#how are we not understanding this in 2025?

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Epilogue

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, time jumps, slice of life.

Notes — There are no words, really. I hope you cherish all of the tiny, specific details I added here. I spent a lot of time on it. Yes, I will possibly write some additional snapshots/oneshots of their future.

2025

Autism, Womanhood, and the Mechanics of Belonging by Amelia Norris

Autism presents itself in females in many ways.

Sometimes invisibly. Often misdiagnosed. Frequently misunderstood.

In me, it’s always looked like this: a difficulty with eye contact. An inability to read the curve of someone’s mouth or the sharp edges hidden beneath their tone. I learned early how to catalogue expressions the way other girls my age collected dolls — not for fun, but for function. A survival skill. A flash of teeth? Friendly. Or hostile. Or forced. Raised eyebrows? Surprise. Maybe judgment. Maybe not.

Memorising made things manageable. Predictable. Less scary.

Sarcasm took longer. I still miss it, sometimes. I can design a suspension system from scratch, but I’ll still turn to my husband after a conversation and ask, “Was that a joke?”

It used to bother me. It doesn’t anymore.

Touch has always been strange, too. I don’t like uninvited contact. Hugs feel like puzzles with warped edges — familiar in theory, but always a little off. It’s not dislike. It’s friction between my nervous system and the world. I used to think that meant something was wrong with me.

I was wrong.

I’m not broken. I’m just calibrated differently.

And then there’s the focus.

When I was a child, it was Formula 1. Not the drivers, not the glamour — the systems. The telemetry. The pit stop choreography. The physics. The math hidden inside motion. While other kids learned to swim, I was memorising tyre degradation patterns. While girls my age planned birthday parties, I was building aerodynamic models from cereal boxes.

I didn’t understand how to be part of the world I’d been born into.

But I always understood how cars moved through it.

That obsession became a career — eventually. But not right away.

My father, Zak Brown, became the CEO of McLaren Racing. I thought that would be an advantage. I was wrong again. He loved me, but he didn’t know how to take me seriously. I brought ideas. He catalogued them without thought. I handed him data. He passed it off to other people without remembering I’d written it.

He didn’t mean to hurt me — but he did. In a hundred careless ways. 

Enough to make me leave.

I was already seeing Lando, quietly. It was early. Tentative. I was cautious because I didn’t always understand people. He was cautious because he was getting advice, loud, well-meaning advice, not to date the boss’s daughter.

He disappeared on me for a while. And I didn’t understand why.

I remember thinking: I must have done something wrong and not realised it.

But I hadn’t.

Eventually, he came back. Explained. Apologised. We learned each other slowly, and not always easily — but deeply.

Around the same time, I left McLaren. I took a job at Red Bull. Not for revenge. For recognition.

Max Verstappen didn’t care who my father was. He cared that I understood race pace like a second language. We won two championships together.

And in the meantime — Lando and I kept finding our way back to each other. Every time, more solid than before.

Eventually, I came back to papaya. But on my terms. Not as Zak’s daughter. As a lead engineer. With Oscar by my side and Lando in a car I had helped design, shaped precisely to fit his hands, his shoulders, his driving style.

Then I had my daughter. Ada.

And the hyper-focus I’ve carried my whole life shifted again — narrowed, but deepened.

It’s still data. Still equations and airflow and lap deltas. But it’s also Lando, who stopped having to ask to touch me years ago. Who doesn’t need explanations but still listens when I give them.

It’s Ada — glorious, curious, sticky. Who throws glitter onto my schematics and insists I help her fix the broken boosters on her cardboard spaceship with grunts and wife, pleading eyes.

It’s both of them.

And the quiet, terrifying vastness of being truly understood.

My autism didn’t vanish when I became a wife. It didn’t soften when I became a mother. I am still who I have always been: meticulous, sensitive, blunt. I still script my voicemails. I still shut down when I’m overstimulated. I still have meltdowns. I still need more sleep than most people and can’t fucntion in rooms with flickering lights.

But I’ve grown. I’ve adapted. I’ve made peace not just with structure, but with chaos. With change. With soft interruptions. With a life I never thought I’d be able to build.

I’ve created a life where I don’t have to perform.

I just get to be.

And for the first time, I’m letting people see me. All of me.

Which is why I’m writing this.

Because I know I’m not the only one.

Because somewhere, there’s a teenage girl memorising lap times and scared she doesn’t belong in a world that moves too loud, too fast, too unclearly.

Because I wish I’d known sooner that I wasn’t alone.

Today, I’m proud to announce the launch of NeuroDrive — a foundation dedicated to mentoring, supporting, and funding autistic young women pursuing careers in motorsport.

We’ll be offering scholarships. Internships. Mentorship. Resources. Community.

From engineering to analytics to logistics to aero to comms — every role that makes this sport move.

I want these girls to know that their focus is a gift.

Their precision is power.

Their minds are brilliant.

I want them to know they don’t need to hide.

There’s room for them here. There’s room for all of us.

And they belong — fully, loudly, exactly as they are — in motorsport.

With hope, Amelia Norris

—

Amelia sat back from her laptop screen.

She hadn’t meant to write it all in one frantic breath. It had just… unfurled. A loose thread tugged gently free at the edge of the day, unraveling steadily until it wove itself into something whole.

She stared at the last line. Her hands hovered over the keyboard, then lowered to her lap. She exhaled.

Behind her, the wooden floor creaked softly.

A moment later, familiar arms wrapped gently around her waist — warm, unhurried. Lando pressed a kiss just behind her ear, right in that small, quiet space that always made her flinch less than anywhere else.

“She’s asleep,” Lando murmured, voice low and amused. “Finally. Made me sing the rocket song. Twice. And do the hand movements.”

Amelia huffed a small, warm laugh but didn’t turn. “You hate the hand movements.”

“I hate them passionately,” he said, bending slightly to press a kiss to the space just behind her ear. “But she likes them. And I happen to love her enough to tolerate them.”

She could feel him smiling against her skin.

The sea air had slipped in through the open balcony doors behind them, warm and salt-tinged, carrying the gentle hum of nighttime Monaco. 

Lando’s arms slid comfortably around her waist. He rested his chin on her shoulder and peered at the screen. “Let me read it?” He asked after a pause.

“You already know all of it,” she said softly.

“Yeah,” he replied, nudging her temple with his nose. “But I like hearing it in your words.”

She didn’t answer, not with words anyway. She just leaned into him, letting her body relax in increments. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment longer before dropping quietly to her lap. Her pulse, which had been buzzing all evening, finally slowed. The cursor blinked in the corner of the screen — steady, patient, waiting.

She would post the piece eventually. Maybe not tonight. But soon. She’d promised the women helping her build NeuroDrive that the launch would be personal, rooted in something real — something true. And this essay… it was all of that. Raw and oddly fragile. But hers.

Behind them, the linen curtains shifted in the breeze.

“I think she likes it here,” Lando murmured, after a few minutes had passed in quiet. “Monaco.”

Amelia blinked, surfacing. “Ada?”

“Yeah. I had her out on the balcony earlier. She liked the sun.”

“She gets that from you,” Amelia said, dry as ever.

He laughed softly. “She does like the heat. More than I expected.”

“She likes everything here,” Amelia admitted, watching the night settle over the marina. “The boats. The water. Max’s cats.”

“She said ‘cat’ three times yesterday,” Lando said proudly.

“She’s five months old, Lando. It was probably just gas.”

“No,” he insisted. “She looked right at Jimmy and said it. Loudly.”

“Well, Jimmy did bite her toy rocket.” She said, her lips twitching at the memory of her daughter’s appalled face as the cat attacked her beloved stuffy. 

Lando huffed a laugh. “Valid reaction.”

They both fell quiet again, lulled by the rhythm of the moment. Amelia let her gaze drift across the open-plan living space of their Monaco apartment; all soft neutrals and clean angles, intentionally simple. 

This was Ada’s first real stretch of time here. The first time Monaco would ever feel like home to their daughter, not just a temporary stop between England and wherever Lando was racing next. Amelia had worried about that — the splitness of things. Of belonging to multiple places but never fully resting in one. But Ada, with all her glittering confidence and stubborn joy, didn’t seem to mind.

“She doesn’t mind the change,” Amelia said quietly. “She just… adapts. Quicker than I do.”

“You’ve been adapting longer,” Lando said simply. “She’s still new. You had to learn the hard way.”

“I’m still learning,” Amelia admitted.

He brushed his lips against her cheek, slow and careful. “I love how your mind works,” he said. “I loved it when I didn’t understand it, and I love it even more now that I do.”

She swallowed. Her throat felt tight in the familiar, unwieldy way that happened when someone saw her too clearly. “It’s almost done,” she said, nodding toward the document. “Just a few more edits. Then I’ll post it. The site’s ready. The social channels are scheduled. The first mentorship emails go out next week.”

He squeezed her waist gently. “You built a whole new system, baby.”

“I built a team,” she said, glancing at the screen. “It’s not just going to be mine.”

He nodded. “You’re going to change lives, baby.”

“Hopefully not just change them,” she said. “Build them. Design them. Like a car.”

He grinned into her hair. “You and your car metaphors.”

“I don’t use them that often.” She frowned. 

“Mm. You’re right. Only four times a day.”

He was teasing her. The lopsided smile, squinty eyes and tiny red splotches on his cheekbones told her so. 

She rolled her eyes but leaned back into him anyway. Lando’s arms around her. Ada safe and sleeping. The sea just a five minute drive from their inner-city apartment. 

It didn’t matter that the cursor was still blinking on her screen.

She’d found her place in the world; or built it, piece by piece.

And she was going to help other girls do the same.

—

@/NeuroDriveOrg Today, we’re launching NeuroDrive: a charity organisation formed to empower autistic women in motorsport — because brilliance comes in many forms, and it’s time we celebrate every one of them. Find out more and discover how to get involved by clicking the link below. #NeuroDriveLaunch 

Replies:

@/f1_galaxy

OMG AMELIA???? This is so crazy but I’m so here for it!! #NeuroDriveLaunch

@/racecarrebel

Autistic and a gearhead? That’s me lol. Signing up right now!

@/sarcasticengineer

wait so I can geek out about torque and not pretend i get social cues? literally a dream 

@/cartoonkid420

*gif of a car drifting sideways* When you realize your fave F1 engineer is actually a real-life superhero  #NeuroDriveLaunch

@/chillaxbro

Amelia Norris (CEO) IKTR

@/maxverman

Yk honestly big ups to @/AmeliaNorris for making this happen. What a woman. 

@/indylewis

This being the first post I see when I open this app after my diagnosis review? CINEMA. 

@/f1mobtality

BEAUTIFUL. INCREDIBLE. AMAZING. BREATHTAKING. #NeuroDriveLaunch

@/notlewisbutclose LEWIS ON THE BOARD OF DIRECTORS? IKTR MY KING 

@/LewisHamilton Proud to see and have a hand in making initiatives like NeuroDrive happen. It’s about time that we start making strides to pave the way for real diversity in motorsport. Change is coming, and it’s about time. #NeuroDriveLaunch

@/landostrollfan99 PLS I KNOW LANDO IS CRASHING OUT BC HE’S SO PROUD OF HIS WIFEY RN 

@/NeuroDriveOrg Thank you everyone for all the love! Our virtual mentorship program opens next week; sign up to be part of the first cohort! Over 18’s can sign up themselves, but anyone younger must have parental consent. Thanks, Amelia. 

@/AnnieAnalyst

My mom has been a hardcore motorsport fan for decades. She’s on the spectrum. She’s found such joy in watching Amelia Norris take the F1 world by storm over the past eight years. I know that she’s going to be so happy about this. Can’t wait to tell her. 

@/samliverygoat

This is sick. I’m a guy, but my sister is eight and autistic and wants to be a mechanic. I’m gonna tell my mum about this and get her signed up. Big ups your wife @/LandoNorris 

—

Lando woke slowly, the Monaco morning sun spilling in through gauzy curtains and casting pale gold across their bedroom. The room was still, quiet in that delicate way that meant someone had been awake for a while already.

He blinked, then turned toward the warm shape beside him; and stopped, his breath catching slightly at the sight.

Amelia was sitting upright against the headboard, hair pulled into a messy knot, one arm curled around Ada who was nestled into her chest, half-asleep and nursing. Her other hand held her phone, screen dimmed low. She was speaking quietly — not in a cooing baby voice, but in her normal cadence, clipped and slightly analytical.

“…recognises familiar people, understands simple instructions, imitates gestures, like clapping or waving; well, I’ve literally never seen you wave unless it’s to say goodbye to your own socks.” She frowned.

Lando smiled into his pillow, eyes still half-closed.

Amelia glanced down at Ada, who blinked up at her with wide eyes and a dribble of milk on her chin.

“That’s fine. You’re spatially efficient already.”

“Are we reading milestone checklists?” Lando’s voice was thick with sleep, rough-edged and fond.

Amelia didn’t jump, didn’t even look away from her screen. “It’s her birthday. I thought I should make sure she’s not developmentally behind.”

“She’s licking your elbow,” he pointed out.

“Which is not on the list,” she sighed. 

Lando scooted closer, propping himself up on one elbow to see them both better. Ada detached with a soft sigh, then yawned, full-bodied and squeaky. Amelia adjusted her shirt without ceremony and let Ada rest against her, one hand gently stroking her hair.

“She’s perfect,” he said, leaning over to kiss the crown of Ada’s head, then Amelia’s shoulder. “Milestones or not.”

Amelia hesitated. “She’s not pointing at things. That’s apparently a big one.”

“She screamed at Max’s cats until they moved out of her way, does that count?”

Amelia hummed in thought. “I suppose we could classify that as assertive communication.”

They sat like that for a minute, wrapped in the warm hush of early light and baby breaths. Monaco in June was hazy and beautiful, a perfect little jewel box of a day already unfolding around them.

“Do you think she knows it’s her birthday?” Lando asked, voice still low.

“No,” Amelia said simply. “Probably not. But we do.” She glanced down at their daughter again, something unreadable, almost too tender, flickering behind her eyes. “I know it’s been a year since I stopped being one version of myself and started being another.”

Lando’s hand found hers where it rested on Ada’s tiny back. “Yeah, baby?”

Amelia tilted her head, considering. “Maybe. I feel… broader. Like I can stretch in more directions now.”

He smiled. “You’re perfect.”

Ada, half-asleep, made a soft gurgling sound and grabbed Amelia’s Lando necklace in one surprisingly strong fist.

Lando leaned in again, voice warmer now. “Happy birthday, sweet little pea,” he whispered to Ada, then kissed Amelia’s jaw. “And happy birth-day to you.”

Amelia made a face. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is,” he insisted. “You did all the work. You should get recognition too.”

“I suppose.” She considered it for a minute. “Does that mean I should congratulate you on the anniversary of her conception?”

She was being serious — which was why he just smiled instead of laughing the way he desperately wanted to. “If you want to, baby.” 

She nodded and catalogued that away in the small corner of her brain that contained a long list of dates that mattered most to her. 

She think about it like this: dates she will never forget. Not because she wrote them down, but because they’re carved into the soft machinery of who she is. 

October 9th — Her mother’s birthday. 

November 7th – Her father’s birthday. 

December 12th, 2021 – Max’s first championship win. 

July 5th, 2022 — Her wedding day. 

July 2nd, 2023 – Oscar’s first Grand Prix start. 

May 5th, 2024 – The day Lando won his first race. 

June 30th, 2024 – The day Ada was born. 

She’s always catalogued things.

It made the world digestible.

But those dates don’t need charts or colour codes.

They live in her like heat. Like heartbeat. Like gravity.

Later, there would be cake. Balloons. Chaos. Max will appear with sacks full of wrapped gifts. Ada will probably eat something that she isn’t supposed to. 

Lando takes Ada into his arms and lifts her above his head, blowing a bubble at her with his lips. 

She drools sleepily, and Amelia winces when milky bile spills from her mouth. 

Yeah. Not a good idea to jostle a well-fed baby. 

Lando made a face and then used his t-shirt to wipe their little girls’ lip clean. 

She stared at him. 

And at their small, wondrous girl. 

A year old. 

—

Seventeen Years Later

The sky was brightening in soft lavender layers over the marina. Monaco looked almost quiet for once — like it was holding its breath.

Ada sat cross-legged on the bedroom floor, her back pressed to the base of her mother’s old desk. The drawer had stuck for years, warped with sea air, but today it had slid open easily. Like it had been waiting for her.

Inside: one neatly folded sheet of thick paper. Her name was written in the corner in her mum’s handwriting. Clean, sharp letters. 

She unfolded it carefully, even though part of her already knew what kind of letter this would be. Not sentimental. Not flowery. Not emotional in the ways people expected. But honest. 

My beautiful Ada,

I’m writing this on your first birthday.

You’re asleep right now — finally — with vanilla frosting in your hair and a purple sock on one foot and not the other. Your daddy’s asleep too, mouth open, curled around the giraffe that Maxie gave you today. I should be sleeping. But I’m here, writing this. That probably says a lot.

I don’t know who you’ll be yet. Not really.

Maybe you’ll love numbers the way I do. Maybe you’ll throw yourself into art, or animals, or flight, or noise. Maybe you’ll carry the softness your father wears so easily. Maybe you’ll burn hot like me and never quite know how to dim it.

Or maybe, hopefully, you’ll be entirely your own: unshaped by us, unafraid of being too much or not enough.

All I know is this: whoever you are, whoever you become, I will love you without condition and without needing to fully understand.

Because understanding is not a prerequisite for love. It never has been.

I want to get everything right. I won’t. I already know that.

But I promise I will try. Fiercely. Unrelentingly.

I will learn what you need from me, over and over again, as you change and grow and outpace me. I will listen — even when I don’t know what to say. I will ask you what you need, and believe you the first time.

Love isn’t easy for me in the way it is for your daddy. I don’t always say the right thing, or give affection in the way people expect. But please know: I love you with everything I have. In every way I know how.

It may not always look loud or obvious. But it will be real. And it will never leave you.

I will always be in your corner. 

Even if I’m quiet.

Even if I’m late.

Even if I’m gone.

Always.

— Mum

The letter smelled faintly of ink and something older; lavender, maybe, or the ghost of her mum’s favourite perfume. Ada folded it carefully along the worn creases and slid it back into its envelope, fingers tracing the edge before getting up and going back to her bedroom, tucking it inside the drawer of her nightstand.

The light from the marina hadn’t reached this side of the house yet, but the sea breeze had — soft and salt-laced through the open windows. Ada padded barefoot across the wooden floor, familiar as the lines on her own palm, and moved quietly into the hallway.

The balcony door was already ajar.

Her mother was there, as she always was on mornings like this — perched in her usual chair, legs tucked under her body, a latte cradled in both hands. Her hair was scraped back in a low twist, pale in the early morning light, and she hadn’t noticed Ada yet.

Amelia was humming. Softly. Tunelessly. A little stim she’d done for as long as Ada could remember.

Ada hesitated in the doorway, just for a moment.

Then she stepped forward, slow and quiet. Climbed into her mother’s lap without a word, curling against her like she was still small enough to belong there.

Amelia stilled for half a breath. Then she shifted, just slightly — letting her daughter fit against her without comment or tension. One hand settled over Ada’s spine. The other stayed wrapped around the ceramic heat of her cup.

She didn’t ask questions.

She didn’t need to.

Instead, she kept humming. A low, constant thread of sound that vibrated in Ada’s ribs as she pressed her cheek to her mother’s shoulder.

They watched the sun climb over the harbour. The light came in slow and sure, brushing over the rooftops and catching on the water in amber fragments.

Amelia didn’t speak. She just held her daughter. One hand stroking the same pattern — left shoulder to elbow, up and back again.

And Ada breathed. Steady. Whole.

She was older now; too big, probably, to sit in her small statured mum’s lap like this. But not today. Not just yet.

In her mother’s arms, she was still allowed to be small.

Still allowed to be quiet.

Still allowed to simply be.

And Amelia, in the language she had always known best, presence over words, held her through it.

As the light shifted across the sea, the only sound between them was the soft hiss of foam against porcelain. The familiar hum. The heartbeat of love — silent, constant, and entirely understood.

— 

2025

It was impossible to sum up the 2025 season in any cohesive way. 

There were days she felt like she was balancing on the tip of a needle. 

Her car was perfect. That much was undeniable. For the first time since she’d begun clawing her way through every door that had once been locked to her, the machine under her boys wasn’t just competitive — it was untouchable. Fast on every compound. Nimble in the wet. Ferocious in the hands of a driver who knew how to take it to the edge.

And she had two of them. Two.

Oscar and Lando.

Her driver. Her husband.

It would have made a weaker team combust.

But McLaren hadn’t combusted. Not yet, anyway. Not under her watch.

Oscar had grown into himself in ways that still caught her off guard — all lean control and precision, carrying the ice-veined patience of someone who had watched others take what he knew he was capable of. He drove like someone with nothing left to prove and everything still to take.

And Lando... Lando had grown, too.

There were days he was still impossibly frustrating — still too harsh on himself, too reactive on the radio, still hurt in ways she couldn’t always patch. But he was stronger now. Calmer. Faster. And he trusted her. Not blindly, not because he loved her — but because he believed in her. Her mind. Her leadership. Her.

Every race had been a coin toss. Oscar or Lando. Lando or Oscar. Strategy calls had to be clinical. Unbiased. And every week she made them with the knowledge that whatever she chose could cost someone she loved the chance at something immortal.

She wouldn’t let herself flinch.

Not when the margins were this razor-thin.

Not when the car was finally everything she’d spent her life trying to build.

When the upgrades landed and they locked out the front row, she didn’t smile. She just stared at the data until the lines blurred, heart thudding, and told herself she’d allow joy when it was over.

When they took each other out in Silverstone; barely a racing incident, but brutal nonetheless, she didn’t speak to anyone for two hours. Just shut herself in the sim office and breathed through the silence until the tightness left her hands.

When they went 1-2 in Singapore, swapping fastest laps down to the final sector, she didn’t even hear the cheers. She just watched the replay of the overtake again. And again. And again.

Precision. Patience. Courage.

They had everything. And they were hers — in the only ways that mattered in this arena. Oscar, her driver. Lando, her husband. Both brilliant. Both stubborn. Both driving the car she had finally, finally perfected. 

In the garage, she never played favourites.

In the dark, she ached with the weight of both of them.

Now, the season was nearly over. One race to go. One title on the line. Between them.

And Amelia?

She felt something not quite like calm. Not quite like pride.

Something vaster.

She didn’t know who would win. She truly didn’t. She wasn’t even sure if she had a preference. Her love for Lando, loud and chaotic, as real as gravity, lived beside her fierce loyalty to Oscar, who had never once asked her to earn his trust, only to maintain it.

She loved them differently. But she loved them both.

And whatever the final points tally read, whatever flag waved first in Abu Dhabi, it would not change what she’d built. What they’d built. A machine so complete, so purely competitive, that the only person who could beat it was someone inside of it.

That, she thought, was the mark of something enduring.

And in the quiet before the finale, Amelia allowed herself a breath of pride so deep it nearly broke her open.

It wasn’t about the trophy anymore.

It was about the fact that the world had doubted her. Them. 

And now they couldn’t look away.

—

2026

Amelia had been keeping a spreadsheet. Of course she had.

A private one — just a simple, tucked-away Google Sheet with six columns: Developmental milestone, Average age, Ada’s age, Observed behaviour, Paediatricians’ notes, and Feelings (which she almost always left blank).

She updated it weekly. Sometimes daily. Just in case.

And she knew, clinically, that speech development wasn’t one-size-fits-all. That some children talked at eight months and others waited until twenty. That it was normal, even healthy, for some toddlers to take their time.

But normal never did much to soothe her.

Especially not when the silence had started to feel louder than it should.

Ada babbled — just not much. She gestured, pointed, tugged their hands, grunted with specific frustration when her needs weren’t met. She understood them. That wasn’t in question. But her lips hadn’t shaped a word yet. Not one.

At twenty-two months, Amelia was trying not to spiral. But her spreadsheet had too many empty cells. Too many quiet mornings.

“Maybe she just doesn’t have anything she feels like saying yet,” Lando said one night, rolling onto his side to face her in bed. Ada had gone down late and Amelia had spent the evening researching speech therapy assessments and second-language interference. 

“She should have at least one word by now,” Amelia muttered, eyes on her screen.

“She’s got plenty. She just hasn’t said them out loud.” Lando reached out, nudged the laptop closed. “She’s fine. You know she’s fine.”

Amelia sighed. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

She wanted to believe him. She really did.

—

The next afternoon, Ada was with them in the garage — tucked into her earmuffs and her tiniest McLaren hoodie, perched in her playpen while Amelia ran final aero checks on a new floor configuration. Lando had stopped by between simulator sessions and was now crouched beside Ada, offering her a padded torque wrench like it was a teddy bear.

Amelia looked up from her laptop, distracted by a little squeal.

Ada had pressed both palms against the concrete floor. And a smudge of oil had made its way across her hand.

She looked at it, then at Lando, wide-eyed.

Then she scrunched up her nose, a perfect mirror of her mother’s expression, and said, clearly and without hesitation, “Yucky.”

Lando blinked. Froze. Then looked up at Amelia, stunned.

“Did you—? Did she just—?”

Amelia’s heart felt like it missed a step. Her head jerked up so fast she hit the underside of the wing she’d been crouched under.

“Ow—shit—”

Lando was already lifting Ada out of the playpen, laughing in disbelief, oil smudge and all.

“Say it again,” he coaxed gently. “Yucky? Yucky, bug?”

Ada just beamed at him and smacked his cheek with her dirty little hand, leaving a streak behind. “Yucky,” she declared again, giggling like she knew exactly what she’d done.

Amelia didn’t know whether to cry or pass out.

She walked over in a daze, eyes locked on her daughter. “She said it. She actually said—”

“Yeah,” Lando said, grinning. “You heard it too, right? I’m not making this up?”

“No,” Amelia said, soft and stunned. “I heard it.”

Then she reached for Ada without hesitation. Let her daughter press her messy little face into her neck and pat her collarbone with smudged fingers.

Yucky.

It wasn’t what she expected.

But it was perfect. 

—

2027

Grid kid.

Ada Norris was a grid kid.

Not the official kind, with a lanyard and uniform and carefully timed steps. She wasn’t old enough for any of that. She wasn’t even tall enough to reach the front wing of her father’s car without climbing onto someone’s knee.

But she was there — always. Like a mascot, a comet, a little bit of joy wrapped in neon.

At three years old, Ada had developed a sense of style entirely her own. This week, it was neon pink. Head to toe. From the glittery bucket hat she refused to remove, to her sparkly tulle tutu layered over orange papaya leggings, to the pink Crocs decorated with star-shaped charms.

She stuck out like a sore thumb against the rest of the paddock; all matte branding and fireproof greys. But nobody dared to comment.

She was Ada.

Everyone knew Ada.

She’d grown up within the walls of paddocks. Learned to walk behind the McLaren hospitality motorhome in Hungary. Her first solid food had been a biscuit stolen off Oscar’s pre-race snack plate. Her mini paddock-pass gave her access to every team’s motorhome, just in case she got lost and needed a soft place to land.

By now, she knew the names of every mechanic, every engineer, and every race director on the rotating FIA schedule. She greeted them all by name. Correctly. And she remembered who liked what kind of sweets.

The media barely saw her. That was a conscious boundary. Amelia — razor-sharp, unbothered by PR expectations — had drawn the line early and made it immovable. No up-close photos of Ada’s face. No intrusive questions. If Ada wanted to be public someday, that would be her choice — not something sold for a headline before she could spell her name.

But within the paddock itself, Ada was a fixture. A streak of colour and mischief. Fiercely protected. Fiercely loved.

And she had routines. Rituals, really.

One of them involved storming onto the grid like she owned it (Amelia walked slowly behind), pushing past engineers and camera rigs, and beelining toward two very important people.

The first: her uncle.

“Ducky!”

Oscar turned the moment he heard her voice, already crouching down with open arms. He was in his race suit, grinning like he hadn’t just been pacing with nerves ten seconds earlier.

“Oi,” he said, “that’s not my name, trouble.”

“But it’s what Mummy calls you!” Ada argued, already climbing into his lap like a koala. “I remember!”

“She’s got you there, mate,” Lando called from a few feet away, amusement curling through his voice.

Oscar rolled his eyes but leaned forward for his good luck kiss. Ada planted a dramatic one on his cheek, complete with a mwah sound effect, then hopped off and marched across the grid to Lando.

Her daddy.

He crouched before she even reached him. She barrelled into his arms with the enthusiasm of a girl who had never once doubted she would be caught.

“You ready, Ada Bug?” he asked as he scooped her up.

“Ready!” she chirped.

“Gonna give me a boost?”

She nodded solemnly, then leaned forward to kiss him right on the tip of the nose — her signature move. Soft, sticky-lipped from the fruit pouch she'd insisted on finishing on the way in. Then she whispered, very seriously, “Be fast. And be smart. Love you, Daddy.”

Amelia, standing just behind them, caught Lando’s expression shift; just a fraction. A sudden, raw quiet behind his eyes. He pulled Ada closer, briefly, wordlessly. Pressed his nose into her hair.

Then, carefully, he passed her back to Amelia.

Amelia took her easily — muscle memory now — resting Ada against her hip like a second heartbeat. She adjusted the strap of her crossbody bag with her free hand and took a long sip of her iced coffee.

“Drive fast,” she said evenly, meeting Lando’s eyes.

He smirked faintly, already turning back toward his car.

“Be safe,” she added.

He nodded once, familiar rhythm.

And then, casually, almost too casually, she added, “I’m pregnant.”

He froze. One step from the car. “What?”

“I’m pregnant,” she repeated, softer this time. No smile, no build-up — just fact, like announcing the weather.

They hadn’t expected it. Not exactly. They’d been trying for a few months, hopeful but guarded. Amelia had been tracking everything — methodical as ever — but refusing to let herself get too wrapped up in the outcomes. Lando had taken a more gentle approach. Faith over control. He’d just kept telling her, It’ll happen when it happens. We’re already a family.

And now it was happening.

For a heartbeat, Lando didn’t move.

Then he turned fully — slow, like gravity had stopped working — and blinked at her.

Ada, oblivious, was babbling about how she wanted to wave the checkered flag today and if Max’s cats could come to the garage next time.

But Lando only stared at Amelia.

“Oh,” he breathed, voice cracking wide open. “Holy shit.”

Amelia’s mouth tilted upward. Barely.

He was already in his race suit, just minutes from lights out, about to hurtle into one of the most competitive qualifying sessions of the season — but suddenly, he looked younger. Dazed. Entirely undone.

His hands hovered in the air like he wanted to reach for her — didn’t know where to begin.

And Amelia, ever precise, ever composed, leaned in and kissed him. Quick. Solid. Grounding.

“We’ll be fine,” she murmured against his lips. “We always are.”

“Another baby?” he whispered, reverent.

She nodded.

Lando let out a breath. One hand came up to his chest like he needed to physically hold it all in — the awe, the fear, the quiet wonder of it.

Then his comm crackled: “Two minutes to final call.”

He blinked. Straightened. Looked at his wife. Then at his daughter. Then back again.

“Okay,” he said, drawing in one last steadying breath. “Right. Fast. Clever. Safe.”

“Love you,” Amelia told him.

“Love you,” he echoed, already stepping toward Will, adrenaline and awe carrying him forward.

Ada tugged gently on Amelia’s shirt.

“Mummy?”

“Yes?”

“Can I go and tell Maxie you’re gonna have a baby?” she asked, eyes wide and serious.

Amelia bit back a laugh and turned them toward the edge of the grid. Her mum was already waiting near Lando’s garage to take over babysitting duty.

“Not yet. Your daddy drives better with adrenaline,” she said, adjusting Ada’s ponytail with one hand, “but your Uncle Maxie gets distracted. We’ll tell Maxie another time, okay?”

“When?” Ada asked, frowning a little.

“I think… we’ll tell him next week. At the wedding.”

Ada’s face lit up. “I can’t wait to wear my pretty dress, Mummy!”

Amelia kissed her forehead, pulling her a little closer as they weaved between team personnel.

“I know, baby,” she said softly. “You’re going to look beautiful.”

—

202X 

He did it.

The air was electric. No — it was charged, like the world itself had paused mid-spin to catch its breath.

Lando stood on the top step of the podium, champagne in one hand, heart in his throat. There were tears in his eyes — real ones, wild and stinging, completely unfiltered. His face was flushed, soaked from the spray, but his grin was a thing of pure, stunned wonder.

He’d done it.

World Champion.

A cheer rolled across the circuit like thunder. The fireworks lit up the sky behind him in great booming waves, streaks of orange and silver and gold — and below, just past the glittering wall of photographers, she was there.

Amelia.

The crowd blurred. The moment blurred. But she didn’t.

She stood at the base of the podium steps, her hair tousled from wind and chaos, arms crossed tightly across her chest like if she didn’t hold herself together she might simply combust. Her eyes were glassy. Her face unreadable — until it wasn’t.

Until he stepped down and reached for her.

Until she moved without hesitation.

He caught her with the kind of ease that didn’t need choreography — years of knowing her weight, her stillness, her everything. His arms wrapped around her middle, and before she could say a word, he spun her. Under the lights. Under the fireworks. Under the full, beating heart of a decade in the making.

Her laugh cracked open the noise. Her legs curled up instinctively. Her hands dug into the back of his fire suit.

She said his name, just once. No title. No superlatives. No team radio.

Just him.

Lando.

He set her down slowly, like she was fragile, like the moment might shatter if he moved too fast — but she leaned forward and kissed him, hard, on the corner of his mouth, where the champagne had pooled and the smile wouldn’t quite leave.

The world spun again.

And somewhere, behind it all, Ada was being passed from Oscar to George to Max to Amelia’s mother, hands raised above the crowd as she screamed, “Daddy, daddy, daddy!”

@/f1

Lando Norris is the 202X Formula One World Champion.

What a season. What a finish. What a moment. 🧡👑 #WDC #LandoNorris #F1

@/mclaren

No words. Just joy.

Congratulations, Lando. You’ve earned every second of this.

And yes — that podium was everything. No, we’re not crying, you’re crying. 🧡🧡🧡

@/formulawivesclub

There is NOTHING more powerful than a man who wins the WDC and immediately spins his wife under literal fireworks. Iconic. Romantic. Cinematic. I am unwell. 😭😭😭

#WifeOfTheChampion #AmeliaNorris #PowerCouple

@/uncleducky44

the most magical WDC celebration this sport has seen in decades. maybe forever. PAPAYA ON TOP

@/maxverstappen1

*photo of Ada asleep on his shoulder post-podium, wearing her dad’s cap*

she said she had to stay up to see the champion. i think she made it to the fireworks. ❤️

— 

202X

Final lap.

The sun was setting in streaks of copper and violet. Floodlights cast the track in electric brilliance, shadows long and sharp. And the world was holding its breath.

Oscar Piastri led by six seconds.

Not enough to coast. Not when Lando was behind him.

Not when the championship hung in the balance — years of sweat and heartbreak and razor-wire precision culminating in this.

From the pit wall, Amelia’s voice came through steady and clear.

“Final sector. No traffic. You’re clear. Bring it home, Ducky.”

No theatrics. No screaming. Just her voice, the one constant he’d had for the entirety of his F1 career. Focused. Fierce. Full of something rare and warm and undiluted: belief.

“Copy,” Oscar said, breath hitching.

And then, in the most un-Oscar voice imaginable — thick with feeling, stripped raw, “…I don’t think I’m breathing.”

She laughed. A beautiful, cracked little sound. The comms team didn’t mute it. No one could. “Please breathe.”

He crossed the line a moment later. P1.

The fireworks hit the sky immediately; red and gold and brilliant. The pitman and garages erupted. McLaren, orange-clad and screaming, split open with euphoria.

And then Amelia’s voice again; louder this time, breaking apart at the edges: “Oscar Piastri. You are a Formula One World Champion.”

Silence.

Oscar didn’t reply. He just let out one long, disbelieving breath, and you could hear the hitched sound of someone trying not to cry and failing anyway. “We did it, Amelia.”

“You did it,” she corrected.

“No,” he said, firm now. Fierce. “We did. All of it. Every lap. You’re the best engineer and best friend I could’ve ever wished for. God, I love you so much.”

The audio went everywhere. Uploaded by the team, by fans, by rival engineers who had no choice but to respect it.

Two minutes of radio. Intimate. Impossible.

It was the most-streamed F1 clip of the year.

Because there he was — Oscar, still barely in his mid-twenties, helmet resting on the halo of his car, chest heaving as the gravity of it sank in.

And there she was; Amelia, halfway to the pit barrier, shoving her headset at a stunned junior engineer, sprinting.

He met her halfway. 

She didn’t usually hug. But she did then. Tight and wordless. Face buried in his chest. Years of partnership and pride wrapped into that single, silent second.

And when they pulled apart, he knocked his forehead against hers, grinning like a boy again. “Told you I’d win it.”

“I never doubted you.”

—

The footage of the podium showed Amelia next to the team, arms crossed, blinking hard. Oscar had to compose himself twice during the anthem. And when he raised the trophy, he pointed straight at her.

No words.

Just… pride. 

—

2028 

It started with coffee.

Not just any coffee — her coffee. The specific roast she loved from that tiny roastery near Lake Como. Brewed in silence while she slept in. No baby monitor, no toddler noise, no midnight feeding schedules. Just the steady hush of morning, and Lando moving through the kitchen like a man on a mission.

Amelia stirred around 9:00 a.m. — a luxury in itself.

There was a note on the pillow next to her.

Happy anniversary, baby. Today is yours. We’re doing it your way. Uncle Ducky has both of our babies today. Yes, willingly. Yes, I’m sure. No, you don’t need to check in on them.

Come downstairs when you’re ready. I’ve got step one waiting for you.

Love you forever,

— Lando

She blinked. Then smiled. Then got up without rushing — another gift.

When she padded downstairs, wrapped in one of his old t-shirts, she found him barefoot in the kitchen with a table set for two, sunlight spilling through the open balcony doors.

"Happy anniversary," he said softly, crossing to her with a hand on her cheek and a kiss that lingered. "Sit. Eat."

There were croissants from her favourite bakery in town. Raspberries and whipped butter. Her coffee, perfect. And Lando — already looking at her like the day was made.

“The kids?” She asked eventually, narrowing her eyes.

“Totally fine. They always are with Oscar. He made me promise not to call unless someone was bleeding. He said that you deserve a proper day off.”

“I don’t need a day off from my children,” she muttered, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “But it’ll be nice to be able to kiss you without tripping over one of them.” 

“Exactly,” Lando said.

Breakfast faded into a walk — hand-in-hand along the coast, slow and sun-warmed. No schedule. No pushing. Just the faint hush of waves licking the edges of Monaco and the occasional squeeze of Lando’s fingers in hers.

They didn't talk much, and that was deliberate.

Afterward, instead of a spa or anything tactile, he drove her twenty minutes out to their favourite low-key golf course — a hidden gem tucked against the edge of a hill, quiet in the off-season.

It had started a few years ago, this habit of hers. Her golf-ball collection was ever-growing, each one labeled and tucked into a little wooden tray above the fireplace. A more serious, tactile comfort that had slowly morphed into a silly, sentimental thing. 

Lando had never once questioned the golf ball. Not in the beginning, not in the middle. 

He just brought her to find the next one.

They played nine holes. She beat him on five.

He whined. She smirked. It was perfect.

She picked out a new ball from the pro shop (green) and tucked it into her coat pocket. 

“You’ll label that one later?” Lando asked, swinging her hand between them as they walked back to the car.

“Yeah,” she replied. “It's Ada’s favourite colour.” 

“This week.” He said. 

She smiled fondly. “Yeah. This week.” 

—

Lunch came after.

A rooftop place they both loved but hadn’t been to since before Ada was born. White tablecloths, soda on ice. Her favourite risotto, his ridiculous stack of truffle fries, two hours of soft conversation without a single interruption from a baby monitor or a toddler needing to pee.

No baby wipes in her bag. No cutting food into tiny, manageable pieces.

Just them.

—

The sun was setting when they got back to their place.

Amelia kicked off her shoes by the door and reached for her hair tie. Lando caught her hand before she could disappear upstairs.

“One more thing,” he said, almost shy. “Come with me.”

They climbed to the top-floor balcony; her favourite spot in the house. There, waiting: a blanket. Two glasses of wine. A bowl of green olives (Amelia’s vice). And a tiny projector already humming against the far wall.

She raised an eyebrow.

Lando pressed play.

Clips started to roll. Grainy little moments he’d stitched together over months — Ada’s first steps down the hallway at the MTC, the hospital selfie when Amelia had delivered their second baby (Lando’s eyes red from crying, Amelia’s thumb still smudged with blood), lazy footage of her asleep on the couch with both kids curled up on her chest.

Her laugh in the background of a hundred quiet seconds. The clink of teacups. The sound of a little voice calling, “Mummy, look!”

Then his voice — low, warm, recorded late at night from the quiet corner of their bed, “I’m so in love with this life.” 

Amelia said nothing. She was biting her lip a little too hard.

Lando didn’t push. He just shifted behind her on the blanket, pulling her gently between his legs and wrapping his arms around her waist — not too tight, just enough to say I’m here.

“You always make things perfect for everyone else,” he said into her shoulder. “So I wanted to make one perfect day for you.”

She swallowed once. Then leaned her weight back into him, just a fraction — a silent thank-you.

The sun dipped lower.

The stars began to nudge through.

And finally, softly, “Thank you,” she whispered. “I love you.”

“I love you more.”

“Impossible, I think.” She admitted, truthfully. 

Lando smiled into her hair and didn’t let go.

—

Later that night, Oscar sent a photo of Ada fast asleep on a pile of couch cushions in the middle of his flat, a cereal box half-open in the background.

Amelia texted back a blurry photo of her and Lando curled up on the balcony under a blanket, the projector still casting shadows across the wall.

Perfect day complete.

—

2030

The meltdown crept in slowly.

It always did.

Amelia had been trying to hold it back for hours — maybe days, if she was honest. The world had gotten too loud again. Too bright. Too many textures and demands and interruptions.

The fridge was humming wrong. Ada had spilled orange juice and then cried when her leggings got wet. The baby had been colicky all night. Lando was out doing media. Someone had moved the coffee mugs and none of them were in the right order.

She was standing in the kitchen, clutching the edge of the countertop so hard her knuckles were white, when it all finally crashed down on her. 

Her chest seized. Her eyes blurred. The sound in her ears turned to static.

Everything felt wrong. Too much. All at once.

And she couldn’t hold it in anymore.

She slid to the floor, knees curling up, hands covering her ears. Her breathing shortened. She rocked back and forth. Tears leaked out — not from sadness, but from pure sensory overload.

Across the room, Ada, six years old, in a T-shirt covered in glitter paint and crumbs, froze where she stood.

For one long moment, she just watched.

Not afraid.

Just... thinking.

Then, without a word, she turned on her heel and sprinted down the hallway.

She found her daddy in the bedroom, changing the baby’s nappy. He’d only come home a few minutes ago. Her little hand tugged at the hem of his shirt urgently.

“Daddy,” she whispered, breathless. “Mummy needs you.”

Lando paused. His head whipped up instantly. “What’s wrong, little-pea?”

“She’s on the floor. She’s crying with her hands on her ears. She’s not talking.”

Lando’s jaw jumped, but he kept his cool and handed Ada her baby brother. “Stay here, okay? You hold him and don’t move. I’ll go help Mummy.”

—

Amelia was still in the same spot, crumpled in front of the dishwasher, the noise of the appliance now too sharp, like claws dragging through her skull.

Lando knelt slowly beside her. Not touching. Not speaking yet. Just breathing in sync.

A beat passed.

Then two.

“I’m here,” he said quietly.

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

“I knew the dishwasher was making a weird noise,” he added gently, knowing exactly what she was hearing. “I’ll call someone to fix it tomorrow.”

Her shoulders twitched.

Still too much.

He sat down properly beside her, close but not touching, and began counting out loud.

“One. Two. Three. Four. Five…”

The rhythm gave her something to hold on to.

He kept going. Soft. Steady.

“…twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

When he finally reached forty, her hands lowered. Just a little. Her breathing slowed.

Lando waited.

And when her eyes finally fluttered open — puffy, red-rimmed, exhausted — he reached out with one hand, offering it but not insisting.

She took it.

No words, just pressure — fingers threading through his, grounding herself.

“I hate this,” she rasped, barely audible. “I was fine. I should’ve been—”

“Nope,” he said. “No rules. No shoulds. You just were. And now you’re here. That’s all that matters.”

Amelia blinked. Let out a breath that stuttered on the way out.

From the doorway, a soft voice, “Mummy?”

They both turned. Ada was peeking in, barefoot and clutching the baby monitor against her chest.

“I put the baby in his chair,” she said proudly. “And I put my light-up shoes away so they won’t hurt your eyes.”

Lando smiled faintly. Amelia just blinked again, overwhelmed by the careful compassion of a six-year-old.

Ada padded over, crouched carefully beside her mum, and offered a tiny, glittery toy dinosaur — the kind she usually kept in her backpack for comfort.

“You can hold this if it helps,” she said seriously. “Sometimes it helps me.”

Amelia took it with shaking fingers.

Then, finally, finally, she opened her arms.

Ada climbed into her lap.

And Lando wrapped them both up in his arms, squeezing tight. 

—

Later that night, when things were quiet again and the world had shrunk back to something manageable, Amelia whispered into the crook of Lando’s neck, “She went and got you. She knew.”

Lando kissed her hair. “She always knows,” he said. “She’s yours.”

Amelia smiled, small and raw. “No. She’s ours.”

— 

2033

They were sitting under the shade of an umbrella, barefoot and sun-drowsy, watching their children build increasingly complicated sandcastles twenty feet away. Ada had her arms bossily crossed, giving instructions like a forewoman. Her little brother — all curls and slightly sunburnt cheeks despite the copious layers of SPF50 — was digging trenches with his hands. 

Lando passed Amelia a cold can of peach iced tea.

She took it, absently, eyes on their kids.

Lando leaned back on his elbows, sighing. “Is it Thursday or Friday?”

Amelia didn’t answer immediately. Her sunglasses were halfway down her nose. Her hair was damp at the ends from her swim. “Friday,” she murmured. “Pretty sure.”

He nodded, squinting toward the sun. “Days have been blurring. If it’s Friday, it’s already the twelfth.”

He was right. The days had all started to melt together. Long mornings. Naps tangled in hotel sheets. Late dinners with sticky fingers and endless laughter.

Amelia sat up a little. Not sharply — but enough to catch her husbands attention. “Oh,” she said, very quietly.

Lando stared at her. “What, baby?”

She furrowed her brow. Like she was doing mental arithmetic. Calendar math. Gut instinct. “I’m… late.”

He blinked.

“…Like, how late?”

“Four days?” She said it more like a question. “Maybe five. I didn’t notice. With travel and the kids and— I don’t know.”

Lando sat up straighter, heartbeat suddenly louder in his ears.

They looked at each other.

Neither of them moved.

Down by the water, Ada shrieked with delight. “Mummy! We made a castle for the sea princess!”

Amelia waved back, mechanically, then turned back to Lando. “I didn’t bring a test.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Should we go find a pharmacy?”

She hesitated. Then shook her head. “No. Not yet.” She reached for his hand, threading her fingers between his, palm warm. “Let’s just sit. Just for a minute. I want to stay here a little longer, before everything changes again.”

His grip tightened on hers. “Is that okay?”

Amelia nodded. “I’m happy. Just… surprised.”

Lando exhaled, gaze flicking back to their children. Ada was crowning her sandcastle with a plastic fork she’d found. Their son was diligently filling a bucket with sea foam.

“I think we’re gonna be outnumbered,” he said softly.

“I think we already are,” Amelia murmured, smiling faintly. “But that’s exactly what we wanted, isn’t it? Three of them. A couple of years apart. It’s perfect.” 

And they sat there. Under the umbrella, hand in hand, watching the beginning of their forever shift again.

The ocean kept talking, its waves crashing against the rocks at the other end of the beach.

So did Ada — ever the chatter-box. 

Amelia smiled. “Three is a good number.” 

“Three of them. Two of us. Five total.” He murmured. “We’re missing four.” 

“No we’re not.” She whispered. “You’re right here.” 

He blinked, then he leaned in and kissed her. 

—

2034

Ada slammed the front door shut with the theatrical force only a ten-year-old could manage.

“Mummy!” She yelled before she was even properly out of her shoes. “Mummy, I have to tell you something very important!”

Amelia looked up from the kitchen table, where she was re-assembling a snapped pencil sharpener and ignoring the half-eaten apple Ada had left on the kitchen bench to rot that morning.

“In here,” she called calmly.

Ada thundered in, socks half-falling off, her backpack barely zipped. Her cheeks were pink. Her plaits were lopsided.

“I’m in love,” she declared.

Amelia blinked once. “You’re what?”

Ada flopped dramatically into the chair opposite her. “I’m in love, Mummy. With a boy in my class. His name is Ethan and he wears Spider-Man socks and he let me use his sparkly blue gel pen for colouring even though he really likes it. He said I was clever.”

Amelia stared at her daughter for a long beat.

Then, she said plainly, “You’re ten.”

Ada sighed. “Yes, mummy. I know that.”

There was a pause.

From the hallway, the sound of keys jingling, the front door opening again.

Lando’s voice: “Where are my girls?”

“In the kitchen!” Ada called sweetly. And then, switching gears with dizzying emotional agility, she leaned in and whispered to her mum: “Don’t tell Daddy. He’ll make it weird.”

Amelia frowned. “I don’t lie to your dad. You know that.” 

Ada just sighed because yeah, she did know that.

Lando appeared in the doorway a moment later, freshly back from sim training. “Why do I feel like I just walked in on a crime?”

Ada beamed. “No crime! Just secrets!”

“Oh, cool, that’s comforting,” he deadpanned, kissing the top of her head. Then he gave Amelia a suspicious side-eye. “What’s happening?”

“Well,” Amelia said, “your daughter thinks that she’s in love.”

Lando’s eyebrows shot up. “I leave her at that school for six hours—”

“Daddy!” Ada groaned, flinging her arms dramatically over her face.

“—and now she’s in love?” He leaned over her chair, mock-serious. “Who is he? What does he do? What are his qualifications?”

“He’s ten!” Ada squeaked.

“That’s not a qualification,” Lando said, faux-grave.

Amelia was biting back a smile now, watching them.

“Daddy,” Ada said solemnly, peeking at him through her fingers, “his name is Ethan, and he gave me the good gel pen. The sparkly one. That’s basically marriage.”

Lando clutched his heart. “God help me. Wait until I tell Max about this.”

“I knew you’d make it weird,” Ada whined.

“I am weird, Bug,” he replied, scooping her up despite her protests. “That’s your legacy.”

He spun her around like she weighed nothing. 

Amelia smiled as she watched them. 

But when Ada caught her eyes mid-giggle, cheeks flushed, safe and loved and full of her first little crush, Amelia just smiled at her.

And Ada smiled right back.

—

Nine Years Later

She doesn’t marry Ethan.

Of course she doesn’t.

He moves to Devon at the end of Year 6, and she forgets the way his name made her stomach flutter by the time she’s twelve.

The next crush is taller. The next one after that plays guitar.

None of them stick. None of them feel right.

But she never says anything. Because… she’s Ada Norris.

And Ada Norris grew up being known. Watched. Treasured.

She keeps the sacred things close to her chest.

Until one day, fourteen years after her dramatic kitchen confession, she finds herself in the back of the paddock in Monaco, barefoot and suntanned, her hair in a braid, with a camera slung over her shoulder and dust on her jeans.

She’s nineteen.

She’s laughing.

And in front of her, sitting on a pile of stacked tyres, grazed knees tucked up under his arms and ice cream dripping down his wrist, is him.

Ayrton Verstappen.

One year younger than her.

A lifetime of familiarity.

She’s known him since before either of them could talk properly.

They played tag between hospitality units. Swapped Pokémon cards in Red Bull’s simulator room.

He once peed in her toy car. She once cut his hair with nail scissors because she thought it would make him less ugly. 

She never thought about marrying him.

Not seriously.

Not until she did.

It doesn’t happen all at once.

It’s the way he listens. The way he gets it — the legacy, the pressure, the strange ache of being a paddock kid with a famous surname and the expectation to become someone.

It’s the way he defends her when people assume too much.

It’s the way he doesn’t flinch when she stim-rambles or tells him she needs exactly ten minutes of silence.

It’s the way he waits — patient, steady, eyes bluer than any sky she’s ever seen.

She’s Ada Norris.

And someday soon, someday when the dust settles, and the stars line up just right, she’ll be Ada Verstappen.

And damn… it does have a nice ring to it.

—

2035

Amelia sat in the doorway of Sienna’s nursery, back pressed to the frame, coffee cooling in her hands. The house was quiet — unusually so. Ezra was napping. Ada was at school. Lando had taken a rare moment to go for a run.

And Sienna… Sienna was asleep. Peacefully. A soft halo of curls pressed into her muslin blanket, one fist curled beneath her chin like she’d already begun dreaming of something secret and important.

Amelia watched her, and breathed.

Three children.

Ada, her first, her fiercest, had taught her what love felt like when it broke you open.

Ezra had come quieter. A gentle soul with his father’s smile and a knack for slipping into people’s arms like he’d always belonged there.

And now… Sienna.

Her last. Her littlest.

Her loudest silence.

Almost entirely deaf. Diagnosed at three weeks old.

Amelia hadn’t cried — not then. Not when the results came in. Not even when the specialists had spoken gently about cochlear implants and early language support and accessibility.

She’d just… stilled. Absorbed. Pivoted.

It wasn’t grief.

Not exactly.

It was adjustment. Recalibration. Learning a new language — not just in signs, but in patience. In pace. In how to prepare for a life she didn’t know how to predict.

Sienna would be fine.

Better than fine. She had her father’s stubbornness and her mother’s ability to see patterns in chaos. 

She had a sister who’d already started practicing fingerspelling at the dinner table, and a brother who kissed her ear every time she blinked up at him. She had grandparents, uncles, a paddock full of honorary aunties and mechanics and engineers ready to build her whatever she needed.

She had love. The whole, complex, unshakable kind.

Still, this baby, this challenge, this gift, it had made Amelia stretch in ways she hadn’t before.

And there, on the floor, in the hush of a warm afternoon, she finally let herself feel it all. The fear. The wonder. The sheer magnitude of how much she loved these children — all three of them. So differently. So fully. So irreversibly.

Sienna shifted in her sleep.

Amelia didn’t move.

Just smiled. Tired. Whole.

“Okay,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. “We’ll figure it out together.”

And they would.

They always did.

—

2038

The garden behind their Monaco home wasn’t large, but it was theirs.

The sea glittered just beyond the hedges, and the sunlight slanted golden through the lemon trees. There were chairs set out in uneven rows, a makeshift arch wrapped in white linen and fresh lavender. No press. No guest list politics. Just the people who mattered — their parents, their siblings, a few of their closest friends, and the three children who had rewritten their lives in the best possible ways.

Ada was fourteen and refused to wear anything but the pink dress she’d picked herself. Ezra, five, clung to Oscar’s leg until Lando knelt and whispered something that made him laugh. And Sienna — three and a half, curls pinned back with daisy clips, cochlear implant nestled behind one ear — was already signing “cake” to anyone who made eye contact.

Amelia stood barefoot in the grass, holding her bouquet with one hand and Sienna’s palm with the other.

Her dress wasn’t new. She’d pulled it from the back of the closet — the pale ivory one she’d worn to a gala years ago, the one Lando had stared at like he’d forgotten how to speak. Soft and silky against her skin, it still felt like him.

Lando met her halfway up the path, smiling like he always had.

“Hi,” he said, taking Sienna’s hand too. “You look beautiful.”

“You look sunburnt,” Amelia replied, then softened. “But handsome.”

Beneath the lazy sway of the breeze and the quiet murmur of waves, Lando took both her hands and said, “I’d marry you a thousand times in a thousand different lives. But I’m really glad I got this one. With you. With them. With all of it.”

Amelia, ever spare with her words, just said, “You’re the love of my life, Lando Norris.”

Later, while the kids played under the fairy lights, Max and Pietra poured champagne, and Oscar stole cake straight from the platter, Lando found her standing off to the side, heels dangling from one hand.

He wrapped an arm around her waist. Kissed the top of her head.

“That felt special,” he murmured.

“It did,” she said.

Because it only confirmed what they already knew. 

They had each other. They had their home. 

And their love had only deepened with the quiet weight of time.

The rest — as always — was just radio silence.

[the-cosmic-cauldron]

We’re already more than halfway through 2025—have you checked in on your New Year’s resolutions lately? Today, we’re diving into your next blessings, because I can feel the collective craving something to look forward to—something to spark excitement again.

It’s hot, it’s sweaty, the days are longer, and we want to enjoy every ounce of them. So, take a deep breath, choose a pile, and discover the next blessing coming into your life.

You’re just one step away from a beautiful new chapter.

🌫 Pile 1: Clarity After the Storm

For many of you, your blessings are arriving in a very sacred and special way. You’re coming out of a fog—an internal conflict that’s kept you confused and uncertain. It’s been hard. You’ve been hanging on by a thin thread, just hoping that something would shift. You’ve been pushing forward, trying to persevere through heavy times that felt never-ending.

But here’s the good news: perseverance is paying off. The mist is lifting.

There has been a veil over your life for a while—a mental and emotional haze, perhaps even spiritual confusion. You’ve been in survival mode, not thriving, just getting by. But that cycle is coming to a close. What’s next is true, divine clarity.

Not the kind of clarity that leaves room for doubt—but decisive, empowered, embodied clarity. Confidence. Alignment. A return to your vitality.

Your blessing is this: You are coming into your own. No more tiptoeing. No more confusion. You will know who you are, what you’re here for, and exactly where you’re headed.

🔥 Pile 2: The Power Move

For you, the blessing is freedom at last. This summer, something shifts—and you are finally released from what has been holding you back.

You’ve been struggling to maintain balance in your life. Whether that means neglecting your body, abandoning routines that once grounded you, experiencing financial instability, losing a job, or grieving a relationship—you’ve been in a cycle of depletion.

That cycle ends now.

You’ve been watching your passion dim under the weight of life’s burdens. You wanted to soar, to laugh, to create, to live—but you’ve been stuck in survival mode, constantly trying to grasp stability, only for it to slip through your fingers again and again.

But here’s the turning point:

You’re about to make a power move—one that shifts your entire reality. This choice will align you with abundance, direction, and joy.

You are your own blessing.

The next decision you make will lead to a path that is clearer, brighter, more aligned. A path where you can finally feel creative, courageous, and grounded again.

Your blessing is liberation through empowered action.

🤍 Pile 3: Relationship Harmony

For this group, the blessing that’s coming your way is relational—whether in love, friendship, or family.

You’ve been in a season of miscommunication and emotional distance. There’s been tension, withdrawal, silence, and misunderstandings. Perhaps you’ve felt ghosted. Perhaps you’ve felt confused about where you stand with someone you care about deeply.

It’s been exhausting. The emotional back-and-forth. The overthinking. The moments of connection followed by uncertainty. Life may have been overwhelmingly busy too, pulling your energy in multiple directions. And all that inner and outer chaos left you paralyzed, unsure of how to move forward—or even how you feel.

You may have gone inward, convinced things just wouldn’t work out. You surrendered. But in truth, your heart never gave up. You wanted so much more with this person—or people—and you felt shattered when it didn’t unfold the way you hoped.

But now?

Reunion. Reconciliation. Relational harmony.

Your blessing is coming in the form of emotional connection—moments of real understanding, affection, compassion, and warmth. The tension will ease. The connection will feel soft again, genuine again, possible again.

You’re coming back together. Not in chaos—but in love.

🪷 Pile 4: Autonomy & Stability

Your upcoming blessing is independence and stability.

You’re moving out of a place where you were once disillusioned—holding on tightly to high hopes, dreams, and idealized visions of what could have been. You genuinely believed something was meant for you, so you clung to it, even as it began to collapse.

But it didn’t bring ease.

It didn’t bring comfort.

It demanded too much of you—your energy, your peace, your spirit.

And now, it’s falling away. Not to punish you, but to free you.

Your blessing is the ability to finally let go. You no longer need to beg something broken to stay. You’re stepping into your sovereignty, reclaiming your autonomy, and getting back to yourself—back to self-love, self-care, and self-devotion.

You’re rebuilding.

You’re rising.

You’re remembering who the hell you are.

This time, you’re not dependent—you’re interdependent. You’re no longer searching outside yourself for worth or clarity. You’re choosing the path that serves your highest self.

Your blessing is becoming whole, stable, and self-led again.

🔥 Pile 5: Creative Spark & Inspired Action

Your blessing is a renewed zest for life and a passionate return to your creative projects.

You’ve spent a long time in a fog of stagnation—buzzing with ideas, yes, but unsure how to act on them. You found yourself stuck in cycles of overthinking, second-guessing, procrastinating. You wanted to build something great, but discipline kept slipping through your fingers. Routines fell apart. Structure felt too rigid.

You were at a crossroads, uncertain about what to do next.

But here’s where your blessing begins:

Your inspiration is returning.

Your spark is reigniting.

You’re entering a powerful phase of motivation, clarity, and action.

No more sitting on your gifts. No more doubting your potential. No more playing small. You’re gathering momentum. You’re seeing signs. You’re inspired by the world around you. You’re creating, moving, and saying yes to life again.

This is your time to seize the moment. Your next chapter is rooted in doing—not just dreaming. And everything you need is already within you.

Your blessing is your own readiness. You are the fire now.

🌊 Pile 6: Release & Reclamation

You’ve been stuck in the past—emotionally tethered to someone or something that no longer serves you. You couldn’t let go, no matter how hard you tried. You replayed the memories. You held onto hope. You clung to what was already slipping away.

And in doing so, you missed other blessings.

You turned down opportunities.

You held yourself in emotional limbo.

You didn’t grow, not because you couldn’t—but because all your energy was spent on holding on. You lost time, financial chances, and maybe even yourself in the process.

But now, your blessing is here:

You’re letting go.

You’re coming back home to yourself.

No more enmeshment. No more identity wrapped around someone else’s love, approval, or absence. You are becoming your own anchor now.

You’re learning discipline. You’re rebuilding slowly, with care. You’re protecting your energy with boundaries that hold. You’re regaining your stamina. You’re no longer people-pleasing or playing small.

You’re reclaiming your power—and you’re doing it fiercely.

The blessing is you.

The freedom is yours.

And the path forward is finally yours to define.

🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀🎀

[dakusan]

📁 ASK DUMP 𓆩🩸𓆪 26 JUNE 2025

HELLOOOO EVERYONE yes yes I KNOW I missed Wreck Me Wednesday, yes I rage-deleted my Sims 4 CC folder out of spite, yes I spiralled over grey sweatpants and forgot to drink water BUT!!! I return bearing GIFTS. This is the official feral ask flood and all of you being absolute MENACES in the best way.

You sent asks. I short-circuited. Now we suffer together.

Let’s rot. 🩸🖤✨

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

👻 ANON LOGGED: "What if someone went for Chan’s blood doll instead—lies, forged receipts, fake scandals, until she breaks and pulls away from him?"

OH 👻 ANON YOU MONSTER. you broke channie's doll. you wounded the empire boy. you planted a lie in a palace of blood and now the whole thing is cracking.

but fine. let’s answer. sharp pain first, then the sugar—just how Chan likes it.

⸺⟡⸺

Chan doesn’t flinch at threats. He’s had fangs to his throat before. He built this empire from ashes and rage, and he’s watched men far bigger than you crawl. But they didn’t go for the king. They went for the girl in silk sheets and stolen glances. They went for the soft thing he keeps in his arms like a rosary.

The threats? He handed them to Changbin with a yawn.

The letters? Had Minho do a scent check. All dead ends. He figured they gave up.

But then… You flinch when he touches you. You stop calling him “my sun” and starts asking for space. You won’t look him in the eye when he drinks from you.

He doesn’t understand at first. He assumes it’s stress. Overwork. Hormonal instability.

Until he finds the manila envelope under your pillow. Photos. Screenshots. Lies, doctored messages, faked receipts, twisted stories. Actors claiming to be former dolls. Accusations of cruelty. Of abandonment. Of “burning them out.”

All false. But just true enough to hurt you.

You stop sleeping in his bed. You start crying after feeding. You ask for termination papers.

Not because you hate him. But because you think you've been protecting a monster. Because you can't tell what's true anymore. And because you think if he ever really loved you, he'll let you go.

Chan is powerful. Commanding. Unshakable. But he is not cruel, hurt yes, but not cruel. So he says nothing. Just nods. Folds his hands. And says: “If that’s what you want, you’re free. You always were.”

But dolls don’t thrive without their keepers. And soul-bonded ones? They wither.

You lose color. Stop eating. Wake up cold and aching with phantom pressure where his hand used to rest. And then the truth surfaces.

The actors get sloppy. The scheme leaks. Minho finds one. Changbin traces the wire. Jisung decrypts the audio.

You hear it. All of it.

One night, you're standing outside Luke Health. No pass. No warning. Just eyes rimmed red and fingers trembling. He sensed you here, so of course he walks out to find you already crying. Falling to your knees. Not for forgiveness — but because the bond hurts too much. Being apart ripped you open.

And Chan? He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He just kneels with you. Takes your hands. Kisses each wrist.

“You never needed to beg. You were always mine. And I was always yours.”

You are being guided inside, to his office, where he pulls you into his lap and tells you the truth. Everything. Lets you cry until your sobs go silent.

And when you finally, finally, move back in with him. Share the same bed again. Sleep together, Chan's arm stays wrapped around your waist, firm, just to be sure you're not leaving him again. Not ever again.

⸺⟡⸺

now go apologize to channie for hurting him 💋🦇

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🧊 ANON LOGGED: "What happens if an asexual soulmate tries to bond with vampire!SKZ, even though PIV is off the table?"

Hi my darling,

First off — thank you so much for the ask, and I want to offer a gentle apology in advance. This answer might not be what you hoped for, but I want to be honest and respectful with you, always.

Sadly, it won’t work. And that’s okay. Not every universe is built for every body.

This isn't a "representation fail" thing. This is a biological incompatibility in a feral, bloodborn system where intimacy = sustenance = survival = anchoring = sex. Not because vampires are horny for the hell of it (though… they absolutely are), but because Abnormal biology requires a deep, carnal, penetrative ritual to:

seal bonds,

regulate magical overload,

and safely transfer volatile power.

Think less romance novel, more blood-coded circuitry.

❌ Asexuality vs Abnormal Vampire Lore

Asexuality = completely valid. Always.

But Abnormal vampirism is a different beast:

Magic-triggered reproductive chaos.

Biochemical heatstorms.

Soul-deep regulation through penetrative feeding and sex.

There’s no “skip” button. There’s no “just cuddling” workaround. There’s only burn or bind.

If someone’s hard limit is no penetration ever, then it becomes a biological mismatch in this world. The vampire would:

enter looping hunger states,

suffer rage feedback and ferality,

and the bond would never stabilize.

You’d both suffer. Or worse — implode the tether trying to force something that this universe physically doesn’t allow.

💔 What Happens If You Try?

The vampire stays starving, no matter how sweet you are.

The bond stays fractured. Unsealed.

You become a flickering blood ghost — close enough to ache, never enough to satisfy.

Eventually, the vampire either detonates, or is forced to sever the connection.

Some vampires might try to resist. Might try to find workarounds. But even the softest boys burn in the end. Because this world? It’s not built for denial. It’s built on visceral surrender.

I’ll be honest with you too — I don’t write ace stories. I don’t live that experience, I’m not surrounded by people who do and I haven’t studied the nuances of the identity. I don’t want to speak on something I don’t live or deeply understand. I’m not the writer for that, and I won’t fake it just to check a box.

What I can do is protect the rules of this world — and keep it honest.

This isn’t about exclusion — it’s about worldbuilding integrity. I want every reader to feel safe and respected, even if this particular universe isn’t a match for them. If you're ace and still enjoy reading from the outside, watching the fire from a safe distance — you are so welcome here. Just know the fire burns hot, and it doesn’t change its nature.

🩸 With love, always — and fangs bared 💋🦇

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🧎🏼‍♀️ ANON LOGGED: "Will you be doing the Bang Chan tattoo artist fic? Because I am on my knees for it."

OH BABES 😭💘 HE'S COMING—but he’s the grand finale.

i've done minho now, so next in line is:

🥀 changbinnie ☁️ felix 🔥 channie

🧎🏻‍♀️ so yes. yes i plan on it. but i am SAVING that man for last because when he comes?? you will not be left standing.

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🐈‍⬛ ANON LOGGED: "What if vampire!SKZ had an easily overstimulated soulmate?"

OH 🐈‍⬛ ANON. YOU GET IT. YOU GET THE SOULMATE WHO’S JUST BUILT DELICATE. like their nervous system was spun from lace and static. they were made to tremble. made to sob. made to overload.

⸺⟡⸺

👥 FAMILY GATHERING VERSION:

you step into the vampire family’s private estate and it’s just—

🩸 too many new scents 🩸 too many sharp glances 🩸 too many ancient creatures asking “is this the one?”

you're already sweating. blinking too hard. trying to hold a wine glass with shaking fingers.

and then you catch sight of him across the room— your vampire. your anchor. and you BOLT.

“I don’t know who they are, I don’t know where I am, you weren’t looking at me—”

he just catches you. pulls you into his lap. fangs brushing your ear. hands around your waist.

“Shh, baby. You don’t have to know anyone. You just have to stay with me.”

you melt. bite goes in to regulate you. eyes flutter. brain goes fuzzy. now you're just blinking prettily while the family laughs knowingly.

💀 BEDROOM VERSION:

you think round one is over. you think he’ll give you time to recover. you’re wrong.

you’re already sobbing into the sheets. hips twitching. thighs quivering. and he’s still hard, still hungry, still purring filth into your neck like:

“Don’t crawl away from me, baby. You’re mine. You said you could take it.”

you didn’t say that. you moaned it. with a bite mark already on your collarbone. so now you’re crying. not because it hurts—because it’s too much. but it’s the good kind. the soulbond kind. the “i love you so much i’m going dumb” kind.

and when he bites again—mid-thrust? your brain short-circuits. you scream his name like a spell. and your last coherent thought is:

“i’m gonna die loving him like this.”

and maybe you do. but he brings you back with a kiss and a cold cloth.

⸺⟡⸺

thank you for the ask, you sinful genius 🐈‍⬛ come back anytime 💋🦇

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🖤 ANON LOGGED: “I’ve read half your filth, I’m feral over grey sweatpants, and I will not be elaborating.”

🖤🖤🖤 ANON MY LOVE!!! YOU’RE HERE!!!!! 🖤🖤🖤

the 🌙 slot may be taken, but listen… the black heart? it suits you. you’re dark. mysterious. you belong here. welcome to the blood-slick, thirst-ridden inbox family.

also YOU’VE READ HALF THE MASTERLIST?? I AM SCREAMING.

the fact that you “have thoughts” about the grey sweatpants and chose to withhold them like a menace?? ICONIC. POWERFUL. YOU SCARE ME. I WANT MORE.

thank you for being here. for reading. for being soft and sexy and lovely. i’m so so glad to have you as 🖤 anon and i promise to keep feeding you unholy content until we both pass out from overstimulation and plot twists.

sending u forehead kisses w consent 💋🦇

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🧋 ANON LOGGED: “I reread your smut like it’s gospel and asked how fast SKZ would fold over a little skin.”

welcome to the unholy circle, sweet boba baby 😭💖. you are now officially on the roster as 🧋 anon, bringer of praise, thirst, and dangerous questions.

ALSO?? THE COMPLIMENTS??? my heart is punching holes in my ribcage.

AND THIS QUESTION??? oh. oh we’re gonna be so evil. tight shirts. short skirts. roommate tension. hands twitching. filthy, repressed SKZ energy. i’m feral just THINKING about it. LET'S GO

⸺⟡⸺

❤️‍🔥 SKZ REACTING TO YOU WEARING SOMETHING JUST A LITTLE TOO REVEALING… AS THEIR ROOMMATE / SECRET CRUSH.

BANG CHAN

He's doing everything in his power not to stare—but then you reach for the top shelf and your shirt lifts just enough. His jaw clenches. His knuckles go white around his coffee mug. “Are you trying to kill me?” he mutters, barely audible. And when you blink innocently at him? Oh no. He's clearing his throat, adjusting his sweatpants, avoiding eye contact like it's a full-time job. Will not act on it… unless you sit on the couch beside him with a blanket, and his hand accidentally grazes your thigh. Then it’s over. “...We should talk,” he whispers—right before kissing you like he’s been dying for it.

LEE KNOW

He notices. Of course he does. That little black skirt you’re wearing? It’s short. Dangerous. And he’s watching like a hawk while pretending he isn’t. “Did you lose your pants or is this a new strategy?” he asks dryly, but his ears are pink. You cross your legs on the couch and his eyes drop—for half a second. And that’s all it takes. He gets up and leaves the room. But he comes back. Leaning over the back of the couch, voice low: “You wore that on purpose, didn’t you?” And suddenly you’re pinned to the cushions and his hand is sliding up your thigh like it’s always belonged there.

CHANGBIN

One look at your outfit and he forgets how to function. Wide eyes. Sweaty palms. Tongue-tied disaster. “Uh—th-that’s… that’s a nice shirt,” he stammers. “Is it… new?” It’s not. He’s just never seen that much of your cleavage at once and now he’s spiralling. When you bend over to grab something, he audibly chokes. And when you come over and sit next to him like nothing’s happening??? His inner monologue is SCREAMING. Eventually he blurts out, “You can’t wear stuff like that around me, I’m not strong enough.” And then—quietly, almost desperately— “…Do you want me to touch you?” (He hopes the answer is yes. It is.)

HYUNJIN

You walk out of your room in that tiny little skirt, half a tank top, and he stops breathing. Literally. Forgets how. “You going somewhere?” he asks, but he’s not even pretending to be casual. He's leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping water like it’ll save him, jaw tight, eyes burning holes in your thighs. And when you lean over to grab something? He inhales through his nose like a man trying to resist the devil. “…You really shouldn’t wear that around me.” Your laugh makes it worse. “Unless you want me to do something about it,” he adds—and then waits. Waits to see if you’ll bite back. You do. The water bottle hits the floor and so do your morals.

HAN JISUNG

You come in wearing that tiny crop top and a skirt that’s clearly illegal. He stares for a second too long, then looks away like he’s been caught looking at porn in church. “Wow! Haha! That’s a… cool outfit!” he squeaks. He’s so red you’re worried he’ll combust. But when you bend over? Oh. Now he’s chewing his thumb, fidgeting, pretending to be chill. You sit next to him on the couch and he whispers, “You’re playing a dangerous game.” You: “What game?” Him: “The one where I lose control and ruin our friendship in 0.5 seconds.” (He does. You both love it.)

FELIX

Felix adores you. Would never touch you without permission. But then you walk into the kitchen in a soft little off-the-shoulder shirt with no bra. And it’s like someone flipped a switch. He stares. Silently. Lip between his teeth. You ask if something’s wrong and he just… hums. Then, softly: “Do you know what you’re doing to me right now?” When you pretend not to, he steps closer. “Maybe you want me to lose it.” Oh, he loses it. You end up pressed against the fridge with his hands under your shirt and his breath hot in your ear.

SEUNGMIN

He’s so fucking smug when you enter the room, like, “Really? That’s what you’re wearing?” Raises an eyebrow. Makes a sarcastic comment. Pretends to be unbothered. He is bothered. So. Bothered. He can’t stop glancing. His fingers twitch when you sit close. Then you laugh and his eyes drop straight to your lips, to your thighs, back up. You cross your legs. He crosses a line. “You keep testing me like this,” he murmurs, “and you’ll find out exactly how good I am at making you beg.” And oh, you find out.

JEONGIN

He starts off innocent. Flustered. Giggly. “Whoa… you look cute.” Can’t make eye contact. Doesn’t know where to look. But then you stretch, and the shirt rides up. The skirt shifts. His eyes lock in. He swallows. And he does not look away this time. You giggle. Call him out. “What? I’m just admiring,” he says, voice low. “You shouldn’t tease your roommate, you know. That’s how you end up in my lap.” And suddenly… that’s exactly where you are.

⸺⟡⸺

thank you, my sweet lil boba menace 😭🖤 for this question, for your praise, for being insane in the exact way i like. welcome to the chaos. you are now fully initiated. there’s no way out.

love you 💋🦇

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🩺 ANON LOGGED: “What if getting better meant letting him taste the trust in your bloodstream?”

HELLO MY BELOVED BLOOD-BASED ROMANTIC 🩸😭. thank you for this ask. THANK YOU for this concept. it’s so gentle and so devastating and so hot and i want to chew on it like a sacrament.

you’re getting added to the Sunday Softdrop request queue IMMEDIATELY. you said: “hey what if soulmate vamp!chan felt their healing in the flavor of their blood,” and my soul folded like origami.

you want him to taste trust. you want him to know they believe in him now. that’s so intimate i want to cry and also write it 4 times in a row.

your brain is beautiful. your vibes are immaculate.

thank you for reading, for working so hard, and for coming here to rest your heart and thirst. you’re safe here. you’re welcome here 💋🦇

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🧨🩸 ANON LOGGED: “What if I gave a vampire a jealousy arc and watched the world burn?”

OOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHH ANON. YOU’VE OPENED THE BLOOD-GATES.

you think they’d be patient. but you are WRONG. you think they’d respect boundaries. but they’re vampires. born, bred, and blood-bonded to you. and now you’re out here kissing someone who isn’t them?? they feel it. they taste it. your body is bonded to the wrong hands, the wrong scent, the wrong mouth. and they’re going to lose their goddamn minds.

so here’s what happens:

⸺⟡⸺

Bang Chan – goes feral with a smile.

he’ll act polite. he’ll pretend to be calm. he’ll offer to “meet them.” but he’s already rewritten your future. he doesn’t need to get physical—he’ll win with words. one conversation. one look. one soft, “you don’t even see them the way I do, do you?” you’ll leave that relationship and crawl to him willingly, already marked.

Minho – dangerous. precise. inevitable.

he won’t say anything at first. but he’s always there. watching. calculating. the first time you flinch when your partner raises their voice? he’ll be in your doorway that night, silent, calm, hand on your cheek. “you deserve worship,” he’ll say. “not that.” and he’ll make you feel it.

Changbin – physically aches with jealousy.

he tries. he really tries. but his fists are curling into his palms, and his jaw is locked so tight it creaks. he’ll tell you straight: “i can’t pretend this doesn’t drive me insane. i need you. you’re mine.” and if you hesitate—just for a moment—he’ll be at your throat. softly. reverently. “i’ll wait,” he says, but the hunger will never stop.

Hyunjin – tragic, romantic, and apocalyptic.

he writes poetry about you. burns it. rewrites it with blood. he cries over you. but that doesn’t mean he’ll let you go. you’ll feel him in dreams. in mirrors. in the tug behind your heart. when your partner touches you, it feels wrong now. because he’s already inside you—mind, soul, bond. “you’ll come to me,” he whispers.

Jisung – turns manic. obsessive. unstable in the prettiest way.

he spirals. talks to himself. laughs when he sees you kiss someone else and then punches the wall. but he waits. he waits for the moment your lover slips, messes up, lets you down. and then he’s there. arms open. fangs bared. “it’s me. it’s always been me. just say the word.” you do.

Felix – sunshine gone unhinged.

he smiles. he hugs you. he congratulates you. but he can’t touch you without growling. he dreams about draining them dry and bottling your moans instead. his light dims. until one night, he snaps. “don’t you get it? i was made for you. and i’m not letting you go.” his bite is the softest thing you’ve ever felt. you never want anyone else again.

Seungmin – strategic. terrifying. terminally calm.

he doesn’t interfere. he lets the relationship rot from within. all he does is wait. observe. whispers in your ear when you're half-asleep, “he doesn’t know how to love you. i do.” and one day, you believe him. you show up at his door. he lets you in. “took you long enough,” he mutters. then he ruins you, permanently, perfectly.

Jeongin – youngest but scariest when provoked.

at first he’s heartbroken. confused. but when he sees the one you’ve chosen over him? the rage sets in. not loud. not violent. just cold. sharp. precise. he won’t say a word. just look at you with those molten eyes and whisper, “you know it’s supposed to be me.” and eventually, you can’t resist him anymore. he drinks you slow. and marks you so no one else ever can again.

⸺⟡⸺

anon… thank you for this unhinged, delicious, emotionally violent question 🥀🩸. welcome to the chaos 💋🦇

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🦄 ANON LOGGED: “If I must perish in a heatwave, I want to do it on a vampire’s silk bedsheets with a cold drink and fangs in my neck.”

AAAAA 🦄 ANON YOU BEAUTIFUL DELULU ANGEL 😭🩷 you’re melting, I’m melting, we’re all melting—but at least we’re doing it in vampire luxury.

⸺⟡⸺

🔥 “How would vamp!SKZ care for their blood doll during an extreme heat wave?”

Bang Chan – “Babe, you’re gonna combust—get in the damn fridge.”

He’s the responsible one™ who tried to warn you. You: “I’m fine.” Chan, staring at your sweaty forehead and limp tank top: “You are NOT.” He turns his entire walk-in freezer into a cuddle den. Throws a mattress in. A playlist. Cold drinks. You sleep there now. Also he keeps pressing his freezing hand to your inner thighs and going “better?” like he’s not trying to kill you.

Lee Know – pretends not to care, is secretly plotting your cryogenic salvation.

You’re sprawled on the floor in a sports bra. “You look like microwaved sin,” he deadpans. Meanwhile, he’s brewing iced tea and silently adjusting the AC to arctic tundra. Later that night? You wake up to find him spooning you shirtless with a literal frozen pack of blood bags pressed to your neck. “Shut up and go back to sleep,” he mumbles, already half hard from how warm you are.

Changbin – panics and over-cares like a gym rat in a crisis.

He’s googling “how to cool down a human” like you’re a broken laptop. Brings you seventeen electrolyte drinks. Lays you on your stomach and fans you with a protein bag. “You need shade,” he says, dragging the blackout curtains shut like a vampire cave dad. Also? Carries you everywhere. Absolutely refuses to let you walk. “You’ll die,” he insists, hoisting you bridal style while sweating more than you.

Hyunjin – delirious romantic who turns heatstroke into a gothic monologue.

You: “Hyun, I think I’m gonna faint.” Hyunjin: “Then collapse in my arms, beloved. Let the heat take you like a tragic poem.” He fans you dramatically with a vintage art magazine. Kisses your temple like he’s blessing you before battle. Also paints ice cubes and places them on your back like cursed little art installations. “You are my masterpiece, even in decay.” Sir. Please. I need a popsicle.

Han Jisung – you’re dying and he thinks it’s hilarious.

“Babe,” he snorts, watching you crawl across the tiles like a corpse, “you look like expired cheese.” Hands you a frozen Capri Sun and says, “Here, hydrate or die-drate.” But then?? He lays on the kitchen floor with you, puts his cold feet on your thighs, and whispers, “I could bite you and cool you down from the inside out… just saying…” You: “That’s not how thermodynamics works—” Him: “Let me be your sexy ice pack.”

Felix – sunshine vampire turned aircon sugar daddy.

He literally BUYS YOU A PORTABLE AC UNIT. Brings you frozen fruit in a crystal bowl. Wears nothing but silk shorts. “Want me to press my cold hands on your chest?” he asks, eyes big and innocent. Spoiler: he does it anyway. Also insists on cuddling because “your heat makes me feel more alive 🥺” You: “Felix I’m gonna die.” Him: “But you’ll die loved and moisturized.”

Seungmin – dry, sarcastic, literally a vampire Yeti.

He’s fine. He’s cold. He looks amazing. “You look like a damp sock,” he says, sipping cold blood. Watches you melt with zero emotion. Then tosses you a frozen towel and goes, “Here. Try not to perish before dinner.” But later? You wake up to him silently pressing popsicles against the back of your knees like some weird vampire ritual. “It’s effective,” he mutters. “Shut up.”

Jeongin – baby vamp who doesn’t know how to help so he just gives you ice and panic.

“You’re melting! Should I bite you?? Will that help?? Should I call someone???” He tries putting you in the bathtub. Forgets to add cold water. Genuinely looks like he might combust until you let him lie on top of you like a human ice blanket. He’s freezing. He smells amazing. You survive. Barely. “Next time,” he murmurs, “we move to Alaska.”

⸺⟡⸺

thank you 🦄 anon for this ✨deliriously sweaty✨ vision. i hope you're still hydrated. and if not—someone call Chan and tell him to fridge you immediately🩸🧊🖤

love ya , use sunscreen 💋🦇

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🍀 ANON LOGGED: “I asked to be bitten nicely and ruined emotionally, is that too much?”

OH 🍀 ANON. OH YOU FERAL, DELECTABLE LUCKY CHARM. you said: “what if I looked into my vampire lover’s eyes and said 'bite me' with my whole chest and my whole throat” and now I’m the one short-circuiting.

⸺⟡⸺

“Vampire!SKZ reacting to you begging to be bitten.”

Bang Chan – The Control Snaps™

You whisper, “Pretty please... bite me?” Voice soft. Neck tilted. Pupils blown. He pauses—completely still—fangs already itching. “You don’t mean that,” he murmurs, voice rough like gravel. But you nod. Eyes wide. Voice smaller now. “I do. I want you to... I need you to.” He’s across the room in a second. Hands in your hair. Breath scorching. He doesn’t ask again. He just sinks in, deep and slow, groaning like he’s starving—because he is. Your blood hits his tongue and his hips stutter into yours. “You have no idea,” he growls, licking over the punctures, “what you just started.”

Lee Know – Silent. Deadly. Feral underneath.

You tug his sleeve. Whine softly. “Bite me?” He stares at you like you’ve just offered to hand him the universe. Eyes black. Still as a statue. Then he hums. Low. Threatening. “You really want it?” he asks, voice low enough to make you shiver. You nod. Bare your neck. Breathe his name. He pins you against the wall in one motion. No words. Just teeth. He bites you with precision. Slowly. Possessively. Fangs drag longer than necessary, just to hear your moan break. “You beg pretty,” he whispers, licking the blood from your skin. “I’ll make you beg again.”

Changbin – Panics. Then destroys you.

Your hands are on his chest. Your voice? Breathless. “Changbin, please. Bite me.” He freezes. Entire system crashes. “Wh–what? You want... me to—?” You nod. Pupils dilated. Clinging to him. His restraint snaps. He groans, low and wrecked, presses his forehead to yours. “Fuck, baby, don’t ask for that if you don’t mean it,” he warns—then bites you mid-sentence. Growls into your throat like it’s the only thing grounding him. Blood rushes into his mouth and so does your moan. You both see stars. After? He holds you like you’re made of glass.

Hyunjin – Gets spiritual about it. Still ruins you.

You crawl into his lap, voice sweet and shaky. “Please... I want you to bite me. Want you to drink from me.” He gasps like you just confessed love. His hand trembles as it cups your jaw. “You’re sure?” he breathes. “You know what this means?” You: “I want to be yours.” His eyes roll back. His fangs drop. He kisses your wrist like a prayer and bites it, gently—like you’re a miracle. Your blood coats his lips like wine and he licks it off slow. Worshipful. He moans your name. “You taste like devotion,” he whispers. “Don’t take that back.”

Han Jisung – Turns insane. Like immediately.

You whisper it in his ear, soft and teasing: “Jisung... will you bite me? Please?” He short-circuits. Like visibly. Falls off the couch. Stares at you like you’re a glitch in his fantasy. “Say it again.” You do. And then you’re pinned to the bed, his fangs grazing your skin, hands shaking. “I’ve been trying to be good,” he whimpers. “But you’re not making it easy.” He bites. Hard. Messy. Breathless. He drinks like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. When he pulls back, your blood on his lips, he’s whispering, “Say it again. Beg again. I’m not done.”

Felix – Sunshine cracks. Fully wrecked.

You brush his curls back. Nuzzle into his cold neck. “Lixie... please bite me. I want to feel you.” His eyes go wide. Like anime protagonist realizing he’s in love. “You... you what?” “I want it,” you whisper. “Want you.” He whimpers. Bites his own lip. Pulls you close like he’s scared you’ll vanish. Then he very gently sinks his fangs in—while whispering, “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” His breath hitches. His hips roll against yours. He’s gasping into your neck. “Can’t believe you’d offer yourself to me,” he says between licks, “I’ll never forget this. Never.”

Seungmin – Laughs. Then makes you scream.

You say it casually—like it’s a favoir. “Please bite me, Min. I need it.” He blinks. Smirks. “Oh?” he says. “You need me now?” You nod. His pupils expand instantly. He leans in. “Then ask properly.” You beg again. Sweeter. Desperate. Eyes fluttering. And that’s when he loses it. Bites you like punishment. Like payoff. Drinks slow, precise, with a wicked curl to his mouth. “You asked for this,” he growls, licking the blood off your clavicle. “Hope you’re ready to handle it.” Spoiler: You are not.

Jeongin – Breaks. Rebuilds. Bites again.

You pull him close by the shirt. Whisper, “Please bite me, Innie.” He dies. “Wh–you… are you serious?” You nod. He stares. You whisper it again. “Please, Jeongin.” He leans in, voice shaking: “...Since you asked so sweetly.” But he’s gentle. Tender. He kisses your shoulder. Sinks in slow. And moans. Loud. Choked. Honest. You whimper and he shudders. “You taste like mine,” he whispers. Then he bites again.

⸺⟡⸺

🍀 anon… YOU’VE RUINED THEM. AND ME. thank you for this soft-depraved masterpiece of an ask. i hope you’re happy knowing that 8 powerful vampire men are now feral because you blinked at them and said “bite me.” 💋��

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🐚 ANON LOGGED: “Lotus was taken so I embraced the sea and claimed the shell—glub glub bitch.”

you are OFFICIALLY ON THE ROSTER and you are SO powerful for the 🐚 pick—soft ocean mystique meets secret fang-thirst?? YES.

and babyyyyy don’t worry 🥺🩵 i would love to see your Chan fan art if you ever feel ready to share. NO pressure, no face reveal needed, just vibes and glub glub magic.

welcome to the blood ocean, darling shell creature. love u 💋🦇

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if you made it to the end of this ask dump: CONGRATULATIONS YOU ABSOLUTE BEAST. you get a 🪙 GOLD STAR, a shot of vampire venom, and a forehead kiss from your fave.

thank you for the chaos, the thirst, the love, and the INSANE BRAINROT — keep sending asks!! I love them, I hoard them, I read them at 2AM and giggle like a Victorian ghost texting her crush via candlelight.

NOW IF YOU’LL EXCUSE ME… I am off to go write Changbin’s smut fic 🫣💦. and also think about what kind of mental illness I’ll unleash for Filthy Friday tomorrow.

ALSO. watch KPOP HUNTERS on Netflix. SAURRR GOOD. Your Idol and How It’s Done are on loop on my Apple Music.

until next time… Daku loves u 💋🦇

[shadamyheadcanons]

Total Recall

For the 2025 Shadamy week prompt: Forgotten. Kindly beta’d by the lovely @shadowsfascination.

Shadow wakes up in an unfamiliar bed with amnesia and finds that a vaguely familiar pink hedgehog took him in, promising to take care of him until he remembers everything. He keeps a journal while he’s there so he can at least remember some things over time. 5.8K words.

Cross-posted on AO3.

Day 1

I woke up this morning with a splitting headache, a bump on my head, and not a single memory of how it happened...or who I was. Who anyone was. I must’ve grunted in pain, because a pink hedgehog dashed into the room to check on me. She was fretting and worrying over me, but I couldn’t really focus.

She introduced herself as Amy and said we were friends, but I don’t know. She feels more important than that, somehow. She must mean something else to me. Whatever it is, it must be positive, because I instantly felt better once I saw her. Safer.

Amy promised she’d take care of me until I got my memories back, and she gave me this journal so I could write things down as I remembered them. When I asked her why she’s helping me, she said she’s always there when a friend needs her. She also mentioned she felt guilty, but she wouldn’t tell me why.

Day 2

The stabbing pain in my head this morning was just as bad as yesterday, maybe worse. I couldn’t even leave bed, so she fed me soup and pet my head for a while. It felt...nice. I kind of want to fib and tell her I need to stay in bed more often, but the idea of lying to her makes me feel sick for some reason.

Day 3

I tried walking around the house today, but I was too dizzy to make it far. Luckily, Amy was there to help guide me to a seat in her kitchen, and she talked to me while we ate lunch, telling stories about all our friends. A couple of names sounded vaguely familiar, but the details escaped me. She didn’t seem to mind.

When I asked if looking after me was a nuisance, Amy instantly denied it, saying it’s nice to have someone else around for a change. Apparently, she used to live with her friend Cream, but then Cream moved back in with her mother, leaving Amy by herself.

It looked like she was trying really hard not to look sad. I wonder if she’s lonely. Maybe I’m lonely, too.

I told her I liked being with her here so far, and she looked really happy. I think I’ll mention that more often.

Day 5

I remembered something today. She was playing music while she made us breakfast. I recognized the chords, the words, the tone...I spoke some of the words, then sang a few lines as the lyrics came to me.

Amy was thrilled. She instantly perked up and started talking a mile a minute about the band—Hot Honey, she called them—and how she’d brought me to a concert with her, how much fun we’d had together, how much I liked it. She played song after song of theirs, excitedly chattering away.

But I didn’t understand. I told her that although I recognized the songs, I didn’t like them.

I wish I hadn’t done that. She went quiet and looked really sad.

I wanted to make her feel better, so I admitted that although I didn’t really like the songs, they felt meaningful. Important. She smiled a little.

She hasn’t played Hot Honey since then.

It was grating. It was sappy.

But I kind of miss it anyway.

Day 6

Not too much happened today. My head’s been feeling better and I can walk now, so Amy said we can go out tomorrow.

I noticed she had blankets and a pillow set up in another room, so I asked if she always slept there. She said it was just temporary, that she usually sleeps in the bed I’m using. She told me she was fine sleeping there and it wasn’t a problem, but I don’t know. It looks uncomfortable to me. I told her there was probably enough room for both of us in the bed if we slept close enough, but her face went bright red, and she got all flustered and said no.

Not sure what that’s about, but I kind of want to see her do it again.

Day 7

I’m apparently a fan of flowers, so she took me out to a public garden today. She must be right, because I remembered all of their names—lilacs, azaleas, rhododendrons, magnolias. It’s weird what my brain hangs onto; little facts are fine, but whenever I try to think of details about people or my past, it’s like there’s this weird bubble in the back of my head stopping me. If I try to push it, I get this sense of wrongness, like I’m snooping somewhere I shouldn’t be.

But flowers are easy. I even told her scraps I remembered about their supposed “symbolism,” whatever that means, and she looked happier and happier the more I shared. Memories came back in bits and pieces: times when I’d seen each flower for the first time, the books I’ve scoured to learn more, the feeling of soil passing through my fingers, and the joy of raising my own flowers and watching them bloom. Upon remembering I had a garden myself, I immediately stopped and asked Amy about it. Luckily, she’d asked a friend of hers, Silver, to look after it while I was under the weather. She really does think of everything.

Halfway through, she spotted some bright yellow daffodils and gasped. She brightened up and told me I gave her a bouquet of them once to cheer her up. I can’t remember doing that, but the smile on her face was warm and familiar. If she always looks that way when she gets flowers, I’ll have to get them for her more often.

At the end, she lamented that it was too early in the year for lavender, saying those were my favorites. But I don’t think they actually are. They aren’t right now, at least. I pointed to a patch of roses we’d already passed and said those were my favorites, especially the red ones. She looked confused, but then she smiled again and told me she loved them, too, and that “Rose” is her last name.

It suits her.

On a whim, I asked if I could call her that, and her eyes widened. She smiled shyly and agreed. Her cheeks were pink.

Rosy, even.

Day 9

Today, Rose introduced me to two of her friends, a fox with two tails and an...echidna? I think that’s what he’s called...named Tails and Knuckles.

Two people named after body parts. Not exactly creative, but it does make me wonder where my name came from. What am I a shadow of? I tried to think back, but all it gave me was an unsettling sensation in the back of my mind: a gentle voice, followed by a stabbing pain.

I decided the answer could wait.

I’m not sure why Knuckles was there. It seems like Rose doesn’t always have a reason for bringing people over, she just does it. He mostly lounged around and pestered me about what I did and didn’t remember and seemed disappointed with how little I knew. But when I called Rose by her last name, he lit up and started hounding me about her instead—how “close” we were, how much I liked her, how long I was staying with her—smirking obnoxiously the whole way through. Rose eventually got him to back off.

Tails asked about my headaches. How frequent they are, what triggers them, that kind of thing. He talked to me about amnesia, too, saying this kind usually only persists for a couple weeks in Mobians and my memories will probably be back soon. The others seemed relieved, but I’m not sure how to feel about it.

After checking on my health, Tails showed that he’d brought a two-wheeled vehicle with him, saying he’d been in the process of tuning it up when my...incident happened. He encouraged me to take a seat and start it up, explaining that I’d been built with what he calls “vehicular intuition,” so I’d know how to ride it even without my memories. He’s awfully smart for a kid. Smarter than Knuckles, at least.

At first, I didn’t recognize it. The striking jet black and sharp angles called out to me faintly, but it wasn’t until I sat down on the seat and started up the engine that it clicked.

Powerful sensations and images flashed behind my eyes—wind whipping through my quills, scenery blurring past, the growl of the bike beneath me, the simple joy and freedom of it all—and my heart pounded.

My bike. Mine.

I almost shed a tear. I’ve missed it that much. Luckily, I regained focus in time to blink it back. I think I’d be okay if Rose saw me cry, but the other two? Not a chance.

After they left, Rose begged me to take her on a ride with me, and I immediately said yes. She’s a difficult person to say no to.

The familiar thrill of racing returned to me, but the feeling of someone clinging to me was fresh. I don’t think I’ve ever given Rose a ride before. I’ve been missing out. The way she held me made my chest feel warm and light, and whenever I sped up or turned a tight corner, she’d let out a cute little squeak.

I kept driving her around until the sun set. Once I brought her home, she finally explained why she’s been feeling guilty about my amnesia. She said I was helping her build a new addition on her house and she accidentally knocked me on the head with a hammer. Said she felt awful, should have been more careful, all of that. I didn’t like seeing her so unhappy, so I hugged her and told her it was alright, and she calmed down.

To be honest, I bet there’s more to the story than that. Tails mentioned I’m supposed to be some kind of “Ultimate Life Form,” so I highly doubt a sweet, silly, petite girl could knock me out with a hammer, especially by accident. She’s probably being too hard on herself for something. She does that a lot.

But she does have a hammer she keeps by the door, this giant yellow and red thing. Just looking at it does make my head hurt.

Day 11

Rose invited over an obnoxious blue hedgehog this afternoon—Sonic, I think? He wouldn’t shut up and kept sprinting around making dumb jokes, saying he ‘would race me if I were feeling better.’

As if I’d need to be at full power to beat that buffoon in a race.

Rose seems...fond of him. She has terrible taste. I didn’t tell her that.

She asked me if I remembered anything about him, and I told her that she must have hit me pretty hard if I managed to forget someone that annoying. I thought she’d be upset, but she laughed instead and said that some things never change.

Day 14

Today

Day 15

Yesterday I

Day 16

Rose and I went to a city two days ago called Westport Westopolis to run a few errands. While we were there, we ran into a man in a military uniform with two differently colored eyes. He started to snap at me about my “extended vacation.” Rose got mad and stepped between us, maybe to defend me, but I couldn’t hear what she said to him because I caught sight of a weird logo on his chest that spelled out “G.U.N.”

It felt like my head was splitting in two.

Unsettling, terrifying noises ricocheted in my mind—panicked voices, pleading, screams—ending with a deafening bang.

I don’t know what that sound was, but it made my stomach turn.

After the bang, my vision went black, and my legs gave out. I don’t remember hitting the floor, though. Maybe Rose caught me. She did say she carried me home, and I’ve never caught her in a lie. She must be stronger than she looks. I couldn’t even leave bed until today, so I’m sure I was no help.

I think something bad happened to me, and I’m scared of finding out what it was. Is it possible to just bring back the good memories? Am I wrong to want that?

I hope I never run into G.U.N. again.

Day 17

Rose thought we could use a nice day off after what happened, so she brought me to the city park with some food and a blanket so we could eat outside on the grass. She said it’s called a “picnic.” The word wasn’t familiar, not even a little. Rose got really sad when I said so. She thinks I’d probably never been on one, even before I lost my memories. She immediately turned determined, scrounged up some food—bread, strawberry jam, peanut butter, chips–and brought me to the city park.

I don’t think this will help me regain any memories, but I don’t mind. She’s cute when she gets all determined like this. Are all female hedgehogs as pretty as she is? I asked her, but she told me to stop embarrassing her. She was as red as the strawberry jam.

I figured Rose would find us a table somewhere, but instead, she spread out the blanket right on the grass. We were halfway through our meal when Rose’s friend Cream hopped over to us with a small blue creature in tow who she calls “Cheese.” She let me hold him. He has an odd texture, warm and soft but jiggly. Not sure what to make of that, but it’s comforting somehow. A few other Chao stopped by, too. They’re clingy, but I like them.

The afternoon passed with no discussion of who I used to be; Rose, Cream, Cheese...all they cared about was who I am now. The temperature and breeze were relaxing, and it was nice to see them laughing and enjoying the comfortable weather. Their voices and the natural sounds of the park were gentle. I would’ve gladly spent all day there.

Rose once told me I’d promised her years ago that I’d keep everyone safe, that I’d made it my life’s mission to protect the Earth and everyone on it. I think I’m starting to understand why.

Day 20

We went grocery shopping in some square today—Station Square, I think it’s called. She had a pretty long list. She’s going to teach me how to make cupcakes. It’s another one of those things I know I’ve never done before. Is she still avoiding my past because of what happened with the commander, or is she just as reluctant to dredge up my memories as I am?

Taking a look at the list, I recognized enough items that I’m sure I could have dashed around the store and cut the time in half; I’ve experimented with my strength and speed here and there, and they’re both returning to me. Even as I thought of it, though, I lost all desire to rush. If I ran, I wouldn’t get to walk by her side. I’d miss the cute way her nose wrinkles when she’s comparing prices. I wouldn’t have gotten to reach the cake mix she was too short for and enjoy the smile it earned me.

Maybe you don’t need a reason to spend time with someone. Maybe the right person is worth it all on their own.

Day 25

Today, Rouge and Omega stopped by. I don’t remember everything about them, but their names are the only ones I’ve known right off the bat so far, and I felt better having them here.

Before they came in, Rose poked her head out the door and whispered something to them about not mentioning “assignments” around me right now, and every so often, she or Rouge would steer the topic away from something. Omega didn’t like that very much. They cut him off when he started mentioning something about target practice, and his internal motors made this disgruntled rumbling noise.

I get the feeling Rouge and Omega—and me, by extension—don’t visit Rose. Rouge didn’t know where the bathroom was, and Omega was analyzing the house’s structural integrity like he’s never been here. I can apparently teleport when I’m at full strength, so distance isn’t an issue, and she clearly needs the company, so why don’t we visit her?

Rouge apologized for not checking up on me sooner, saying they’d been really busy. Whichever “assignments” they’re being sent on must be stressful; Omega was grumpy, and there were bags under Rouge’s eyes. I told them to look out for themselves.

When Rose stepped out to bring in the cupcakes we’d made together, Rouge asked me about her—whether I felt comfortable here, if I wanted to stay somewhere else, all that. I told her I was happy here with her. When I called her “Rose,” though, Rouge stopped. She didn’t respond like Knuckles had. She and Omega exchanged a nervous glance. I asked what was wrong, but they both stalled out. Rouge just said that I was welcome to come back to live with them anytime, especially if I “needed some distance” after I got my memories back. Rose came back with the cupcakes before I could ask what she meant.

Distance from what? From Rose? Why? I like her. I like her smile. I like her cooking. I like how she laughs, even if I don’t always understand why. I like the warm feeling I get when she holds my hand to lead me places. I like hearing her hum when we’re doing chores around her house. I like how she says my name. She puts an extra...something into it that no one else does.

What miserable version of me would want to avoid her? What was I afraid of?

Day 31

It’s been a month now, and I think I need to talk to Rose.

The longer this goes on, the less and less I want to know about whatever darkness is lurking in my past. Every time I think back, all I feel is pain and dread, and I can’t help but wonder if I was ever as happy as I am now. I like the world I live in. I’m not sure I always did.

It feels like almost everyone wants to pull me backwards, but I’m tired of looking back. Why can’t I move forwards instead? Why can’t this be me?

Rose has put in so much time, so much effort into helping me regain my memories, but if anyone will accept my decision, it’ll be her.

I’ll tell her tomorrow.

Day 32

I did it. I told her...and she accepts me!

She said she’d noticed how nervous I was about it, and she understood why. She even told me she loved me—every version of me—memories or not, and that she’d be happy to let me stay here no matter what I choose to do about my amnesia!

But...something odd happened. I can’t explain it, but she said this one phrase that echoed in my mind, and my brain...lurched, as if something was settling into place. She said, “I don’t care what you choose, Shadow. I want to give you a chance to be happy!”

My head’s been spinning ever since. Hopefully I’ll feel better in the morning.

I don’t know how I’ll break the news to everyone else, but with Rose by my side, I’m sure I can do it.

This is who I am.

Shadow sat on the edge of his bed—Amy’s bed—feeling his muscles shake. His jaw clenched harder with each cheesy, embarrassing, lovestruck journal entry his ignorant self had written over the past month.

The immense weight of his agonizing past had lifted for scarcely a moment, allowing him just enough room to drop his guard...and let her in.

And by the time he’d awoken that morning, the entire world had crashed down on his head once more. Raw and honest and unforgiving, leaving him broken like a neglectful Atlas.

His fingers tightened, wrinkling the pages, and his chest clenched. All the years I spent keeping my distance, and she breaks it all down in an instant. And as if that weren’t enough...

Vivid images of the massacre flashed behind his eyes, the gruesome tragedy that had taken everything from him.

Shadow’s heart pounded in his chest, and his breathing grew rough and unstable. His eyes went wide and his expression strained as he stared at nothing, but no tears dared fall.

Energetic footsteps, heavier than expected for a silly, petite hedgehog, bounded around the corner. Amy poked her head in. “Shadow, do you want—”

Shadow choked and threw the journal aside, feeling his face shift into that of a cornered animal. “A-Amy—!”

At the mention of her first name, Amy gasped, and her brow wrinkled in concern. “Shadow? Are you...”

He tore his gaze away.

Shadow heard Amy’s footsteps grow closer, and the bed sank next to him. Her hand hovered for a moment, then rested on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

Her light reached out to him. He panted and tried to pull away as he always had, only to fall even further.

The ARK.

Gerald.

MARIA.

Amy wrapped her arms around his shoulders, desperate yet reassuring. “Shadow, it’s okay! You’ll be alright! I’m here.”

Shadow clenched his jaw until it hurt, and he grasped the sheets on either side of him. He could see Amy’s expression pinch out of the corner of his eye, and she rubbed his back. “Is there anything I can do?”

He met her gaze. Try as he might, Shadow couldn’t lock out her warmth, not the way he could just a month ago. He stared for a long moment at the woman he loved—the one he could never have because she was so enamored with someone else—and he sighed. Shadow looked down and shut his eyes. “Take out your hammer.”

A baffled noise escaped Amy’s throat, but she summoned it. “Um...okay...?”

Shadow took the hammer from her hands and held it to his forehead. “Right here. Just...”

After a moment of silent confusion, Amy gasped and ripped the hammer from his hands, throwing it aside. “SHADOW! That’s not funny!” There was a pause, and then her vitriol faded. “Shadow...?”

He felt the tears hit his knees before he even knew he was crying. “Take it back,” he croaked, voice cracking. “Take it all back.”

“Oh, Shadow.” Pain was evident in Amy’s voice, too, and she wrapped her arms around him fully, gentler this time. “I know it’s hard. You’ll be okay.”

“I was h-happy...for once...” he managed through shuddering breaths.

“Shh...it’s alright.”

Shadow turned in Amy’s hold and clung to her, letting himself break down in the arms of the only person left who was allowed to see his tears. He wept for Maria. He wept for Gerald, flawed though he was. He wept for the Shadow of yesterday who’d never known pain or loss or inhibitions, and he wept for the innocence he’d lost yet again.

Brainwashing, amnesia, time travel, and now I almost forgot all over again...only to remember every time. How many times will I be forced to lose them?

Shadow wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, mourning pain both old and new. Amy didn’t falter, not even after his breathing slowed and his muscles stilled.

At last, he lifted his head, vision bleary and head aching. Amy was gazing up at him, eyes watery with tears she’d shed on his behalf. “I’m so sorry!”

Shadow pulled back, baffled, but he held onto one of her hands. “Why?”

“Because I’m the reason you got amnesia in the first place!” she insisted. “I feel awful.”

Shadow was shaking his head even before she finished. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Amy glanced back at the hammer she’d left on the ground, then shot him an incredulous look.

“...Not on purpose,” Shadow added.

Amy groaned and hid her face. “You told me to use a regular hammer, but I got impatient and used mine!”

“In your defense, it was faster.”

“But you told me to be careful!”

“I got in the way,” he fibbed.

Amy yanked at her quills and scrunched her eyes shut. “I should’ve just done the job myself! If only I’d—”

“Amy.”

She peeked her eyes open a crack. Shadow threaded his fingers with hers and pulled them away from her quills. “Stop trying to make me blame you. It’s not going to work.”

Amy stared up at him and sniffled, but she remained silent.

“You’ve been taking care of me. Feeding me. Housing me. Helping me. Making me happy. And it worked.”

As he said that, though, he felt his face fall. It worked...just not forever.

Amy squeezed his hand. “I don’t know everything you’ve been through, and I know it can’t be easy, but you have good memories, too,” she insisted. “Whenever I hear you talk about Maria, it never sounds like you regret meeting her.”

“Of course I don’t!”

Amy jumped, so he averted his gaze and quieted down. “I would never regret meeting her. I couldn’t. Not for a second.”

Amy nodded, encouraged. “And think of all the adventures you’ve been on! Think of your friends! What about Rouge and Omega?”

Shadow’s chest warmed, then instantly tightened. “They’ve been covering for me. All this time. That’s why they were so exhausted.”

“Huh?”

“They’ve been keeping Team Dark going without me this entire time. How much longer would they have kept doing that? A month? Two months? Forever?” All so I could keep playing house with you, happy and ignorant?

I nearly threw away everything we’ve been through together.

The thought repulsed him.

“Because you would have done the same for them,” Amy countered, learning forward to get a better look at his face. “You’re kind. You’re dedicated. And if this had happened to either one of them, you wouldn’t have hesitated for a second.”

There was silence for a moment. Shadow just stared, sensing she had more to say.

Amy’s lower lip trembled. She held on for a few moments before blurting out, “You shouldn’t have been here in the first place!”

“What?!”

“No, no!” Amy spluttered, holding her hands up defensively. “I mean you shouldn’t have been there the day I...” She glanced back at her hammer and cringed.

Shadow rolled his eyes. “You were putting another wing on your house, and no one else would help. Of course I showed up.”

Amy scratched the back of her head and looked down at her feet. “Ah...not quite.”

Shadow’s ears perked up.

Amy bit her lip. “See, I actually...didn’t ask anyone else,” she murmured. “I had it handled. I could have called Tails if I needed help with construction, and I could have asked Knuckles if I needed more strength...but I didn’t. I can do all that by myself.”

With anyone else, Shadow would have snapped in irritation. He kept his tone gentle. “Why did you ask me?”

Amy looked up at him, fidgeting with her fingers. “Promise you won’t get mad at me, okay?”

Shadow nodded. I don’t think I could if I tried.

She paused, then let her head drop, resigned. “Because I wanted to get to know you better.”

Shadow’s heart pounded. “Really?”

Amy nodded, peeking up at him shyly out of the corner of her eye. “I’ve wanted to get to know you since we talked on the ARK, but you’ve always kept your distance. I could never get close.”

Shadow’s heart ached. I never meant to hurt you. He opened his mouth, but the words died in his throat.

Amy twiddled her thumbs in her lap. “But I knew one thing that would work. No matter how busy you are, you’ve always found time to help me. Every single time I’ve asked you for help, you’ve been there.”

Memories of Amy’s voice drifted into his head.

“Thank you so much for coming with me to this concert, Shadow. I never could have gone alone. It’s so much better with you here!”

“Ah, Shadow, I’m so glad you’re here! Cream went into this weird-looking castle, and she hasn’t come back out! Will you go in there with me to look for her?”

“Shadow, please help us! Give them a chance to be happy!”

She’s right. I really will do anything for her.

“Shadow!”

He didn’t know he was grasping at his chest until Amy threaded her fingers with his. Her voice pulled him out of his stupor. “I’m sorry! I know it was wrong. It’s just...you’re so sweet, and brave, and kind...and you don’t hear that often enough. I wanted to know more. I—”

Shadow stalled out as she rambled, at a loss for words. His heart fluttered.

Does she...?

Every word died in his throat. Instead, he grasped her hand with both of his and held it to his chest, letting her feel his racing heartbeat. Her ranting immediately stopped, and one solitary tear faltered, nearly falling from her eye. A voice from fifty years ago, quieter than Amy’s but clear, floated in from the back of Shadow’s mind.

“You have a big heart! It may be difficult for you to express it, but I know that deep down you really do care. About me. About everyone! What you do is what defines you. I know you’re having a hard time finding answers, but I’m certain you will one day. Then, you’ll find even more people you can trust.”

Shadow found his voice at last. “I really wish you could have met her.”

Amy’s confusion lasted for only a moment before melting away, but she remained silent.

He brushed away the tear she’d almost shed, breathed in deeply, and let it out. “She would have loved you almost as much as I do.”

Amy’s eyes bugged out. Shadow slid his hand onto her cheek, making his intentions clear. He waited for a few terrifying seconds that felt like years, praying he hadn’t misinterpreted.

Finally, Amy glanced at his lips...and leaned in to meet him.

Her lips were warm and soft, and Shadow’s eyes fell shut at the pleasant sensation. His motions were tentative from nerves and inexperience, just as hers were, and he lingered for only a few seconds before pulling back. Amy leaned in to follow him, apparently just as reluctant to end the contact, and he pressed their foreheads together to stay close. Her breath tickled his lips, and a shy smile spread across her face. He couldn’t hold back a small grin of his own.

“So does this mean you’ll forgive me?” Amy asked, hesitant but hopeful.

Shadow scoffed and rolled his eyes playfully. “The girl I’ve had a soft spot for since the beginning resorted to subterfuge to spend more time with me, then pampered me for a month? I’ll live.”

Any last trace of hesitation vanished from Amy’s face, leaving behind cheeks dusted pink. Shadow tilted her head down and pressed a kiss to her forehead before aiming a smile her way. “Thank you, Amy.”

“Ah—”

She snapped her mouth shut. He raised a brow. “Hm?”

Amy pursed her lips, deliberating, and then her expression turned sheepish. “You know...you can keep calling me ‘Rose,’ if you want...” Her eyes shot open. “I mean—you don’t have to, but...”

Shadow perked up. “I can?”

Her smile was small and secretive. “It’s...nice. No one else calls me that, so...it feels special when you do.”

Shadow smirked roguishly. “No problem. ‘Rose’ it is.”

A happy little noise escaped Amy’s throat, and he knew even before looking that her tail was wagging. As he kept looking around her room, though, Shadow’s stomach churned with nerves once more. “So...I know I’ve recovered by now, but...is your offer from last night still valid?”

She cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

Shadow tugged absently at the blanket underneath him. “I know you’re lonely, and I’ve found a lot of happiness here. More than anywhere else.” He squeezed his eyes shut, ignored the way his stomach flipped, and met her eyes. “I don’t want to leave.”

Amy’s face barely had time to light up before he was pulled into an enthusiastic embrace. “Of course I want you to stay!”

Shadow choked from her strong hug, then laughed and quieted down when she loosened up. He listened patiently, happy just to hear her rant excitedly about all the new ideas she had for the house.

At last, she retreated, showing the exhilarated, post-rant expression he knew most were never patient enough to see.

Their loss.

Shadow ruffled her quills. “In that case, you’d better have supplies ready when I get back.”

Amy frowned. “What do you mean?”

Shadow stood up and adjusted his gloves. “I really do need to talk to Rouge and Omega, but if I’m moving in, then you’ll need that extra wing on your house more than ever.” He smirked down at Amy. “And it’s been established that you can’t handle that yourself, right?”

Amy leapt to her feet and gave a grumpy pout, cheeks puffing out in irritation. “That wasn’t—! Oh, you—!” He chuckled, and she crossed her arms. A few seconds later, though, she stood up straight and snickered. “Are you sure about that? You’re not just going to ask me to sleep in the same bed with you again~?”

Amy giggled, clearly expecting him to get flustered just as she had. Shadow raised a brow.

There’s nothing you can say that’s more embarrassing than that journal.

Shadow snaked an arm around her waist and cradled the back of her head, showing his own smirk when her eyes shot open. He pulled her close, closer than before, and pressed their lips together. He lingered longer this time, deepening the kiss and feeding more passion into it. He tilted his head and lightly scratched her scalp. Inexperience be damned, he kept going even as her fingers dug into his biceps, only pulling back when she whined quietly against his lips.

Shadow broke contact, unable to hold back a smug smile at her wide eyes and flushed cheeks. He leaned up to whisper in her ear.

“Not yet.”

Amy squeaked quietly. He released her and stepped back, unable to hold back a lighthearted laugh. She briefly stumbled, face even redder than before, and he felt his smile turn more genuine.

“I’ll see you later, Rose.”

She held a hand up to try and hide her face, but her bashful smile showed through. “O-okay.”

He took a moment to enjoy the sight before teleporting away.

I never want to forget this day.

[respectthepetty]

Thank you for answering my ask. I was wondering what you would say... it was refreshing in a way because you acknowledge that Joong could've done it with ill intentions but you are also completely fine with it. Wow. But I appreciate the honesty. And I'm not calling you out, but I noticed you said you didn't understand why mothers defend their sons' behavior no matter what until now, and then in another ask, you said you didn't mind because you're messy. Maybe you made an exception because he's your bias, not because you're "messy".

After reading your post, I was mulling over this for a looong time because I actually liked to believe there was no malice involved. But if I'm being completely honest with my feelings, I am not okay with what Joong did :( Even if in real life, Joong and Dunk are just co-workers and Joong hated Dunk secretly or whatever (which happens I guess, I'm not going to complain about personal feelings behind the scenes), but I just can't be supportive of liking a hate post... esp. in this day of socmed, where online hate could lead to people being depressed, driven to suicide, etc. It goes against my morals. Sorry if this comes off too serious, but I just couldn't be okay with it I guess. Do you think I'm too naive to feel this way?

Also Dunk posted something on twitter today and I think it might be related to this incident because of the timing.

https://x.com/dunknatachai/status/1937777546541871472

Do you think there will be fallout? Not immediately because they have a lot of work scheduled already, but after DYTD? I feel like I can't look away even though I want to, if it leads to a messy breakup. And this isn't the first time for me too for my fav ship to sink and last time it happened it made me sad haha :(

Y'all . . .

I understand comadres now because I am so disconnected from this mess because it doesn't seem like it should be this serious. Like at some point, we start to understand King Triton in The Little Mermaid far more than Ariel, and the next thing we know, we are siding with Ursula because really? All this drama over a guy she saw for less than two seconds? Youths!

So regardless of the Anons' ages in my inbox, the issue between Juan and Diego, to me, feels like a problem of the young, which shouldn't even be a problem, and doesn't actually feel like a problem IF I'm understanding this right:

There is a hate account for Dunk that made a hate post, and that hate post said -he had a girlfriend-

That's the hate. The hate is that he has a girlfriend. Is this how we are bullying guys in 2025? We are saying they have . . . girlfriends? *in my comadre voice* I have to be missing something (and yes, I know saying a man in a branded pair has a girlfriend is up there with the First Commandment for some of y'all, pero . . . if I could have a time machine and tell the 80s gays this would be happening one day, they would've thought I was crazy)

Then, Joong 'liked' that post. He didn't Pretty Little Liars, Gossip Girl, or Mean Girls this. He wasn't the actual person who created this hate account and started posting all these hate posts anonymously. He just 'liked' this -one- post. That's it. ¿No más? *in my comadre voice* a la chingada . . .

Joong said he 'liked' the post because he is gathering evidence to sue the person who is bullying Dunk by saying Dunk has a girlfriend. *I start looking for cameras because this has to be a prank*

As a comadre, I do not understand how the TeaTalk (TikTok) or the TweetTweet (Twitter) works, but some have chimed in and seem to think what Joong is saying is reasonable. However, I will not pretend to understand anything these two kind souls are writing. This is the knowledge of the youths.

So now, Joong and Dunk are using their socials to do what they do best, which I actually understand since I was alive and active when social media BEGAN. I, too, dabbled in the art of vague posting when I wrote my away message in AOL Messenger and reshuffled by Top 8 in MySpace.

And that's it! That's the drama!

I would really like to apologize to all the comadres and madres who I judged for being dismissive of my issues because, now sitting on this side of life, I understand that those issues were solely issues for the young, and running to them to complain about an adult man's behavior was wild.

Does this partnership make you money? Yes. Then apologize. Don't mess up a paycheck.

Do you really hate each other? Doesn't matter. Apologize. Hate each other after the paycheck is in your hands.

Do you want out of this situation? Apologize now, and plan to leave once the check clears.

God, I feel bad for the managers.

The youths.

[alexbkrieger13]

https://www.theguardian.com/football/2025/jun/26/pernille-harder-denmark-euro-2025

P wrote an article 😊

I went back to the team where it all started. I am able to be the role model I never had

I recently spent time coaching 80 girls at FC Midtjylland, the team where I began my career but had to leave in my teens as they had no women’s team.

i will be on a plane on Monday with Denmark heading to Switzerland to take part in my fourth Euros, but before the tournament I went back to where it all began for me, to Danish side FC Midtjylland. I was there to spend time coaching 80 girls from the age of eight to 13.

More than 20 years ago, I began my own journey there and things looked very different then. There was no women’s team and no women who played football. For me to go back as a role model these girls gives me a lot of energy. There is no better way to ground yourself than to be reminded where you came from.

I’m really happy I am able to be that role model I didn’t have myself, but most importantly it’s fun. I love being around these young girls, some who are really good and all who are just happy to be on a pitch.

There was no future for me at the club and when I was about 14 I had to move to another one an hour’s drive away. Now, these girls are in here early – maybe a little too early – and are already started in small talent teams with high-quality training. They are being given an opportunity to develop in a way my generation was not.

In 10 years’ time, these girls are going to be so good. I was lucky I had parents who were supportive and willing to take me to a team I could play in, but there were a lot of girls who didn’t have the same opportunities and support. It’s crazy to think about how much talent was wasted. Now, these girls can play and train in the city they come from and the setups around them are of a much higher quality.

I can see the growth in the talent pool and the quality of the young players coming into the national team or the Denmark youth teams. The technique and control of the ball is so much better than that of my generation when we were coming through. It’s very interesting to see they have a natural understanding of the game as well.

It would be easy to think I would feel slightly envious of what is available now and it would have been interesting to see how good I could have been if I had the same setup. However, I gained in other ways from having to try to figure out for myself how to get better as a player.

View image in fullscreenThe Guardian named Pernille Harder as the best female footballer in the world in 2018 and 2020. Photograph: Susan De Klerk

They have different challenges though. There are a lot of things that are more difficult for them today. There is a lot more pressure from social media on the newer generation. That can affect their game, make them worry too much about making mistakes and then they’ve grown up constantly comparing themselves on social media and trying to get likes and follows. These are not good things to have in sport: you need to be confident in yourself and be able to play without fear of criticism or comparison.

It’s weird reflecting on the platform football has given me. When I was a kid I never would have considered I would be able to advocate for women’s rights, equality, the environment, for young people and speak up on so many other issues. These are the things you don’t realise you will reflect on as being as important – if not more – than the titles won. That platform wouldn’t exist without the titles, but even when I reflect on those, I spend more time thinking about the moments with teammates rather than lifting the trophy.

There is always pressure in major tournaments, but when women’s football is developing so quickly across Europe, knowing the effect of a good tournament more widely back in Denmark adds more pressure. If we get to the knockout stage and if we do well there, that is something that brings the country together. In the past few years there has been more and more attention on us so if we do well it could be hugely positive for the development of women’s football.

There is no denying our group is tough, with Sweden, Germany and Poland in it. We had a tough end to the Nations League, a 6-1 loss to Sweden, who we play in our first game in Switzerland, but I don’t think that loss has taken too much of our confidence from us. It’s motivation to show it was just a one-off.

Having played them so recently we don’t have to spend too much time on tactics and formations, it’s about being ready from the first minute, it’s about all 11 players having to be on it, it’s about the duels and it’s about the energy. When we play against the better teams it is as much about the mentality.

There is a personal edge to the game for me. Although we have played with and against each other many times, it is very special that I face my partner, Magda Eriksson, at a Euros for the first time.

How do we interact before a big game against each other? I don’t talk about our tactics and she doesn’t talk about their tactics, but we know each other pretty well and so do the countries. It’s hard for our families though – they get very nervous about us playing against each other because they want the best for both of us. That’s the difficult part, you want the best for each other, but not in that moment.

[ktarotttt]

an enhypen love reading. — june 2025 ★ ˙🧷 ̟ !!

while I wanted to dive into it deeper, I didn’t wanna be attacked or anything so I felt keeping it simple was best. as always, none of this is claimed as a fact. just some cards and good intentions. purely for entertainment purposes. love my boys and want them to be in love and happy.

𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ heeseung

single, but there’s definitely someone from his past that he can’t get off his mind. in a bad way. the 6 of cups is reversed for him, which is what I describe as “bad nostalgia”. there’s a difference between reminiscing, and being stuck in what was. unfortunately my baby is stuck.

there’s been a major crash and burn in his love life, even if it was for the best, it doesn’t feel like that for him rn. just sucks. he’s trying to put his focus on other things such as career, making music, stuff like that, but he really cannot get over how stuff ended with whoever this person is. he can’t look at the bigger picture of it just yet, which is understandable if you ever have experienced this feeling. (it’s the freakin worst!) he’s just still so attracted to her and sees her as such a nurturing, kind, and wise woman. maybe felt like she was his divine counterpart. or the empress being here could mean he’s trying to love himself more and nurture his needs while dealing with this but … we’ll never know.

𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ jake

“single”, but very emotionally attached to someone (seems like for a valid reason? got the king and queen of cups so it seems like they are a safe space for eachother. he likely feels like she understands him and has empathy for him a way nobody ever has. or at least another woman has. but their relationship is toxic outside of that it seems and he is very aware it’s time to walk away. just a strong attachment.

doesn’t even seem like they’re in a relationship anymore if they were. felt very much so like…we broke up but we can’t stop talking to eachother. physicallness seems hard to let go of as well. growing pains type shit. the end of this connection is knocking on Jake’s door though, he’s just kinda turning a blind eye. kindaaaa. one eye on her and the other on the door.

𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ jay

seems single, but is very interested in someone who is very attractive, confident, and has a lot of aura. 100% his type is what I kept hearing in his energy. he’s just trying to build the courage to approach, as it seems he feels a BIG lack of confidence when it comes to actually being with her for some reason? it also seems like he’s still juggling if it’s worth it. I got a lot to “I want to approach, buttttt career? is it time?”

got the 5 of pentacles here, so for the context of this reading, that means he’s unsure if he’s good enough for this girl. she must be a bad bitch!!! i’m telling you I would not be surprised if she’s an idol as well who’s known for her aura. (you are more than good enough babe!) but the king of cups was there so it isn’t just because she’s attractive. there’s a genuine pull here. pure. really likes her or feels she could be a good match for him.

𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ sunghoon

in a relationship. no doubt about it (hahahaha no pun intended). or is about to be in one. I think for awhile, sunghoon may have denied himself of this connection (or multiple connections), due to not being ready for better. the 8 of cups is a card of emotional transition. wanting more for yourself, and accepting that while in the past your current circumstances (or relationships) were good enough, it’s not anymore.

this woman is represented as the queen of cups, so she’s definitely a sweetheart. empathetic, emotionally in tune, and easily makes sunghoon feels safe. cared for. loved. it seems he’s recently decided…you know what, I DO deserve this. i deserve love. i’m not gonna deprive myself of this girl who has been waiting patiently for me to jus trust her. the ace of cups, the lovers, and two of cups were here as well as the ace of wands so, it’s new, but he’s very happy. and they seem genuinely suited for eachother. it’s very mutual attraction, care, and maybe even love here. they take good care of eachother. if he’s not in love yet, he will be. he’s the only one that is in a committed situation rn it seems. go papi!!!!

𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ sunoo

single. can’t even say he wants to mingle right now ahahaha. focused on his bag, and him showing up as the queen of wands tells me that yes, obviously everyone thinks he’s hot and likely pursues him. he might even like it or find it cute or endearing, but he’s a bag chaser rn. even if someone with potential came, he doesn’t really see how they could fit in his life rn with how much he already has on his plate (two of pentacles).

the wheel of fortune is here, so he’s kinda just accepting the game of life. going with the flow. trusting his intuition (high priestess) and observing more than he’s talking. but it’s straight pentacles here. and I don’t think it bothers him.

𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ jungwon

my bookie!! omg. so don’t ask me why but for jungwon, something told me to get a channeled song, and the one that started playing was treasure by bruno mars!!! and I already love this song but i was like … extra excited listening to it so I wonder if Jungwon has his eye on someone from afar. and he’s like … if only you knew how i saw you. i felt so giddy while listening like how you feel about your crush when you’re singing a song and the lyrics are exactly how you feel. and she’s coming out as the queen of cups it seems, so … as you guys know us water sign girlies are often the most VISIBILY insecure/blue 🥹. even though we’re beautiful asf and the sweetest things!

bruno mars says in the song “pretty girl you should be smiling, a girl like you should never look so blue. you’re everything I see in my dreams, I wouldn’t say that to you if it wasn’t true” 🥹🥹🥹🥹

so boom, definitely single, and is doing MAJOR inner work rn to release the weight past love has left on him. in readings I’ve done in the past for wongles, he definitely does not have a lot of genuine romantic experience (like actual girlfriends, long term connections, etc). it’s been more crushes and talking stages for him. but they also have left a very bad impression on him, and left him badly hurt, because he already has a hard time feeling the icky feelings liking someone brings, but he has tried. and I don’t think people have been careful with his heart. which in turn has made him like “fuck love” for a while.

the good thing!!! is that he’s finally moving away the baggage. we have 6 of swords, 10 of wands, 4 of cups, 9 of swords reversed, and 8 of cups, which in summary says: it’s not gonna be easy, but I refuse to engage with anybody who brings nothing but arguments and drama in my life, makes love seem undesirable, is ruining my sleep, and turning me into a ball of stress and anxiety. I deserve better, or at least deserve to get far away from these people and love myself. those people are out, and this queen of cups is in!

with the overall energy being ace of cups (opening himself up to new romantic experiences/feelings emerging for someone) queen of cups (a compassionate, emotionally in tune, kind woman/him wanting to embody these qualities freely) and the king of wands (a man who sees what he wants and wants to chase it) — it seems like there’s something blooming in the beginning stages. she may have no idea how much he likes her, but he does. and it’s even sweeter because he likes her for her personality. not just like … she’s hot. it just seems like he’s unsure if he’s REALLY gonna pursue her (two of wands reversed) . which is understandable due to how his past experiences have went. he doesn’t wanna get hurt again. or mess up. jungwon always comes up in readings as someone who will watch you for a long time before he makes a move, but he’s seen her up close and from afar and she is a very genuine person it seems. I keep seeing someone who helps people a lot. very sweet, and she draws him in with this vibe. siren energy ahahaha.

𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ niki

i just wanna say being in Niki’s energy is just as funny as he is in real life lol. because at first he was like … man I don’t wanna talk about love rn but then when I ask for his song, he played some freaked out shit lmfaoooooo. so it’s safe to say that he is um…maybe single but, mingling with someone. physically attached to someone maybe. allegedly. not a fact.

the first card we got is the 6 of swords reversed which is “I know I need to release myself from this, but I can’t”. and with the page of cups, which is understandable because he’s still very young and probably just now starting to care about love and crushes and relationships, his feelings in this connection are rooted in innocent immaturity. the page of cups is like, middle school crush energy. think of that intensity. that gooeyness in your heart when you’re around them. how delusional you can be because you’ve never seen how fucked up people are yet.

that’s how he feels about whoever this is, which is why he can’t walk away from it even though it may be a lot of drama. the 6 of cups is here which represents our younger years, someone you have fond memories with, or someone you’ve known for a long time. and with the 7 of wands and the 3 of pentacles, it seems that he can’t really be talked out of being involved with them. he may be defensive about this person/standing ten toes on it. orrrr playing advocate…this could mean that just because he can’t let go yet because of how deeply he feels, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t fighting back on the things he doesn’t like within the connection. the 3 of pentacles could indicate this being someone he works closely with or sees as a good partner. they help him with things even if it isn’t always perfect.

it’s like this person doesn’t always make him feel that great. or maybe he’s even disappointed that he allows certain things but he’s very attracted to them. its like when you’re involved with someone that makes you sad, but they also make you feel something. which at his age means something. it’s a confusing energy im ngl. he’s probably confused to.

[gippity]

Supreme Court Allows Religious Opt-Outs That Erase Landmark LGBTQ+ History

In June 2025, the U.S. Supreme Court’s decision in Mahmoud v. Taylor granted parents the right to opt their children out of any classroom instruction featuring LGBTQ+ characters or themes.

While the ruling was cast as a narrow accommodation for sincerely held religious beliefs, its ripple effects threaten to hollow out large swaths of our shared history curriculum. B

elow, we explore a roster of pivotal LGBTQ+ figures and events that—if taught in public schools today—could become targets of religious-based exemptions. Understanding who’s on this list, and why their stories matter, helps clarify what’s at stake when individual objections override collective memory.

1. Stonewall Riots (June 28 – July 3, 1969)

Often called the spark of the modern LGBTQ+ rights movement, the Stonewall Riots began when patrons of New York City’s Stonewall Inn resisted a police raid. Over several nights of street clashes, Stonewall galvanized activists nationwide and catalyzed Pride commemorations around the world. Exempting this lesson risks erasing the moment when queer people publicly demanded dignity and justice.

2. Marsha P. Johnson (1945–1992)

A founding force behind STAR (Street Transvestite Action Revolutionaries) and a beacon of compassion in the aftermath of Stonewall, Marsha P. Johnson fought for homeless queer youth and rallied for HIV/AIDS awareness long before mainstream acknowledgment. Her life underscores the intersection of race, poverty, and queer activism.

3. Sylvia Rivera (1951–2002)

Partner in both activism and spirit to Marsha P. Johnson, Sylvia Rivera was a Latina trans pioneer who insisted that the movement’s victories include all members of the community—especially the most marginalized. Her testimony illustrates how liberation demands both protest and solidarity across lines of difference.

4. Harvey Milk (1930–1978)

One of the first openly gay elected officials in American history, Harvey Milk’s election to San Francisco’s Board of Supervisors and his subsequent assassination galvanized national attention on LGBTQ+ civil rights. Milk’s advocacy for visibility and representation paved the way for countless others to “come out” safely into public life.

5. First Pride March (June 28, 1970)

Marking the one-year anniversary of Stonewall, the inaugural Pride March on Christopher Street was a bold declaration of queer presence in the streets of New York City. Today’s global Pride festivals owe their energy and spirit to that first, courageous parade.

6. Assassination of Harvey Milk (November 27, 1978)

Milk’s murder—and the public mourning and activism it ignited—became a turning point in LGBTQ+ legal and cultural recognition. His death reminded the nation that prejudice can be lethal, and that political engagement is often a matter of survival.

7. Alan Turing (1912–1954)

Beneath the code-breaking genius who helped win World War II lay a tragic tale of criminal prosecution for homosexuality. Forced to undergo chemical “treatment,” Turing’s fate stands as one of the most heartbreaking intersections of scientific progress and social bigotry.

8. Dr. James Barry (c. 1789–1865)

Born Margaret Ann Bulkley but living most of their adult life as James Barry, this pioneering army surgeon performed groundbreaking operations across the British Empire. Barry’s story challenges rigid gender norms in the 19th century and reminds us of the countless trans lives lost to historical erasure.

9. Baron Friedrich von Steuben (1730–1794)

The Prussian officer credited with transforming the Continental Army into a disciplined fighting force is believed by many historians to have been gay. His role in the American Revolution illustrates that LGBTQ+ contributions to our nation date back to its very founding.

10. Sally Ride (1951–2012)

America’s first woman in space kept her same-sex partnership private during her lifetime. In the decades since her death, Ride has become an icon not only for women in STEM, but also for LGBTQ+ scientists whose careers have too often been shadowed by prejudice.

11. Stormé DeLarverie (1920–2014)

Sometimes called “the Rosa Parks of Pride,” DeLarverie’s resistance to police harassment at Stonewall is credited with sparking the riots themselves. As a biracial butch lesbian, her life story underscores how multiple axes of identity collide in the fight for justice.

12. Oscar Wilde (1854–1900)

The Irish playwright whose wit enchanted Victorian society was ultimately brought low by a sodomy conviction. Wilde’s trial and imprisonment became a cause célèbre that revealed the stark hypocrisy of a culture that both idolized and vilified him.

13. Leonardo da Vinci (1452–1519)

Long after his death, historians have scrutinized accusations of sodomy brought against da Vinci in 1476. Today, his life invites us to consider how Renaissance creativity and queer experience have been intertwined—and too often written out of art-history narratives.

Why These Stories Matter

Each of these figures and events expands our understanding of who we are as a society—and how notions of progress, freedom, and identity have evolved. When religious objections lead to “opt-outs,” we risk segmenting history into countless pockets of silence. The consequence isn’t just a patchwork curriculum; it’s a generation of students who remain ignorant of the full, rich tapestry of human experience.

Toward a More Inclusive Future

Sincerity and scope:  Schools can—and should—require parents to document sincere, narrowly tailored objections rather than permit broad vetoes.

Advance notice:  Transparent communication about upcoming lessons gives families time to discuss sensitive topics at home without undermining classroom cohesion.

Alternative engagement:  Rather than isolating a student, schools might offer supplemental materials that approach the same historical facts from a different angle—ensuring no child misses the lesson entirely.

By naming the specific individuals and milestones under threat, we reaffirm their rightful place in our shared story—and recommit to teaching history in full, without carving out islands of erasure.

[pedges-world]

Vanity Fair 2025

I know we all died from the Vanity Fair Photoshoot and Interview this June. This look is from Esquire 2023, but any photoshoot with Papi Pascal is a win. He's always so transparent in his interviews...I hope you'll check it out!

"I was struggling really badly with insomnia. I was reading James Baldwin and watching movies like 'Once We Were Warriors' and 'Muriel's Wedding'. I just was like an open wound to the reality of life" "It sounds so fucking pretentious but I felt at the crossroads of coming into an understanding of what an unjust world we live in. This world, and its lack of equanimity, is just too painful to bear. How do you live in it?" "You think not getting a job can break me? You can't break me. I'm already broken."

*thank you @auteurdelabre for our beautiful coloring book!

@littlemisspascal  @lizette50 @beefrobeefcal @sawymredfox @anelva @wordywarriorwrites @burntheedges @inept-the-magnificent @timelordfreya  @schnarfer @devineconjuring @mermaidgirl30 @galaxyedging @joelalorian @joelmillerisapunk @jennaispunk @sheepdogchick3 @marcus-is-my-muse @guiltyasdave  @copperhalfcent @bluesweaters15 @drewharrisonwriter @darkheartgatita @harriedandharassed @brittmb115 @purpleprincess75 @yorksgirl @quicax3 @shaunasflannel @shinyanchorobject

[intersexbookclub]

Actually intersex people review "Wicked" by Maguire

Our read for February 2025 was “Wicked” by Gregory Maguire, originally published in 1995 and adapted into a musical of the same name, as well as a motion picture released in 2024.

This read posed some difficulty for the club. Most members of the club were able to finish it, but we had a great deal of critical commentary on it. 

The intersex representation left us wanting. Although Elphaba is fairly explicitly described as intersex, her intersexuality is treated as monstrous. Because Maguire has refused to confirm she’s intersex in interviews, and her intersexuality has been dropped in the adaptations, it feels like Maguire only gave her ambiguous genitalia for shock value and not as earnest representation.

Michelle had a lot of feels about this read: xe was “A big Maguire stan in [xer] teens, and didn’t really understand the politics [at the time].” Initially, Michelle was more favourably disposed to the book, having nostalgic reasons of fondness for the work, but critical analysis soon made xer wince in dismay at some of the creative oversights. Xe had previously read the work a couple of times, but not since her teen years;With a greater understanding of anarchism and resistance, it strongly affected xer reaction to the text. “Apparently coming back to a book series like 20 years later is pretty much ideal, because you’ve forgotten enough of it that it’s completely new.” 🙃

Elphaba’s Intersex Identity

The way Elphaba was coded intersex was pretty explicit, with mentions of her unfeminine figure and somewhat ambiguous genitalia openly in the text. 👍️ Rylee noticed many little nods to gender issues, like Elphaba’s remark that “I am a female, though not by choice.” There was some possible transmasc coding there.

Michelle found the intersex coding less offensive than expected (again, for 1995, xer expectations were rather low) and resonated with the way Elphaba protested her gender and some of the nuances of that. Xe had a great deal of affection for Elphaba as a character, having a strong fondness in general for strong, thorny female characters. Although it was imperfectly accomplished, Elphaba was depicted as a rebel and an anarchist, fiercely intelligent and questioning of society, all traits that Michelle enjoys both in real people and in fictional characters.

That being said, Maguire apparently has been evasive about whether Elphaba is meant to be intersex or not in interviews, saying that it’s “open to interpretation”, and everyone hated that. 👎️ The text is not particularly ambiguous, especially compared to other books we’ve read. We felt the ambiguity was cowardly, and subsequent adaptations had been able to conveniently erase it from the narrative – denying intersex people a prominent opportunity for representation. 👎️

Furthermore, there was a particularly nasty element with the intersex representation; Elphaba was clearly portrayed in ways indicated to be monstrous to those around her, and it appears that her intersex coding was meant to play into her depiction as “unnatural” or “marked by wickedness,” as it were. Obviously, none of us liked that. 👎️

Michelle felt like treating Elphaba’s identity as a literary device was gross, and that representation should not be “up to the reader”.

Michelle pointed that “it borrowed the trappings of monstrosity theory and queer objectivity theory without delving into what it means to be abject or monstrous.” While there was some value to the character, the depiction “also hurt.” It was something of a wakeup call for xer, and xe thought she might be gentler with future intersex books in terms of how they handle representation, in comparison to this one.

The favourable judgements

Michelle pointed out that the prose, worldbuilding, and queer writing were more inclusive than xe remembered, and was pleasantly impressed by how they held up. For Rylee, however, the book evoked “Blood and Honey”, a Winnie the Pooh satire of the unnecessarily dark and gritty variety. Rylee also had difficulty with the audiobook’s lack of differentiation between the intentional capitalizations of particular words, such as animal and Animal. “Wicked has the one-joke premise, but also has a comprehensive novel on top of it.”

That said, Rylee appreciated the antifascist themes and conservative Christianity versus individual introspection and agnostic musings. Maguire, a gay Catholic, clearly made much use of his background in the work’s uncertain and complex personal theology.

Elizabeth liked the writing for Galinda, and found her character realistic, in terms of people ze’s met. The depictions of colonialism were interesting, as were the scenes where Samira set boundaries with Elphaba. “Forgiveness for the sake of the person who was wronged and not for the person who, like, did her wrong to feel good about themselves.”

Where it didn’t work

Feral absolutely hated the writing style and felt the style impeded its own storytelling; it (Feral) found the politics heavy, yet meaningless, and the dark content felt “weirdly devoid of emotion,” and emotions that were shown felt “forced or inauthentic.” Remy agreed.👎️

Elizabeth found the violence to be simply gratuitous, and really hated the time jumps and the pacing of the story. Feral also agreed. “It felt like finally something exciting was going to happen, and then suddenly, there’s a huge time jump.” It felt that writing technique lowered the stakes drastically, an ineffective choice for a book about fascism. 🫤

Michelle conceded that xe had probably learned some bad pacing habits from this book in particular! “I think this book probably got deep into my DNA as a writer and a reader,” xe remarked, considering her own canon and the book’s influence on xer writing. However, everyone agreed that the pacing was very odd and uneven, and that the ramping of and subsequent diffusion of tension was an unpleasantly unsatisfying read. Xe also commented that “literary fiction sometimes subsists on vibes and symbolism and calls that a plot,” and remarked that it was a bad habit xe was still unlearning for xer own fiction.

Even Michelle, who was initially more defensive of the book, had to roll xer eyes hard at the “male writing” section describing some of Elphaba’s body parts.

We had mixed opinions on the depictions of the fascist takeover. Michelle found the helplessness and ordinariness of life continuing relatable given present circumstances, but Feral found the whole depiction of fascism very frustrating and ineffectual, even meaningless. “The whole book feels like it’s trying to be deep and dark and provocative without ever really having the guts to truly go for it & without putting in the work to provide meaningful commentary on the events being reported.” It described the book as “grimdark for the sake of being grimdark” in places, such as the infamous Tiger Scene, and had no truck with that.

Many of us were frustrated with the abrasively edgy take on sexuality. On one hand, the discomfort with sexuality in the text felt intentional, possibly a commentary from the perspective of the writer’s time in the closet. However, the deployment of sexual assault was repeated, often crass and sensationalist, and felt thoroughly unnecessary at times. It’s a common problem in Literary Fiction that sex or sexual violence are deployed for both shock value and ambiguous artistic purposes – making the sex “weird” is a common odd trope among these books.

Michelle said that, damningly, a lot of the sexual violence could be scrubbed from the book, and it would be a better book, at the end of the day. Rylee and Michelle both compared the TV series “The Boys” favourably to this book in terms of that series’ portrayals of violence and sexual violence, which are more sensitively and seriously handled than in Wicked.

A note on disability representation

Elizabeth also was interested in the way that Elphaba’s sister Nessarose, who also had a birth difference, lacking both arms, played into respectability politics, while Elphaba refused to do the same. However, the depiction of her disability and balance issues felt strange and unrealistic to all of us, since people born with limb differences and other disabilities are used to their bodies, and know how to move around in them. The depiction of disabled villains yet again was very exhausting.

Michelle added, “One of my friends got screamed at in social media recently for pointing out that a bunch of major Marvel heroes are disabled and it doesn't get talked about because they present as successful.”

In addition to the disability coding of villain characters, there were also desirability politics representation issues. Madam Morrible was presented as ugly and unattractive, and the tired coding of “hot people = good, ugly people = evil” was deployed yet again. Everyone was frustrated with the book for this. 🙄

The adaptations and context

Michelle had listened to the musical version of Wicked as well as having seen the most recent movie not too long before reading the book, and consequently, had some thoughts. The book was at the grimdark end of the spectrum, and the original books and movies were on the “candy cane” end of the spectrum, as xe put it; the recent movie adaptation had fallen neatly in the middle. Xe praised the film’s use of cinematic language to evoke the original Wizard of Oz. “In comparison, the book is like not just plunging into a cold, cold bath, but a cold bath with random pieces of broken glass in it.” 🫠

Rylee also mentioned an interesting piece of media that offered further possible insight – Wicked: The Real Story, a documentary that appeared to have origins as a student project. The documentary included interviews with Maguire. Apparently, the book was originally intended as “a sort of Oz-themed Lolita.” (It’s probably fortunate that we did not get that version of the book.) Instead, Maguire found himself drawn to the “loveable outsider” status of the Wicked Witch after writing her early childhood. This lends additional ambiguity to the nature of Elphaba’s depiction as a monstrous person, and suggests unfavourable things about the choice of giving her an intersex identity as well.

An interesting element of the book in general is that it is, very technically, up-market fan fiction. Michelle was critical of the way the book’s “Literary” reputation effectively gentrified fan fiction. It also gave xer insight into how Literary Fiction as a self-declared non-genre genre tends to include, in Canadian and American literature at least, both “genre fiction” that’s gentrified (science fiction, fantasy, horror, etcetera) and “middle class masturbatory stuff”.

This led directly into critiques Rylee had earlier made of the poor handling of sexual violence; the fan fiction community tends to be far more responsible and careful with its depictions of this topic than this book was. We agreed that the book felt like the literary equivalent of “Oscar bait”. We discussed how extreme horror and erotica can have  lot of artistic value by committing to the subject matter, and how Wicked fell short of this. Rylee also compared it to an adaptation sequel called Carmilla’s Revenge, by a descendant of Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, Mark Williams – but the sequel adequately included trigger warnings.

Feral was frustrated that the book had come out in 1995, during the initial splatterpunk movement, and speculated on how much better the tiger scene would have been if handled by Poppy Z Brite or Clive Barker.

Final thoughts

Over all, Wicked really demonstrates problems and flaws of both literary fiction as a genre/approach and of outsiders writing depictions of disabled groups where those disabilities or other identity struggles are used as plot points or for symbolic vibes, rather than being essential to the character’s identity. We were pretty disappointed with this one, but at least it generated a fantastic discussion as a book club pick. For any perisex authors interested in writing an intersex character we would not recommend this book positively. (Instead see our reviews of Cattywampus and Across the Green Grass Fields for examples of perisex authors can do justice to intersex representation!)

[snailmailthings]

the way people defend celebrities or turn on them online based on very curated glimpses we are given is insane, these people are marketing themselves to you, they need popularity to be cast in more films/be given more exposure and opportunities, they are presenting the most palatable versions of themselves, it's not who they authentically are

[seaglassdinosaur]

The most brilliant and impressive thing Ryan Coogler did in my opinion was figure out how to communicate to the audience the actual tangible power of Sammie’s music, so we could truly conceptualize what it was that Remmick wanted and what he threatened to take away.

[thenotoriousscuttlecliff]

Even if I don't end up loving it, I still need the new Superman to be a big success in hopes of shutting up all the annoying idiots out there who think that it is weakness to show emotion and affection and the only way to show strength is to be a stoic, emotionless muscle man.

Give me a Superman who is passionate, who feels things strongly because he cares so much, who isn't afraid to get emotional.

[callizinc]

Anyone else who's both a deltahead And an enahead, We need to do something sinister to toby fox and joel g for releasing deltarunes 3 and 4 and dbbq chapter 1, after 3-4 YEARS of wait, within Barely over 2 MONTHS of each other

[darkwood-sleddog]

you know notarizing documents for one of the first couples in my town to ever have a civil union so they can leave the country bc of trump's administration making them feel the country isn't safe any more during pride month really feels dire. i have my bi pin on my shirt, a pride poster is behind me as I stand at my office counter stamping their documents, i am not the only queer employee in this office, but it feels hollow. so hollow.

[aj-thegreatest]

Me when I see people ship the literal culture vulture (Remmick) with what the culture is feeling (Sammie) and continually ignore Pearline, one of the three black women in the movie: