart to tell him “no you were actually really awkward and un-cool and you have to look that way for the comic”

Of course, Adaine isn’t going to emphasize her argument with her parents from the first day of school, because why would she? Her parents suck, and the less screen time they get, the less power they have over her life now. Aelwyn too, as much as she loves her sister, she wasn’t really part of the grand scheme, so it wouldn’t make sense to establish her as a villain immediately.

Of course, Gorgug is going to make his introduction of him raging. His difficulty coping with his rage was a really big part of his journey throughout freshman year. His title card is who he really is though, with cool artificer themes, even though he doesn’t know it yet.

And of course, Kristen is gonna wear a corn-themed outfit because that’s a visual representation of how she felt early on the year, and especially how brainwashed she was by the church. You’re telling me Kristen Chilis Applebees isn’t going to look at a comic book version of herself in freshman year, think about all the time she spent justifying Coach Daybreak’s actions and her parents actions and her actions, and how deeply that trauma goes for her and her siblings, and how much her story would mean to someone going through the same thing as her, and say “now dress her up like corn”????

Point is, the webtoon is an adaptation of a pre-existing world in the same way any “non-fiction” media is an adaptation of the real world. Real life isn’t linear, D&D isn’t linear, but written media (especially webtoon comics) are. It’s not gonna be a perfect replica of the original because that doesn’t make for a good comic. If it helps to view the webtoon as an in-canon adaptation of their story written by the Bad Kids, then that’s great! If it doesn’t, and you still can’t enjoy the comic, then don’t read it.

Just don’t take this gift from Dropout away from those of us who love (or want to love) it. And especially don’t hate on the writers, artists, or anyone in Dimension 20 for making minor changes in order to fit the new media.

(It’d be like hating on the Bad Kids for telling their story in a new way.)

[prettygirl-gabi]

Chapter 5: In the Spotlight

Rating: General Audiences

Warning: none

Paring: Paige Bueckers x !photographer fem reader

Fandom: Women's basketball

Summary: being the "babysitter"= fun...right?

Welcome to the chapter 5 of Through The Lens. I hope you all enjoy and there is more to come...stay tuned my loveies!! 🏀💕📸

The whispers started as soon as I entered the gym for practice the day after the Villanova game. People were staring, their eyes darting between their phones and me. A couple of players from the men’s team even snickered when I walked past.

I didn’t understand what was going on until KK intercepted me by the bleachers, her expression somewhere between amused and concerned.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

She sighed and held up her phone. On the screen was a blurry video of me walking into the locker room at Villanova. The caption read: “Paige Bueckers’ mystery girl? 👀”

I groaned, my face heating up. “Are you kidding me? This is so out of context!”

“Yeah, but people love a good rumor,” KK said, scrolling through the comments. “Most of them are just shipping you and Paige.”

“Shipping us?” I echoed, incredulous. “We’re not even—”

“Relax,” she cut in, her tone gentle. “It’s just noise. Don’t let it get to you.”

But it did get to me. All day, I couldn’t shake the feeling that everyone was watching me, judging me. By the time practice ended, I was ready to throw in the towel on my entire final project.

I went straight to Coach Geno’s office, my camera bag slung over my shoulder. He looked up from his desk, his brow furrowing when he saw me.

“Y/N, what’s going on?”

“I can’t do this anymore,” I said, placing my project proposal on his desk. “The rumors, the stares—it’s too much. I didn’t sign up for this.”

He leaned back in his chair, studying me. “Let me ask you something. Why did you choose this project?”

I hesitated. “Because I wanted to challenge myself. To tell a story that mattered.”

“And do you think you’ve done that so far?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.

He stood, walking around his desk to stand in front of me. “I see potential in you, Y/N. You have an eye for this—an instinct. Don’t let a bunch of gossip derail what could be an incredible project. Push through. Finish what you started.”

I nodded, his words sinking in. “Okay. I’ll try.”

Later that evening, I found myself in the gym. The empty court was a welcome reprieve from the noise of the day. I was adjusting my camera settings when the sound of sneakers on hardwood made me look up.

Paige.

“Hey,” she said, her smile soft. “Mind if I join you?”

I shook my head, and she dropped her bag on the sidelines before walking over. “Rough day?”

“You could say that,” I replied, letting out a bitter laugh.

“Let me guess,” she said, crossing her arms. “The video?”

I nodded, surprised she even knew about it.

“People are ridiculous,” she said. “But you can’t let them win. Come on.”

She grabbed a ball and motioned for me to follow her to the three-point line. “Let’s work off some of that pressure. I mean granted im kinda banned drom practice though.”

“I’m terrible at basketball, and yeah you are banned.” I warned.

“Then it’s a good thing you’ve got me as your coach, speaking of coah i asked fo sit with you..so like you're my babysitter” she said with a evil grin.

The first few shots were laughably bad, but Paige was patient, adjusting my form and giving me tips. By the time I finally sank a three, I was laughing so hard I almost dropped the ball.

“There you go!” she cheered, throwing her arms in the air.

“Beginner’s luck,” I said, but I couldn’t stop smiling.

She pulled out her phone, recording me as I took another shot. “For posterity,” she said when I gave her a questioning look.

“Hang on,” I said, running out to my car to grab my personal camera. When I came back, she was dribbling the ball lazily at half-court.

“Let’s use this instead,” I said, setting up the tripod.

We spent the next hour goofing off, filming everything from trick shots to ridiculous commentary. Paige even tried to reenact her infamous Villanova assist, but it ended with her tripping over her own feet.

As it was getting late we headed back at my dorm, we poured Shirley Temples into a giant pitcher, the fizz of the soda filling the room.

“To surviving rumors and bad basketball shots,” Paige said, holding up her glass.

I clinked mine against hers. “And to you, for teaching me how to shoot a three.”

She laughed, leaning back against the couch. “You’re a natural.”

I rolled my eyes but smiled. For the first time in days, I felt like I could breathe again.

As the night wore on, we sat there talking, the camera still sitting on the coffee table. Part of me wanted to grab it, to capture this moment. But another part of me knew that some things were better left undocumented, kept just between us.

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

-Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

-prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️

Tag list: @sayurireidotcom , @astroeliza , @paxaz535 .... (more to be added)

[kierongillen]

General Player Advice For RPGs

I published this in my newsletter here a while back, and discourse reminded me I wanted to put it more public. I probably should get around to actually doing a proper blog for this kind of stuff. You can sign up to the newsletter here.

One of the things which I’ve been chewing over since getting back into RPGs is that there’s so much advice for GMs and so little advice for players. I keep thinking over why - though the whys aren’t what I’m about to write about. However, some other folk think any worthwhile advice is system/genre specific.

This got me chewing over whether I agree with that. As the list below shows, I don’t.

The first four are ones where I think I succeeded, and as principles generally guide you towards better play no matter what game you’re playing. The last three are mainly applicable to games with a significant story component (the last especially). There’s a few more I played with, but they were more about being a good at the table generally – about being a better player in any game rather than specifically about role-playing games. I also avoided ones which were more GM-and-player advice rather than just player advice (if there’s a problem in game, communicate out of game, use appropriate safety tools, etc).

I also didn’t include “Buy The GM Stuff”.

Anyway – here they are. See what you think.

GENERAL PLAYER PRINCIPLES FOR BETTER PLAY

1) Make choices that support the table’s creative goals

If you’re playing a storygame, don’t treat it like a tactical wargame. If you’re playing a tactical wargame, don’t treat it like a storygame. If it’s bleak horror, don’t make jokes. If you’re in a camp cosy romp, don’t bring in horror. It also varies from moment to moment – if someone’s scene is sincere, don’t undercut it.

2) Be A Fan of The Other Characters

This is GM advice in almost all Powered By the Apocalypse games – for the GM to be a fan of the characters. It’s a good trait for a player to cultivate. Be actively excited and interested in the other characters’ triumphs and disasters. Cheer them on. Feel for them. Players being excited for other players always makes the game better. Players turning off until it’s their turn always makes it worse.

3) Be aware of the amount of spotlight time you’re taking

This is a hard one for fellow ADHD-ers, but have an awareness of who is speaking more and who is speaking less. A standard GM skill is moving spotlight time around to players who have had less time. Really good players do this too. Pass the ball.

4) Learn what rules apply to you, to smooth the game, not derail it.

To stress, this isn’t “come to the table knowing everything” but learning the rules that are relevant to your character along the way, especially if they are marginal (looking at you, Grappling and Alchemy rules). Doing otherwise adds to the facilitator’s cognitive load and hurts the game’s flow. The flip is being aware that knowing stuff isn’t an excuse to break the game’s flow with a rules debate either – that’s an extension of the third principle.

5) Make choices which support other characters’ reality

If someone’s playing a scary bastard, treat them like a scary bastard. If they’re meant to be the leader, have your character treat them like the leader , for better or worse. A fictional reality is shared, and you construct it together.

6) Ensure The Group Understands Who Your Character Is

This is the flip of the above – having a character conception that is clear enough that everyone gets who you are, what you want to do and how you want to do it. If you don’t, the table will be incapable of supporting your choices. This links to…

7) If asked a preference in a story game, a strong choice is almost always better than a middling choice.

Don’t equivocate. If asked “You’ve met this person before. How do you feel about him?” either “I love him” or “I hate him” is better than anything middling. The exception is if it’s something you’re really not interested in pursuing.

[stewpidcheescatarinabluu]

Taste Of Millions.

Chapter 1: “magnum opus”

Synopsis: You have everything — power, fame, a five-star empire built on your tongue alone. But to complete The Palate Atlas, your lifelong culinary magnum opus, you need one final dish. And it just so happens the only person who knows how to make it is a rude, no-name chef hidden in the back alleys of Seoul — a girl who couldn’t care less who you are, and whose recipe may cost you more than your pride.

Word Count: 2,100

Karina X Male!Reader

You have everything — fame, money, power, connections.

A name spoken in hushed reverence from Tokyo to Tuscany.

You own Seoul’s crown jewel — a five-Michelin-star restaurant tucked into the city’s most coveted avenue, where getting a reservation is akin to winning the lottery and being disappointed is a myth.

You were never interested in spotlight or status. You just wanted the perfect taste — that impossible convergence of history, emotion, and craftsmanship on the tip of your tongue. You didn’t crave people. You craved flavor. The kind that haunts your memory long after it’s gone. The kind that hurts.

So when you took the stage to announce your first and final personal project, you didn’t smile. You simply spoke.

“The Palate Atlas.”

A map of the world through food — a lifelong pursuit to archive a hundred nations through their most truthful dish. No gimmicks. No adaptations. No reinterpretations. Just authenticity.

The audience cheered. Flashbulbs burst. Your name trended in four languages before the hour ended.

But the moment you stepped offstage, you went straight back to your private test kitchen, rolled up your sleeves, and resumed work.

A week passed. You’d been awake for almost three days straight, perfecting the seasoning ratio of a sauce inspired by Eritrean berbere.

You were at the stove when a knock came.

“Sir, may I come in?” a muffled voice called.

“Come in.”

Your eyes stayed fixed on the simmering sauce. The scent was close — fiery, earthy, aromatic — but not quite there.

Your assistant, Jiho, entered with a tablet in hand and a professional stiffness that you appreciated. He never wasted your time.

“I’ve finalized the confirmations with chefs from Afghanistan, Albania, Algeria, Andorra, Angola, Antigua and Barbuda, and the United States. The Bahamas and Canada are also ready for sampling. Korea is reserved for the final leg as per your instruction. China, the Philippines, and Vietnam are still pending.” He paused. “Would you like me to push the Vietnam confirmation?”

You gave a slight nod. “Do it. Prioritize northern provinces.”

Jiho swiped across the tablet. “Noted.”

“And remove Canada. I’ve had enough of maple-tinted nostalgia.”

“Understood.”

You finally looked up, the glow of the burner dancing in your eyes. “Tell them I’m not coming to be impressed. I’m coming to taste the truth. Nothing more.”

“I already told them,” Jiho replied without blinking. “Some cried. One hung up.”

You almost smiled. Almost.

Then the journey began.

You moved like a ghost through borders and altitudes. In every country, they rolled out the red carpet. In some, they tried to treat you like royalty. In others, like a threat. Either way, it didn’t matter.

In Afghanistan, you sat cross-legged on a dirt floor while a family of seven gathered around you. Kabuli Pulao was set down in a cracked ceramic bowl. It was good — heavy with saffron and dried fruit, balanced with tender lamb — but too careful. You chewed. Swallowed. Looked around the room.

“The rice is scared of the meat,” you muttered.

And they knew what you meant.

In Albania, you tasted Tavë Kosi in the back kitchen of a village house. The yogurt sauce was rich, but lacked conviction. You stood up before finishing, dusted your jacket off, and simply said, “It needed to choose between acid and warmth. It chose neither.”

In Algeria, you sat with three generations in a concrete courtyard while Chorba simmered over coal. You said nothing after eating, but wrote two lines in your black notebook and left.

In Antigua, the ocean rocked the boat as you ate oil-down with salted meat and callaloo. You said nothing for half an hour — just let the flavor sit. Your assistant finally broke the silence.

“What’s the verdict?”

You closed your eyes.

“It’s closer to memory than taste. Write that down.”

And so it went.

Country after country. Taste after taste.

You were unshaken, analytical, relentless. In Venezuela, you broke down a stew mid-meal and began re-seasoning it in front of the chef. In Greenland, you threw out a plate before even tasting it, just by smelling the fat content in the air. In the Philippines, you tasted sinigang from a grandmother in Tarlac and wrote a full page in silence, your head bowed.

By the time you returned to Seoul, Jiho greeted you with a single figure:

“Eighty-six percent complete.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What’s missing?”

“Korea. Philippines is pending a second dish, and Vietnam is rescheduling your Da Nang stop due to the monsoon.”

“Forget Vietnam for now.”

Jiho hesitated. “Sir, one more thing.”

You glanced at him.

He turned his tablet toward you. There was a screenshot of a blurry photo — a doorway tucked in between two worn-down buildings in Jongno, nearly invisible save for a single red light above it.

“She doesn’t advertise. No contact. No name on the door. But the locals say... she serves one dish. Only one. It changes every week. No repeats. No pattern. No assistance. No one’s managed to get a recipe out of her.”

You studied the photo. It didn’t look like much. It looked... forgotten.

But something in your chest twitched.

“What’s her name?” you asked.

“Karina.”

The name stopped everything.

Your fingers froze against the counter. You didn't show it, but Jiho caught the millisecond delay in your response.

“Do you know her?”

“No,” you lied.

He watched you, but didn’t press.

“She’s the last one,” you said. “If her dish is real — if it’s not a myth — she completes the Atlas.”

“And if she doesn’t share it?”

You stared at the flickering burner.

“Then I’ll take it.”

Jiho straightened his back. “I’ll find the address.”

“Don’t.”

“Sir?”

You finally looked him in the eye.

“I’ll find it myself.”

You left your house less than an hour after landing. No unpacking. No rest. No greetings.

Considering how long you’ve lived on and off planes, being home-deprived means nothing to you now. Seoul felt like any other layover — one step closer to the finish line.

Your luggage remained untouched by the front door. The air still smelled like imported bergamot from the last guest chef’s visit, and the automatic lights followed you like a spotlight through the halls. Still, you didn’t stop. You didn’t breathe in the comfort.

You stepped out in silence, dressed in black slacks and a coat meant for walking through back alleys, not red carpets.

Ring... ring... ring...

“Good evening, sir. How can I be of help?” Jiho’s voice came through, calm and ready.

“I’m off to Jongno.”

A pause. “Copy, sir. Would you like me to arrange something for the night? Perhaps a suite?”

“Royal suite.”

“Understood. I’ll contact the Shilla.”

You hung up. You didn’t need the comfort of the suite. You just needed it to be waiting.

You didn’t even glance in its direction as your car turned. The driver was silent. You preferred it that way.

The streets of Jongno narrowed the deeper you went in. Bright signs dimmed. Noise softened. Seoul peeled off layer by layer until it felt like an entirely different city — older, untouched. The kind of place where history lives in the dust and ghosts know your name.

Even for someone like you, finding it wasn’t easy. There was no pin on any map. Just a vague string of overheard directions. A tea shop with no menu. A red door between two dead neon signs. A silence behind a laundromat where you swear you heard a bell ring without being touched.

But you weren’t a man who got lost.

And then — there it was.

A worn building hidden behind rows of faded curtains and rusted signage. Between two locked-up stores. No name. No logo. Just a single red lantern faintly glowing above a charcoal-black door. Weathered. Faintly humming with heat.

You stepped out of the car and approached alone.

No one greeted you.

No queue. No staff.

Just silence.

And then... the smell hit you.

Subtle at first — then disarming.

It wasn’t one note, like most kitchens. It was a hundred things at once: toasted sesame, burning soy, green onion left to sweat in butter, a hint of vinegar so perfectly balanced it almost made your eyes water.

You opened the door.

It didn’t creak. It didn’t swing. It allowed you in.

The room was barely lit. There were only three tables. Two were empty. One was occupied by a single man — eyes closed, smiling faintly, as if reliving something that didn’t belong to this lifetime.

You stepped in, wordless. The man looked up at you, blinked, then quickly stood and left. He didn’t even ask for the bill.

Your eyes scanned the interior. The walls were painted with age, not color. The shelves were full of mismatched pottery. The floor creaked with each step, but it wasn’t unpleasant — it just meant it had stories to tell.

Then came the sound.

Knife against wood. Slow. Precise.

You turned toward the open kitchen.

She stood there — head bowed, sleeves rolled, a streak of flour on her wrist.

She didn’t look up.

She didn’t need to.

She just said—

“You’re something.”

That’s all she says — without looking up, without asking who you are.

There’s no menu. No greeting. No performance. Just her.

You take the seat closest to the counter, back straight, hands folded. The silence in the room is alive. It wraps around you, waiting for something to break it.

She moves through the kitchen like a ghost that knows every corner. Her motions are sharp but unhurried. Her fingers never flinch, even when slicing green onions so finely they melt into the broth. She doesn’t glance at you once.

You study her — not out of curiosity, but because that’s how you learned to survive in this world. She’s young. Late twenties, maybe. Apron too big for her frame. Hair tied up in a loose knot that keeps slipping no matter how many times she fixes it.

Her kitchen is spotless. But not sterile.

There’s a warmth to it. A familiarity in the way things are placed — chopsticks beside the burner, a hand towel hooked on the cabinet, the faintest hum of a radio turned so low it sounds like memory.

Finally, she lifts a single bowl.

Steam curls upward, carrying a scent so delicate you stop breathing for a second.

She walks toward you, feet light on the wooden floor.

She sets the bowl down in front of you with both hands.

Then, and only then, she meets your gaze.

Her eyes are dark. Not empty — just tired. The kind of tired that doesn’t come from lack of sleep, but from holding everything in for too long.

“Eat while it’s hot,” she says, softly this time.

You glance down. The broth is cloudy but rich, floating with tender slices of beef, thin daikon, scallion. But there’s something else. Something sharper under the surface. A scent that’s not familiar — and that’s exactly what makes it impossible to ignore.

You pick up the spoon.

The heat burns, just slightly. But the flavor—

You pause.

It’s not perfect. Not in the traditional sense.

But it’s honest.

And that’s what knocks the air out of your lungs.

You don’t speak. Neither does she.

After a while, she leans back against the counter and crosses her arms.

“It’s not for you,” she says, almost to herself.

You look up.

“I didn’t cook that for you,” she repeats. “I don’t serve critics. Or Michelin judges. Or rich people looking for a thrill.”

You hold her stare.

“Then who do you cook for?”

She hesitates — not dramatically, just naturally.

“Myself,” she says. “And anyone who’s still hungry at the end of the day.”

You look around. There’s no staff. No cameras. No chef’s coat with embroidered names.

Just her. Just this.

You set your spoon down slowly.

“You know who I am,” you say, not as a threat. Just fact.

She doesn’t blink. “Of course. You’re the man trying to eat the world.”

You wait. But she doesn’t ask why. She doesn’t ask what you think of the food. She doesn’t even ask if you’ll pay.

Instead, she turns around, picks up a small pot of broth, and pours herself a bowl.

You watch as she sits on the far stool, across the counter, barefoot now, pulling one knee to her chest.

“Don’t get any ideas,” she mumbles through a mouthful, “I’m not giving you the recipe.”

“you should leave, this place isn’t for your tongue, nor your palate.” she added.

[simsbyjo]

Celeste travelled back to Forgotten Hollow. She was eager to face Delaney - for her to pay to what she did to Charlotte. Delaney was so full of herself that she thinks she can face Celeste - a descendant of the Strauds.

[moonastro]

your fs's cute habits

pick a picture

left to right(top)-> 1,2,3

𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑how to choose an image? take a deep breath, close your eyes, RELAX, and let your intuition do the rest.

𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑remember, you can be drawn to more than one picture!!

°DO NOT take this as literal, take everything with a grain of salt as this is purely and intendedly for entertainment purposes.

°Don't be afraid to give feedback and opinions about this post (as i would entirely appreciate it).

° This is a GENERAL reading, take what resonates and leave and pass on what does not!

⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺

pile one

they might have a smirk to their smile, or have this instinctive smile that they do that is unique to them. i don't know, it feels very cute though. like i see them doing it whenever they get shy or get suddenly happy. Also, along with that will be their laugh. they may have a distinctive laugh that they do. they may hit (in a friendly way) when laughing or they may get weak and pretend fall, and so on. i do see them being dramatic with it though😅. your person may randomly say what's on their mind without any context. like it will become so normal to you guys that you will either go with it or just ignore it. by random i mean like continuing a conversation you guys had 30 minutes ago and they add to it, or they purely just bring up the time when they were a kid and such. in public, i feel like they will be quite shy, they may unintentionally hide behind you especially if you are talking with someone or walk slightly behind. they may be a slow walker too, its not because they are slow but they get distracted easily. by the nature, the birds, the cars, the buildings etc etc. very much new soul vibes, taking in everything around them. they can be a collector and have a collection of little figures and items. it is their possessions and they will protect their collection with all their heart and take time to correct their positions and such when accidently moved.

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pile two

awk, this is too cute, so your partner may blush quite often. it may be from embarrassment, anger, stress, or getting put in the spotlight. you may find it cute because it can make you love them even more and it may make you feel like they are like more genuine?? anyway, they may space out quite often, probably just blanking out and staring into abyss. this may be a habit and they may have a nickname given from spacing out so much 😅. like for example, you may ask them a question and they reply with mumbles and when you say 'did you even hear what i said' they come back and go 'huh' or 'no, sorry'. you may laugh at it because you find the way they look doing it cute. you may find it cute when they get mad. they may have a face that they do or do a gesture that you notice each time. its giving me every time when they're angry you cant take them seriously and then they get even more mad. the way they eat/chew may be significant, so they may pout/ make a cute face when eating.

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pile three

okay, so pile 3, your person is giving very much clueless energy. i feel like most of the time they may not know what you may be talking about but they still contribute to the conversation so you wont feel upset about it. but i feel like you will always ask them if they know what you mean and then they'll admit that they don't! but i do see you laughing it off and telling them that they can admit if they don't get it. oh, they are really into structure and have really organised drawers, closets, shoe racks and so forth. you may find it cute how they keep it VERY organised and are serious about it too. you may find their concentrated face cute lol. they do portray this youthful energy so they might express those characteristics through their actions. they definitely don't like to argue and will let you win every single time which may feel frustrating sometimes but they just avoid it at all cost and feel there is no need for it. it can make you feel guilty about it though and make you want to take care of them. at the end of they day you laugh it off and find it cute. they may have trouble with their vision and may squint a lot- you can tend to make fun of them cutely for it. like, every minute of they day you see they squinting at EVERYTHING and that can catch you off guard and make you laugh by their cuteness. this is a very fun/ laughter couple so there is a lot of laughing and giggling involved.

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thank you dear soul for reading this!! it is greatly appreciated, and i hope you all are doing well and enjoyed this post🤍.

[lady-menrva]

Can we take a moment to talk about the recurring “it’s not problematic / offensive, it’s quirky” theme throughout all the three series? The entire discussion would get too long so I’ll just split it into parts and throw the spotlight on PJO here:

• ADHD and Dyslexia as superpowers: Just no. This has always rubbed me the wrong way. Want to include representation? Be real and sensitive about it. He barely even portrayed or talked about it in detail. A lot of the time, it just seemed plain derogatory and tokenist.

• Artemis and her “badass” hunt: In hindsight it seems straight up predatory and objectionable. What do you mean she mostly recruits young girls who don’t even have well-developed decision making skills. People have come out and talked about how it also seems to mirror unethical recruitment of young children in real life.

• World War II as a plot point: This has been talked about before, and I’ll throw in my two cents- the Second World War was one of the most tragic and impactful events in contemporary history, with a complicated background and multiple sides at fault. Watering it down to some conflict between demigods is unacceptable and disgusting.

• Camp halfblood in general : Camp halfblood is also just child soldier central, just like Camp Jupiter. Children were sent out to die on a routine basis in the name of heroism long before the conflicts with Kronos. The fact that this is never acknowledged or changed is just horrid. They could stay safely in the camp atleast for some time but what is the need to send them on quests? And please don't come to me babbling about how Percy challenged the gods about this, when he himself was a puppet for the next 5 books and counting (plus, even in trials of Apollo the child soldier system doesn't change). Or about how gods can't intervene, when they in fact, can.

[cuppasunu]

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to: kate @blizzardfluffykpop req: sunwoo x reader | but i like you by boynextdoor summary: sunwoo has a crush and it’s driving him crazy. genre: college au | campus crush, strangers to lovers, fluff (no gendered pronouns but there is one mention of ‘girlfriend’) warnings: none wc: 1.6k words an: the draft was longer than this drabble but i actually held back from posting it all this time because this officially became a wip (help i have three sunwoo wips right now damn it).. who knows how fast i’ll get them out while working throughout the week, but writing your requests are truly the highlight of week! thank you soo much kate for requesting <3 stars: @blizzardfluffykpop @hyungseos-cafe @from-izzy @winterchimez @carrotsworld @jaehunnyy masterlist | @deoboyznet taking in your requests!!! — send a tbz member + song that reminds you of spring <3

sunwoo hardly believed in fairytales, but he was convinced you walked out of one.

trying to catch your breath from running, you swung open the lecture hall door a little stronger than you expected, assuming the huge handle was as heavy as it looked. 

in contrast to the dim room, the sunlight coming up from behind was shining at you like a spotlight. 

your hair was disheveled from your dire attempt to attend class on time. but in his eyes, it fell in a graceful yet effortless manner, simply complementing your beauty rather than demanding to be noticed. your flowy outfit and light steps brought back spring in the middle of august. or maybe it was your eyes that sparked so much life in this early morning. 

sunwoo’s heart started racing, not able to figure out whether it was because of you or the caffeine from half-empty latte in his hand. 

he suddenly caught your gaze, and your embarrassed smile nearly threw him in a loop. 

‘definitely not the coffee,’ he thought.

you searched for an empty seat in the room, disappointed at the chance of needing to walk all the way to the front, where most students have avoided taking. sunwoo slowly takes his bag off the seat next to him. 

'please sit next to me,' he whispered to himself like a mantra.

“you at the back,” the professor, dr. love, called out.

you looked around the general area before you processed who she was talking about. pointing at yourself like a lost little duck, you gathered how awkward the situation had become with 200 students looking straight at you.

“yes, you! stop looking around and take a seat,” dr. love said, “sit next to that boy with his mouth open staring at you-”

the whole room erupts in hollers and laughter. sunwoo quickly looked away. he knew everyone was looking at him, yet continued to deny any claim that he was the one dr. love was talking about. 

fortunately, you were too occupied to clearly make out what the professor said. apologizing, you picked the next available seat nearest you and started unpacking your bag. sunwoo’s cheeks burned the moment he sensed shuffling beside him, too nervous to look and check you had chosen to sit next to him after all. 

the professor moved past everything once everyone settled in to continue the lecture. 

when he finally gained the courage to look around him, sunwoo steals another glance at you. he could have sworn you locked eyes once again. he stopped listening to what dr. love was saying about the syllabus for the rest of class after that.

maybe, waking up for this class five days a week will be worth it.

…

“did someone kidnap sunwoo and replaced him without us knowing?” eric asked.

the whole crew—eric, hyunjae, haknyeon, chanhee, changmin—were walking downtown after his game, opting for a dinner out while it's still warm out past 5 PM. sunwoo heard his name out of context when he caught up with them, dismissed from his debrief with his cohort at the clinic. 

haknyeon and changmin looked at each other and suppressed a chuckle. sunwoo squeezed between the two and put his arms around them. 

“say something and i’ll seriously ki-”

“-sunwoo found himself a lil’ girlfriend!” chanhee chirped, shrugging as changmin slapped his arm.

“argh!!! how could you-”

“i didn’t say anything!” changmin insisted.

eric throws his head back, shocked to his core, “oh my god- he’s not denying it.”

“no- of course not- it’s not, i mean… of course it’s not true,” sunwoo stumbled upon his words.

it wasn’t a surprise that his friends would question what he was up to, seemingly becoming a changed person overnight.

haknyeon knew something was up when he no longer needed to turn off his roommate’s alarm for once. initially dreading the fact that he was stuck in the infamous 8 AM attendance-required lecture across campus, sunwoo’s enthusiasm now was undeniable. at times, he even had the time to buy coffee from changmin during his opening shift at the library cafe. 

“eric, you saw something?” hyunjae asked, pouting, but unable to contain his excitement. nobody catches him up about matters like this anymore, neck deep in his coursework and part-time fellowship with his professor as a fourth-year. 

“i wish,” eric shook his head, “i see him everyday coming into class early- our team passes that building on our morning runs every wednesday and friday.”

defeated, sunwoo stayed silent, careful not to give anything away. 

he couldn’t come clean about his silly crush, and if he was being honest, it would be more accurate to say it’s a crushing infatuation. on the rare occasions he sat anywhere remotely close to you, he was only able to gather these three things: you were a freshman, a psychology major, and your name was y/n.

“that’s all you know?” haknyeon asked, almost shouting from surprise.

“he probably didn’t even get all that by actually talking to y/n-”

sunwoo was going to open his mouth to defend himself, but closed it back after accepting changmin was right.

“classes started a month ago,” haknyeon furrowed his eyebrows, half- disappointed and half-frustrated from this realization.

“he’s a helpless case,” chanhee sighed, before walking into the restaurant first and checking their table in.

sunwoo was too stunned to move another step. he didn’t realize a whole month had passed, but could barely count the times he shared a couple of words with you in one hand.

the rest of the guys tap sunwoo in the back, whispering a series of good luck and you can do it before walking in. somehow, the gesture still managed to feel like a pitiful mockfest to the poor guy. he was beginning to think he was helpless himself.

eric stayed to offer his friend some help, “hm- you know that name sounds familiar. tell you what- i have this friend, kevin, he’s also a psych major and works at the student center by the dorms-”

“are you telling me to spy and stalk my crush?” sunwoo asked, terrified.

“if you knew what others do to know more about their crush” eric started, but decided not to finish his sentence. he shook his head and sighed exactly like chanhee did and whispered something under his breath.

 “trust, you’ll thank me later.”

…

thursday, 6:30 PM 

bennett hall, room 305

sunwoo stares at the note eric left him. even after insisting he would never accept his help without knowing how he got his intel…his legs ended up bringing him in front of the building. 

i have ten minutes to turn back and walk away, he thinks while staring at a small flyer pinned to the wall that advertised the university’s film club meetings, confirming he was at the right place.

“sunwoo, right?” 

his heart dropped to his stomach when he heard your voice. sunwoo hesitates before moving from his stance, already recognizing your voice before his eyes fell on you. 

“sunwoo, from dr. love’s class?”

“y/n,” he grinned like a fool, only calling out your name instead of answering you properly.

sunwoo looked at your surprised expression, holding back any indication that the reason he’s here has finally showed up. you switched back and forth from looking at him and the poster on the wall, connecting the dots.

“are you here for the film club?” you smiled.

sunwoo mindlessly fidgeted with the note on his hand and quickly crumpled it back to his pocket, “i- i am.”

“i’m in it too! this is great- we’re always looking for new members. is it your first time?”

sunwoo nodded. he couldn’t believe you remembered his name, much less recognize him outside of class. 

while trying to get it together as he freaks out on the inside, he listens to your lengthy intro of the club. you went on and on and on, not knowing he was still trying to get over the fact that you were exchanging more than five words to one another. 

a leaf falls on your head as you were talking when sunwoo reaches out to take it off. 

his hand moved faster than his thoughts, stricken by his nerves when he finally realized what he was doing. you stopped talking for a second, looking at what was on his hand.

“sorry- there was a leaf.”

“oh- okay.”

he coughed to break the awkward tension, sensing you had lost your train of thought. sunwoo took a step back, putting a small distance between you. he pressed his lips together and smiled with his eyes, ready to beat himself up later for losing his cool in front of you (again).

“anyway- did anyone invite you?” you went back to what you were saying.

sunwoo had long forgotten what eric explained when he was handed the note. he lies and told you no one invited him.

“okay..” you smirked, closing the distance he just put between you and urged him to lean a little closer, “then, can you tell the club, i invited you?”

you explained that you get a referral perk for bringing in new members, increasing your chance to win a collectible item at the end of the month. 

sunwoo didn’t think you could become even more adorable until that moment. 

he was already devising a plan to force his friends to join the club in his head if it meant you would smile at him like that again.

'you could ask me to tell everyone you saved me from a burning building and i would do it,' he thought. 

lost in your bubble, you didn’t pay attention to the time until you glanced at your phone.

“-we’re gonna be late!” you jumped.

sunwoo follows you in without a word and walks up the stairs. you turned the hallway to the left and found the projector room like its routine. you reached for the door before pausing and turning to sunwoo. 

“i'm really glad you came today,” you whispered before opening the door, giving him no time to respond.

sunwoo had a feeling he’ll remember this exact moment long after today.

[interact-if]

Black History Month Author Spotlight: Lapin

To kickstart the Black History Month Author Spotlight series, I'd like to introduce everyone to our first IF author, Lapin (@harlequinoccult)!

(I had a ton of fun reading Lapin’s answers, and I’m sure you will too! Read on for a celebration of ‘weird,’ Lapin’s Black southern gothic / horror influences, and how a D&D game could lead to interactive fiction!

Lapin, thank you again for your candid, humorous responses, I am very honored to have gotten to know you better :D)

Author: Lapin

Black creole and cajun, artist and writer, and wannabe game developer

Games: Slaughter Squad (Horror, Slasher, Romance)

Synopsis: YOU HAVE A HUNGER A HUNGER THAT YOU’VE BEEN NEGLECTING For the most part, you’re a pretty normal mid-20-something year old who lives in a shitty apartment in the city. Well, except for one thing. Your.....”Associate” Carter “Dollface” Abernathy. Who is a murderer, and quite frankly, a sloppy one at that. And you’re the accessory to his crimes. No matter what way you’ve gotten to know the man, or how you feel about him, you’re stuck with him, and stuck with just being his little “helper” ........Or are you? Especially when you’re suddenly given a....Unique opportunity.

Games: The Valley of Luck (Fantasy, Adventure, Romance)

Synopsis: The Valley of Luck was said to be a myth. Something that grandparents would tell their grand-kids around a campfire. Even those who worshiped Lucian, The God of Luck, thought it nothing but an old wives tale. Until, one day, a man with an arm made of solid gold started telling people that he'd been there, that he'd seen the Valley. Word spread quickly, and suddenly, every continent was alight with the rumor that The Valley was real, that it could give you all the riches you could ever want, and then some. However, your quest, whether related to The Valley or not, will lead you down a much stranger path.

Quote from the interview:

My upbringing was a bit odd. I am the youngest of three, two older brothers, one being a half brother, in a black military household… Middle school Lapin was a jock. But, lo and behold, the internet started getting more popular and that kid's brain exploded from internet exposure, for better and for worse. … I feel that there is a specific and niche demographic of people like me that were raised by early 2000s to 2010s internet. And on that era of internet, were creepypastas, online horror, early ARGs….I ADORED internet horror, which was my gateway into classic horror, funnily enough. Slaughter Squad, in my eyes, is a letter to that black kid that wanted to be weird. Be weird, be messy, see a fucked up movie, get more out of life.

Read on for the full interview!

Tell me more about yourself! What are some things new readers or long-time readers might not know about you?

Both parts of my family are 100% from Louisiana, New Orleans and the deep south. My moms side have been there so long, we have two streets named after us.

Can you tell me a bit about what you’re working on right now and your journey into interactive fiction? What inspired the game/story you’re currently writing?

My main project, of course, is Slaughter Squad. I love slasher movies and horror media in general. But what I always noticed with horror/romance, at least in the visual novel scene, is that the main character is nearly always the one getting screwed over, so I thought, well, what if the bad guys actually are your peers? How would this dynamic change if they don't see you as prey? I never thought that premise would appeal so much to so many but hey, I can't complain! I adore seeing people having fun with the silly little concept I had.

Now, my secondary project, The Valley of Luck. Some may not know this, but this story is based off of a D&D campaign I DM'ed back in the day with my friends. All the ROs are NPCs that my friends had, or where going to encounter. I won't lie, I did shy away from it and changed some things when the whole debacle with Wizards of the coast (the company that "owns" D&D) Where making some...questionable decisions. But this story is my baby. My first born. This one has been in the works far longer than SLSQ and has a lot of background lore that I hope I get the opportunity to share.

I do have a few other projects bumping around, One I am particularly excited for, But that one will have to wait a little bit~

How has your identity, heritage/background, upbringing, or personal experiences influenced your storytelling or writing process? OR How does your work feature aspects of your identity / experience?

My upbringing was a bit odd. I am the youngest of three, two older brothers, one being a half brother, in a black military household. I never felt that I truly had a sense of identity until that household inevitably split up. Everyone talks about being the weird kid in middle school, but no one mentions being the "normal on the outside but wants to be the weird kid so bad its painful on the inside but can't because you were told that stuff is 'white people shit' " type of kid.

Middle school Lapin was a jock. But, lo and behold, the internet started getting more popular and that kid's brain exploded from internet exposure, for better and for worse. I was a little shitter on the internet, I can't lie about that, as much as I want to. But I feel that there is a specific and niche demographic of people like me that were raised by early 2000s to 2010s internet. And on that era of internet, were creepypastas, online horror, early ARGs....I ADORED internet horror, which was my gateway into classic horror, funnily enough. Slaughter Squad, in my eyes, is a letter to that black kid that wanted to be weird. Be weird, be messy, see a fucked up movie, get more out of life.

What does your writing process look like? Any rituals or habits? Any tips, tricks, philosophies or approaches that have worked very well for you?

Let your characters speak through you like you're being possessed by a demon.

What’s the one thing you’re really proud of that you’ve written so far? Do you have a favorite character or scene that you’ve written?

I am so serious.

is it wildly inconvenient? yes. does it help your writing a ton? also yes. Doing Roleplay with friends is a fantastic way to learn to do this. being a DM for a D&D game has basically made it so characters can simply speak from my brain at any given moment. It's also annoying because some of these people do NOT shut up. Learning how a character would react on the fly does wonders for dialogue writing and character analysis. Roleplay with your friends, or hell, strangers who are down to clown that could become friends. Be cringe. be free.

I love the opening to Slaughter Squad and if you told me to rewrite it with a gun to my head I would tell you to shoot me. I love how punchy it is and it came out exactly how I wanted it to. I don't play favorites with characters (<- lying) but my two favorites to write are the stinky little bastard cat Sterling in TVoL and.....Carter, from SLSQ. I love writing complete bastards. One being lighthearted and gets a pass for it because he's just a kitty cat and the other you want to actively beat his face in with your bare hands. It's SO funny.

If you were to say one thing to your readers, other authors, and/or the interactive fiction community: what would it be?

Write. Write it now. Doesn't have to be good doesn't have to be polish all that matters is that you WROTE IT. All the bells and whistles can come later!!!! Stop thinking about the later and think about the now!!!! Write what you love and never give two shits about if it's cringe!!! Be excellent to each other!!!

Any books, music, movies etc. you’re obsessed with at the moment, or which changed your life (or perspectives on something)?

GO LISTEN TO CHROMAKOPIA BY TYLER THE CREATOR RIGHT NOW!!!!!!!!!

This-or-that segment: (bold = Lapin’s pick)

Coffee or tea?

Early mornings or late nights?

City or countryside?

Angsty or Cozy romances? (Or enemies-to-lovers or best-friends-to-lovers?)  

Steady progress or frenzied binge-writing followed by periods of calm?

Summer or Winter?

First drafts or editing?

Introvert or extrovert?

Plotter or pantser?

Characters or plot first?

Lapin’s custom “this-or-that” pairing: Rain or Shine

More on Black Southern Gothic:

Black southern gothic can vary a lot, but when I think of it, I think of old semi abandoned wood shotgun houses in the swamp, all white tiny baptist churches where the white paint is peeling from the heat and humidity, riding horses down a dirt paved street while people still ride by in their old busted down 1960s chevys. Old plantation houses that have been reclaimed by the swamp. The dark, humid heat of the night on a street with no streetlights. Every house you see is absolutely haunted by something and not just ghosts. Voodoo and hoodoo is different than what people will tell you it is.

Sassafrass, Cypress and Indigo by Ntozake Shange, Sing, Unburied, Sing by Jessamin Ward, and anything by Toni Morrison 100%.