#posts I made instead of doing actual work

[cheftsunoda]

Heyy! I love all your fics, they are soooo good! Could you maybe write one where y/n is max fewtrells little sister and landos race engineer but media is being mean to her and saying that she just got the job cause she's a woman and that she doesn't deserve it. So lando has to step in and then they fall in love. If you don't like this you could just ignore it but I'd love to read it:)

not on my watch — ln4

smau + blurbs

lando norris x !race engineer reader

it started shortly after the mclaren announcement was posted— 'yn fewtrell has been named lando norris’ race engineer for the 2025 season.' the internet erupted—accusations of nepotism, blatant sexism, and outrage that they’d hand the job to a 24 year old woman. they don’t know you built half the strategy software they rely on. they don’t know you graduated at 19 and haven’t made a wrong call since. they don’t know lando trusts you more than anyone else on the team. this season, you’re done staying quiet. you’re going to prove them all wrong. even if it means falling for the one person you were never supposed to.

fc : lissie mackintosh

(a/n) : hellooooo mi vida <3 thank you for the love on my work! i appreciate you sm. sorry this took so long but i hope you enjoy 🧚🏻

also i love writing like the engineering side of things. my dad is a retired race engineer and he taught me everything i know and is the reason for my love of the sport. there is your fun fact of the day;) enjoy !

—

mclaren & yn_fewtrell

liked by lando, maxfewtrell, zbrownceo & 7,110,011 others.

mclaren : Please welcome YN Fewtrell as Lando Norris’ new race engineer for the 2025 season. Brilliant, fearless, and ready to lead from the pit wall. Let’s go win some races. 🧡

—

view 772,000 other comments.

username000 : ok but she’s actually a genius? she BUILT half their strategy models. stay mad.

username00 : this is history and y’all don’t even know it yet. she’s gonna run the whole grid one day.

username0 : nepotism is alive and well I see 😐

username1 : she’s 24 and in charge of race strategy?? lmao. hope Lando likes DNFing.

↳ lando : keep my wife’s name out of your FUCKIN mouth.

liked by yn_fewtrell and maxfewtrell

↳ lando : i literally begged her to take the job. she had about a dozen offers for other teams. she is smarter than the whole paddock put together.

liked by yn_fewtrell, maxfewtrell, mclaren and oscarpiastri

zbrownceo : Brilliant mind. Cool under pressure. Unshakable. Couldn’t be prouder. Let’s do this.

liked by mclaren and yn_fewtrell

↳ username5 : you’ll regret this 2 races into the season.

oscarpiastri : I thought I knew the science behind F1…and then I met YN…and she made me question everything. Congratulations, YN! We are happy to have you.

liked by mclaren, yn_fewtrell, maxfewtrell and lando

maxfewtrell : Such a proud big brother moment. Go show them just how genius you are, sis! 🤧🧡

liked by mclaren, yn_fewtrell and lando

pietra.pilao : literally the most intelligent person in the world! no one deserves this more🥺 I LOVE YOU YNNNNN

liked by yn_fewtrell, maxfewtrell and lando

lando : no one can wrangle me like this one. let’s make history together bub!!

liked by yn_fewtrell, mclaren and oscarpiastri

username17 : Hiring women just to look good, not to win races. Disgraceful.

↳ yn_fewtrell : funny how the people questioning my ability never mention the races i have helped win. maybe instead of whining about my gender, you should learn how to actually win. see you on the podium—if you can keep up. 🧡

liked by maxfewtrell, lando, mclaren, pietra.pilao and oscarpiastri

↳ maxfewtrell : ATE

liked by lando and yn_fewtrell

username37 : Just here to watch her fail and disappear. It’s not like she’s actually qualified.

↳ lando : talk shit get hit. you’re out here bullying a woman behind a keyboard while she stays winning and getting paid.

liked by yn_fewtrell and maxfewtrell

username45 : Bet she got the job ‘cause Max begged, not because she earned it.

↳ maxfewtrell : lando doesn’t even like me that much, if I would’ve asked he would’ve said no.

↳ lando : TRUTH

username55 : This is why F1 is a joke now. Giving a 24-year-old woman a crucial race engineer role? Please. Next, they’ll have kids driving cars.

↳ maxfewtrell : This comment is exactly why she’s needed. You clowns scream about F1 being a joke, but the real punchline is you thinking your fragile ego matters more than her qualifications. She’s 24, a genius, and running circles around engineers twice her age. Stay pressed.

liked by yn_fewtrell and lando

—

You’re not sure why your palms are sweaty. You’ve given technical presentations in front of FIA directors. You’ve rebuilt a predictive model with zero sleep and one cracked laptop. You’ve told grown men twice your age their simulations were wrong—and then proved it. But this? Sitting across from Zak Brown and the McLaren technical director with your name printed at the top of an official offer letter? This feels different.

“Relax,” Zak says, grinning like he’s already picturing you on the pit wall. “You’re not in trouble. Unless being a genius is suddenly against the rules.”

You crack a smile. Just a small one. The technical director slides the contract toward you. You already know what it says. But seeing it in writing makes your heart skip anyway.

“We want you in the role officially,” Zak says. “You’ve been running the backend strategy models, fixing everyone’s messes from behind the curtain, and honestly? It’s long overdue.”

“I thought I was too young,” you say carefully. “Too… controversial.”

Zak leans forward, elbows on the table. “You graduated at 19. You built the race strategy AI we still use today. You predicted the Qatar safety car last season three laps before it happened. You’ve saved Lando’s race more times than we can count. If you were anyone else—any guy, with ten more grey hairs—we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. You’d already be in that seat.”

Your throat tightens a little. You swallow it down.

“We know what people are going to say,” the tech director adds. “The media will be brutal. The ‘nepotism’ headlines, the ‘diversity hire’ comments. It’s coming.”

“I know,” you say softly. “But they’re wrong.”

Zak nods. “Exactly. And I want them to say it. Loudly. So we can prove them wrong. Publicly.”

There’s a long pause. The kind where everything shifts—where it all becomes real.

“Lando asked for you, by the way,” Zak says, almost offhand. “Said he’s never trusted anyone more with his race or his car.”

That stops you. You blink. Look back down at the paper. You knew you’d earned this. But hearing that? It hits different. You pick up the pen. And for the first time since walking into the room, you let yourself smile—full, bright, certain.

“Let’s go win some races.”

—

Dinner at Max’s flat was always a bit of a circus. Pietra’s voice filled the kitchen as she narrated her sauce recipe like a cooking show. Max was burning the garlic bread while insisting he knew what he was doing. And Lando? Lando was sitting at the end of the counter, one arm slung casually over the back of his chair, stealing olives out of the bowl you were supposed to be using for the salad. You’d missed this.

The normalcy. The teasing. The fact that no one was looking at you like you were about to become the most talked about person in the paddock.

“You’re being suspicious,” Max says, pointing a fork at you as he slides into his seat at the table.

“I’m literally just existing,” you reply.

Pietra hums. “No, he’s right. You’ve had a look all evening. Like you’re hiding something.”

You glance at Lando. He doesn’t say anything, but he raises one eyebrow, a silent challenge. He’s been patient with you the last few weeks. Supportive, even while everyone else kept asking what team you were going to sign with. Mercedes had called. Ferrari had emailed. Even Red Bull made an offer. You’d kept it to yourself, waiting for the right moment. Tonight was the right moment.

You take a slow sip of your wine. “So… I signed.”

The room goes silent. Max straightens in his chair like you just told him you were pregnant. “What?”

Pietra claps her hands. “With who?!”

Lando freezes. The olive he was about to eat drops back into the bowl. “Wait. Seriously? You signed?”

You nod slowly, drawing it out. “Yep.”

Max leans forward, eyes wide. “Okay, well—Ferrari?”

You shake your head.

“Mercedes,” Pietra tries, gasping dramatically. “You’d look hot in silver.”

You smile, still silent. Lando’s eyes haven’t left your face. He looks nervous. Hopeful.

“I signed with McLaren,” you say finally. “Race engineer for Mr. Norris.”

And then—Chaos. Pure Chaos.

“YESSSSS!” Pietra screeches, nearly knocking over her wine.

Max throws a napkin in the air like it’s confetti. “I KNEW IT! I KNEW YOU’D STAY!”

Lando lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for three years. He covers his mouth with one hand and laughs.

“You’re joking,” he says, eyes wide. “You’re actually serious?”

“I signed the contract this morning,” you reply, grinning. “Zak just let them put out the announcement.”

Max is on his feet in seconds, pulling you up into a bear hug. “I’m so proud of you,” he says into your hair, voice suddenly a little thick. “They have no idea what’s coming.”

Pietra joins the hug, wrapping her arms around both of you. “We’re going to make shirts that say ‘fewtrell dominance could bore fans.’”

You laugh into her shoulder. “Please don’t.”

When you finally break away, Lando’s still sitting, eyes soft, lips twitching like he’s trying to hide how relieved he is.

“You okay over there?” you tease.

He stands, coming to stand just in front of you. “I’m great. I’m—actually, I’m really happy.”

You nod, trying to keep your voice even. “You sure you can handle me screaming strategy in your ear every Sunday?”

Lando grins. “Only if you promise to keep calling me out when I whine on the radio.”

You roll your eyes. “Deal.”

There’s a beat where no one says anything. Just you, standing a little too close to Lando in the middle of Max’s kitchen, your heart hammering for reasons that have nothing to do with the job. Max breaks the silence.

“So… do I need to have the talk now, or can I just trust that Lando will behave?”

Pietra gasps. “Max!”

Lando chokes on a laugh. “What?! Nothing’s even happening!”

You try to act innocent, but you’re smiling now—bright and open and a little bit full of something terrifyingly hopeful.

“Yet,” Max mutters, grabbing the garlic bread off the counter. “I’m watching you, Norris.”

You roll your eyes and steal a piece of bread. Because the truth is, you’re watching him too. And you’re not sure who’s more in trouble—you, for finally taking this job. Or Lando, for falling a little harder every time you say his name.

—

Later that night, the laughter fades into tired giggles, and the plates are mostly empty, wine glasses scattered across the table like a celebration that never wanted to end. Max and Pietra are curled up on the couch, half-asleep under a blanket and pretending they’re not eavesdropping. Which leaves you and Lando in the kitchen—cleaning up, sort of. Mostly moving things around and trying not to look like you’re just avoiding saying something.

He’s rinsing dishes at the sink, sleeves pushed up, curls slightly messy from running his hand through his hair too many times. You dry the plates beside him, stealing glances when you think he’s not paying attention. Of course, he is.

“You really had us going,” Lando says softly, finally breaking the silence. “Thought you were off to Ferrari or something.”

You shrug. “I could’ve. But… it never felt right. They wanted the title on my resume. McLaren actually wanted me.”

He smiles at that—wide and full of pride. “We’re lucky to have you. I mean that.”

There’s something heavy under his voice now. Not just pride. Something else.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he adds, rinsing the last glass. “I asked for you.”

You glance over at him. “I figured. Zak doesn’t subtlety drop things like that.”

Lando laughs under his breath, then grows quiet again. “It wasn’t just because you’re smart, or talented, or scary good at reading data. It’s because I trust you. And that’s rare for me.”

You look down at the towel in your hands, your voice barely above a whisper. “I trust you too.”

There’s a long pause. The kind where the air shifts. Where you both feel the question neither of you has dared to ask.

He looks over at you, searching. “Are you scared?”

You nod slowly. “A little. Not of the job. Just… everything else.”

His gaze softens, and he takes a step closer. Not quite touching, but close enough to feel the warmth between you.

“Whatever it is,” he says, voice low, “we figure it out together.”

You blink at him. Your breath catches, just a little.

“Even if Max threatens to murder you?” you joke.

Lando smirks. “Especially then.”

The moment hangs there—close, careful, charged. You want to kiss him. You have for years. It is definitely not the time now. But the thought is there, sitting between you, unspoken and inevitable.

Instead, he nudges your shoulder gently. “Come on. You’re off duty tonight. I’ll finish up.”

You hand him the towel and roll your eyes. “Don’t screw up the glassware, Norris.”

He grins, watching you walk out of the kitchen. And when he turns back to the sink, he’s still smiling—because for the first time in a long time, everything feels exactly where it’s meant to be.

—

Australia. Testing Day.

The paddock is humming like a heartbeat—fast, sharp, electric. You walk toward the garage with your headset in hand, credentials swinging around your neck, papaya polo fitted perfectly like it’s been yours all along. People glance as you pass, some with confusion, others with curiosity. You hear your name once or twice in passing—low whispers, half-question, half-gossip. You ignore all of it.

Because you’re not here to be liked. You’re here to run a car. McLaren’s garage is already alive when you step in. The smell of oil and tire rubber hits you first, followed by the warm buzz of quiet chaos. Engineers, mechanics, data analysts—moving like they’re part of a living machine.

Lando’s sitting in the car, helmet off, half-zipped race suit and that usual lazy grin stretched across his face.

“Morning, boss,” he says into the radio, teasing.

You settle into your seat on the pit wall like you’ve done it a thousand times. Calm. Focused. Headset on.

“Morning, Norris,” you reply coolly. “Try not to crash. I just got here.”

A soft laugh crackles through the comms. “No promises.”

Zak appears behind you, clapping a hand on your shoulder. “This is it,” he says, smiling. “Let’s show them why you’re here.”

You nod once and focus on the screen in front of you. Live telemetry scrolls across the monitor. Tire temps. Fuel load. Weather variance. You track it all with sharp, trained eyes.

Your voice is calm when it hits the radio. “Okay Lando, we’re doing a 12 lap run, softs, with gradual pace increase. I want full feedback on braking stability by lap 4. Let’s go.”

“Copy that,” he replies, voice lighter than it probably should be. “Lead the way, genius.”

And then the garage clears as the engine roars to life. He pulls out of the pit lane. The screens flicker to life, and the data begins to pour in. Sector times. Tire degradation. Wind resistance. The other engineers glance over at you—quietly impressed. By lap 5, you’re already adjusting the run.

“Box at the end of 8. Temps are creeping up faster than expected. Want to save the compound.”

“Copy,” Lando says immediately, without question.

By lap 9, he’s back in the garage. You’re waiting with a bottle of water and a raised brow.

“You’re .03 seconds off your previous best in Turn 11,” you say, casually handing it over. “What are you doing in there, admiring the desert?”

Lando takes the bottle, grinning. “Maybe I just like hearing you call me out.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a flicker of a smile. The truth is—you’re in your element. The voices in the paddock might still whisper. The media might still doubt.

But on that pit wall, with your headset on and Lando behind the wheel, you’re exactly where you belong. Every call you make is sharp, every number you read makes sense, and the car? The car is singing. And by the end of the day? McLaren tops the timing sheets. Because this time, it’s not just about the car or the driver. It’s about you—and him—and the strategy that only the two of you can build together.

—

The garage is humming with the kind of energy only a race day can bring — tightly wound nerves, soft radio checks, the heavy scent of tire compound, and pure adrenaline wrapped in papaya orange. This time, it’s louder. Bigger. More intense. Because this is your first race. Your race. On the wall. Running the strategy. With the whole world watching. And they’re not just watching Lando. They’re watching you.

You barely hear the murmurs from the media pens—Let them talk. You’re too busy building a strategy that’ll make them eat every last word.

In the garage, Max and Pietra are chaos in human form.

Max is pacing in his McLaren cap like he’s the one driving, and Pietra is waving around a mini flag like it’s actually helping anything.

“Can she even breathe up there?” Pietra asks, looking up at the pit wall nervously.

“I don’t think she is breathing,” Max replies. “She’s calculating.”

Five minutes to lights out. You clip your headset on. Your screen shows Lando’s live data feed. Heart rate slightly elevated, but steady. Tire temps in ideal range. Track temp rising faster than expected.

“Alright, Norris,” you say into the mic, voice cool and even. “We’re sticking to Plan A. Clean start, protect the tires. You hold position in Turn 1 and don’t get spicy until after Lap 10. Copy?”

Lando’s voice crackles through the radio, playful even under pressure.

“Copy, boss. I’ll behave. Ish.”

The lights go out. And so does the paddock. Lando has a flying start.

Shoots past Leclerc like it’s personal, glues himself to P2 before Lap 2, and settles into a comfortable rhythm. You monitor everything. Grip levels. Crosswinds in Sector 2. Fuel consumption. Brake temps. Max is screaming into Pietra’s shoulder behind you. Pietra’s crying by Lap 5. “HE’S DRIVING SO WELL.”

You smile despite yourself. By Lap 17, you see it.

The Ferraris are chewing through their tires. The Red Bulls are too conservative on power. You run the numbers twice. Then a third time. You flick on the radio.

“Box this lap. Undercut window is open.”

Lando doesn’t question you. “Copy. Let’s do it.”

He dives in. The stop is flawless. 2.3 seconds. And when the others finally pit? He comes out in the lead. P1. The garage explodes.

Max is on his feet, yelling something incoherent about “NEVER DOUBTED HER FOR A SECOND.”

Pietra is crying again, but this time she had acquired a hat to cover her face. You stay calm. Mostly.

“Alright,” you say over the radio. “Lead car. Twenty four laps to go. Clear track ahead. I want clean air and zero drama. Think you can manage that, Norris?”

Lando’s voice is steady, but there’s a grin buried in it.

“For you? Anything.”

The last 10 laps are torture. DRS threats. Virtual safety car. A rogue yellow flag that nearly throws everything. Your hands are shaking, but your voice is steady. Every call is precise.

“Brake bias forward by 2 clicks.”

“Harvest more in Sector 3.”

“Hold them off. This is your race.”

And Lando? He drives like he’s on rails. Like every word you say is gospel. Lap 58. Final sector. You stand, fingers white around your headset, eyes locked on the monitor.

Lando crosses the line—

P1.

The radio crackles—

“WE DID IT!” he screams. “YN! WE FUCKING DID IT!*”

Your heart explodes in your chest. You cover your mouth with one hand, tears burning in your eyes before you even realize they’re there.

You press the button, voice breaking just slightly.

“You were perfect, Lando. That was all you.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“No. That was us.”

The garage is mayhem. Mechanics hugging. Pit crew chanting your name. Zak running in from somewhere with champagne already in hand.

Max is sobbing into Pietra’s shoulder. “I KNEW SHE WAS A GENIUS. I KNEW IT.”

Pietra’s recording you with tears in her eyes and yelling, “YOU JUST BEAT HALF THE GRID WITH YOUR BRAIN.”

You take your headset off slowly, still stunned. And then you feel arms around you. Lando’s. He’s still in his fireproofs, sweat-soaked and grinning like he’s never smiled before. He doesn’t care who’s watching. He lifts you slightly off the ground as he hugs you.

“You were magic,” he whispers. “You made that happen.”

You pull back just slightly, your forehead resting against his. “And you made it look beautiful.”

He doesn’t dare to make a move. But his hands linger at your waist. His smile is soft. His eyes are only on you. And in that moment—surrounded by champagne, chaos, and the disbelief of everyone who ever doubted you—you know—This is only the beginning.

—

yn_fewtrell

liked by lando, maxfewtrell, pietra.pilao and 4,708,003 others.

yn_fewtrell : aus was fun, onto the next (p)one🫶🏻

tagged : pietra.pilao, maxfewtrell and lando

—

view 192,005 other comments.

lando : stole my french fries and my car, huh?

liked by yn_fewtrell

↳ yn_fewtrell : that is the price you pay when I lead you to a race win😁

liked by maxfewtrell and lando

↳ username00 : bitch one won race and made it her whole personality already. can’t wait to watch her fail.

mclaren : engineering excellence powered by french fries and gyros🧡

liked by yn_fewtrell

oscarpiastri : leave lando and be my engineer. i will give you all the french fries you want

liked by yn_fewtrell and lando

↳ lando : not happening oscarino. she is staying with me 🤭

username10 : how are you THIS smart, THIS cool, and still relatable

liked by yn_fewtrell

username000 : There are people with decades of experience who deserved that role. But sure, let the influencer do strategy.

username11 : If she really cared about the job, she wouldn’t be flirting with her driver. Unprofessional af.

username50 : She’s more concerned about photo dumps and outfits than race data. No wonder people think women don’t belong here.

username33 : Funny how she was handed this position and still makes it all about herself. Typical influencer behavior.

zbrownceo : Proud doesn’t even begin to cover it.

liked by yn_fewtrell and lando

—

It’s been eight weeks since Australia. Five races. Two wins. Three podiums. Zero strategy errors. One woman behind the radio. And somehow — none of it is enough.

You’re walking through the paddock before FP2, headset looped around your neck, data tablet pressed to your chest like armor. The McLaren polo clings to your skin in the heat, but you don’t notice. You’ve been sweating for hours, and not because of the sun. Every few steps, your name follows you like a curse. Not in congratulations. Not in respect. Just low, biting whispers.

“She only sounds smart on paper.”

“She’s riding Lando’s success like it’s hers.”

You walk faster. You don’t let it show — but God, it’s wearing you down. Quietly. Brutally. You haven’t opened Twitter in weeks. You scroll past Instagram comments like they’re burning. You stopped reading your tagged posts the day someone told you to “go back to fashion school” and said your first win was “handed to her.”

It’s not the media. Not even the sexist podcasters with cropped beards and buzzwords. It’s everyone else. The silence from your colleagues when your name is mentioned. The sideways looks from rival teams when McLaren beats them on strategy. The fans who scream for Lando and ignore you completely — or worse, call you a distraction. And still, you show up. Every day. Every race. Every session. You make the calls. You hit the targets. You win. But today? Today feels thin. Like the ground beneath your feet is giving way just a little.

You take a long breath as you pass the Sky Sports camera crew, nod politely, hoping to keep walking — until one of them turns just slightly and says it loud enough for you to hear— 

“There goes Norris’ lucky charm.”

You stop. It’s not just the words — it’s the tone. Patronizing. Dismissive. Cruel in its casualness.

“Smart of McLaren to hire someone for optics. Keeps the headlines clean while he does the real work.”

Something cracks. Quietly. Deep in your chest. You turn your head — slowly, expression unreadable — and meet the reporter’s eyes.

“I suggest you rethink who’s doing the real work,” you say coolly, though your throat is tight. “I’m the one keeping his car in the points.”

Before he can respond, before he can smirk or backtrack or say something worse— A voice cuts in. Sharp. Dangerous. Familiar.

“Is there a problem here?”

You don’t have to turn to know who it is. You feel him before you see him. Lando. Still in his fireproofs, still flushed from the car, eyes hard and jaw tight.

The reporter chuckles, uncomfortable now. “Nothing at all. Just—complimenting your engineer.”

“Really? ‘Lucky charm’ doesn’t sound like a compliment to me. You are patronizing her.”

Lando steps between you and the reporter without hesitation, his voice low and lethal.

“You don’t get to belittle her work because it makes you uncomfortable. You don’t get to reduce her to some narrative you can sell. She’s the reason I’m winning. She makes the calls. She reads the race like it’s written in a language only she speaks. And if you can’t handle that—maybe you should just get the fuck out.” 

The silence is deafening. The reporter stammers something, but Lando doesn’t wait to hear it. He turns to you gently, expression shifting — still sharp, but soft in a way he reserves only for you.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You want to say yes. Want to tell him you’re fine. That it doesn’t matter. But your hands are trembling. And you’re so, so tired. He notices. Of course he does. Lando doesn’t say anything more — just steps closer, hand resting briefly on your back, shielding you as he leads you away. Out of the cameras. Out of the noise.

And even as your eyes sting, even as your chest aches with the weight of it all — there’s something steady about the way he walks beside you. Like a lifeline. Like a promise. You don’t say it yet. But you know. He’s in your corner. And when you can’t fight for yourself — Lando will.

—

It starts with the silences. Not the good kind—the ones you used to share in the garage after a long session, exhausted but grinning. Not the quiet that existed between looks and smirks and inside jokes that didn’t need explaining.

This silence is different. Colder. Heavier. Lando notices it first in the little things. The way you leave the debrief as soon as it ends. How you sit at the other end of the table during meals. How your messages have gone from memes and chaos to nothing but numbers and fuel loads. Professionally, you’re sharper than ever. Flawless. But the rest of you?

You’re fading.

He sees it. He’s been seeing it. And it’s not until the night before the Spanish GP, when you skip the post dinner team drinks without a word, that he makes a decision. He doesn’t text. Doesn’t knock and wait. He uses the keycard Zak made everyone take for security reasons, pushes into your suite quietly, and hears it immediately—

Not music. Not the TV. Just the soft rustle of curtains and the distant sound of you trying to breathe quietly. He finds you on the balcony.

Sitting on the floor, knees pulled up to your chest, forehead pressed against your arms. Shoulders shaking. The city lights stretching below you while the tears you’ve been holding back for weeks finally pour down your face. You don’t hear him at first.

Until the sliding door opens behind you and a soft voice says, “Hey.”

You flinch. “Lando—shit. I—I didn’t know you—”

You wipe your face furiously, still refusing to look at him.

“You should go,” you say quickly. “I’m fine. Just needed air—”

“You’re not fine,” he says gently, stepping onto the balcony. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

You try to joke. Deflect. “You’re not exactly dressed for an emotional breakdown—”

He sits beside you anyway. Cross legged, close enough for his shoulder to brush yours. Warm and present and so painfully there.

There’s a long silence. And then, softly—

“I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do, Lando.”

Your voice cracks. Finally.

“I do everything right. Every call. Every number. Every strategy. We’re winning, and I’m still losing.”

He doesn’t say anything—just waits.

“They’re never going to see me as more than your little sidekick,” you whisper. “Or Max’s sister. Or the girl who ruined the sport. And I’m so tired of pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

Your hands are trembling in your lap. He watches you struggle for air, for composure, for the strength you’ve worn like armor for months.

“I feel like I’m screaming into a void and smiling while I do it,” you admit. “Because if I stop being the girl who can handle it, then they win, right?”

Lando doesn’t speak for a moment. Then—

“I don’t want you to be the girl who can handle it,” he says quietly. “I want you to be the girl who’s allowed to feel it. Who’s allowed to break down on balconies. Who doesn’t have to carry it all alone.”

You look at him. Finally. And what you see isn’t pity. It’s rage. And hurt. And love—undeniably, plainly, terrifyingly there.

“Do you have any idea how much I admire you?” he asks. “Not just for what you do. But for how you survive in a world that tries so hard to push you out.”

Your eyes fill again.

“But I hate watching you shrink. I hate watching you pretend like the comments don’t get to you when I know they do.”

“I can’t let it show,” you murmur.

“You can,” he says. “With me, you can.”

He takes your hand. It’s not romantic. Not yet. It’s grounding.

“I need you to know something,” he continues, voice low and sure. “None of this—none of what we’ve built this season—works without you. Not the wins. Not the podiums. Not me.”

You press your lips together, fighting another wave of tears.

“But I need you to work too,” he says. “Not just the engineer. You. The person. And she deserves rest. And softness. And someone to sit with her on a balcony when she forgets how incredible she is.”

Your heart aches at how gently he says it. Like you’re made of glass. Like you’re allowed to fall apart.

“I don’t know how to let go,” you whisper. “I’ve been holding it all for so long.”

He squeezes your hand, his voice breaking just slightly. “Then let me help. Please.”

And you do. You let your head fall to his shoulder. You let the tears fall without apology. You let someone see you—not just as the brilliant, capable, unshakeable engineer they all expect—but as a person who’s tired and hurting and desperately in need of grace.

And Lando?  He doesn’t move. He stays beside you until the sun starts to rise. And when you finally speak again, voice hoarse but steadier than before, you say—

“I don’t want to do this without you.”

And he replies, without missing a beat. 

“You won’t have to.”

—

Race Day. Mid season. High pressure. Everything on the line. The garage is tight with tension. Dry air. Sharp voices. You can feel it pulsing through your headset like a storm trying to form. Lando’s in P3. The strategy is clean. You’ve run every scenario.

“Stick to Plan B,” you remind him calmly.

“We wait. The softs will come back to us. Hold position, and we pounce after lap 38.”

“Copy,” he says. But you can hear it — the edge in his voice. The hunger. The itch. Lando wants more. Too soon. You hear the switch in his tone by Lap 30. He’s pushing harder. Ignoring lift points. Going aggressive on the straights. And then—he says it.

“Box now. I’m undercutting.”

You sit bolt upright. “No. Lando—no. Tires aren’t ready. The window’s not open yet—”

Too late. He dives in. Pit crew scrambles. The stop is clean. But the re-entry isn’t. Traffic. Cold tires. He rejoins behind a cluster of midfield chaos. Loses time. Loses grip. Loses everything. You stand frozen, eyes on the screen as he drops from P3 to P9 in four laps. The garage is silent.

Your hands are clenched. You barely hear the commentary echoing from the monitors.

“That’s a brutal call from McLaren. Early stop puts Norris behind heavy traffic… was that a misread from the pit wall?”

Your headset is still on when the post-race headlines start posting in real time.

“MCLAREN STRATEGY ERROR COSTS NORRIS BIG FINISH.”

“YN FEWTRELL UNDER FIRE AGAIN AFTER RISKY CALL.”

“Norris’ engineer strikes out — questions rise around her future.”

You don’t even feel your legs as you pull off your headset. Don’t feel Zak’s hand on your shoulder. Don’t hear the apology Lando doesn’t say. You just walk out of the garage.

—

His hotel room. Just the two of you.

“I told you not to pit,” you say quietly, arms crossed over your chest, trying not to shake.

Lando looks at you like you’re the one who ruined it.

“I felt the grip dropping—”

“You disobeyed strategy. You disobeyed me.”

Your voice breaks, brittle and sharp. “And they’re blaming me for it.”

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing. “You don’t get it—”

“No, you don’t!” You snap. “I have spent every race protecting you. Protecting this team. Taking the hits so you don’t have to, and you go rogue the second it doesn’t feel perfect?”

“I’m the one in the car!” he fires back. “It’s my instinct—”

“It’s your ego, Lando.”

Silence. The kind that cuts. You look at him, really look at him — and it hits you. Hard. Too hard. You love him. You love him, and it’s eating you alive. And maybe the worst part? He doesn’t even see it. Not through the anger. Not through the noise. You turn toward the door, needing air. Needing anything.

“I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” you say, barely above a whisper. “I thought I could balance it all — the job, the team, you. But I’m drowning.”

Lando takes a step forward. “YN…”

You shake your head, eyes burning. “I need space.”

And this time, you mean it.

—

f1gossipgirls

2,570,110 likes.

f1gossipgirls : YN Fewtrell in talks with Red Bull??! Lando’s race engineer was seen meeting with Christian Horner this afternoon. She has faced a lot of criticism and backlash working with Mclaren. Will she stay with them?

—

The room is silent, save for the faint ticking of a sleek analog clock and the soft shuffle of pages as Christian Horner flips through your printed track performance portfolio like he’s browsing specs on a new wind tunnel component. He hasn’t said much in the last few minutes. Just let the numbers speak for themselves. You see your call sheets. Tire offset modeling. Degradation analysis. Win probabilities. All the things that made people outside the team mock you — and made people inside the paddock terrified of you.

“This,” Christian finally says, tapping a finger against your Australian GP strategy sheet, “was the best pit call I’ve seen in three years. And I’ve worked with Hannah for over a decade.”

You blink, caught off guard.

He smiles. “We see what you’re doing, YN. Some people only see Lando’s wins. I see who’s putting him in the position to take them.”

Your stomach turns slightly. You should feel proud. Grateful. Validated. But instead, it just makes your chest ache.

He leans back in the chair, lacing his fingers. “If you come here, you’ll be given autonomy. No headlines. No internal politics. No fighting for respect. Just results. And trust.”

You nod, slowly, unsure what to say. His voice is steady. His words, deliberate. Everything you thought you wanted—finally offered. And yet, there’s a pit in your stomach that only gets heavier.

The folder with your name on it sits in front of you, untouched. Contract terms. Role title—Head of Race Strategy.

It would be a promotion. A salary jump. A career-defining move.

But all you can think about is a voice in your headset saying “we did it.”

A hand brushing your back on the podium. A boy with a crooked smile and a voice that only ever softened for you.

—

Lando is exhausted. He hasn’t slept properly since the race. Since the fight. Since you walked out of his hotel room without a backward glance and took all the air with you.

He’s meant to be reviewing simulator data with the McLaren techs, but his head isn’t there. It hasn’t been for weeks. It’s back in that garage. That balcony. That hotel room. He runs a hand through his curls and turns a corner—And nearly bumps into Max Verstappen.

“Jesus—sorry, mate,” Lando mutters, distracted, already half past him.

Max doesn’t miss a beat.

“Hey,” he says, glancing down, “You might wanna keep your eyes up today.”

Lando blinks. “What?”

Max gives him a dry, amused look. The kind that says I know something you don’t.

“Just thought I’d let you know,” Max says, casually taking a sip of his drink. “Horner’s in a meeting right now with your engineer. Could be the last time you call her yours.”

Lando’s whole body stills.

“What?”

Max shrugs. “I mean… she’s good. We all know it. Wouldn’t blame her for jumping ship. You guys made it easy, yeah?”

Lando opens his mouth, but Max is already walking past him, throwing one last glance over his shoulder.

“She looked serious, by the way. Folder and everything.”

Lando’s pulse spikes. He doesn’t ask where. Doesn’t call Zak. Doesn’t wait for security or clearance or logic. He just runs.

Through the Red Bull corridors. Past the press room. Past engineers and assistants who do double takes as he flies by in his team hoodie, looking like he’s chasing something he should’ve protected weeks ago. And he is. Because this time, he might be too late.

—

The contract still sits unopened in front of you. You don’t know what you’re waiting for. Christian is mid-sentence again — something about finalizing negotiations after the summer break — when the door slams open so hard the glass rattles. You jolt in your seat. So does Horner. And then you hear it.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

You look up and your heart stops. Lando. Flushed. Breathless. Hair a mess. McLaren hoodie halfway unzipped, curls damp with sweat. His eyes are locked on you, not even acknowledging Christian.

You push your chair back, stunned. “Lando—”

He doesn’t wait. He walks straight across the room, past the Red Bull logo, past the executive folders, straight to you.

“Come with me,” he says, voice rough. “Now.”

You hesitate for half a second, glancing at Christian. Christian sighs, clearly already over the dramatics. “Take your time.”

You follow Lando into the hallway, the door swinging shut behind you. The second it closes, he rounds on you.

“Why?” he says, voice sharp with confusion and something dangerously close to heartbreak. “Why would you do this? Why would you just leave?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Was I that awful to you?” he continues. “After everything—after what we’ve built—do I really make it that easy to walk away?”

“Lando, it’s not like that.”

“Then tell me what it’s like.”

His voice cracks on the last word. He’s begging now. And you can’t hold it in anymore. Your chest aches. Your eyes sting. Your hands are trembling.

You swallow hard. “Because I’m in love with you.”

He blinks.

You keep going. “Because I’ve been in love with you and pretending not to be for months. Because the second anyone even suspects we’re close, the hate triples. Because every race I sit beside you and make calls that win championships and people still say it’s all because I want your attention.”

Your voice is shaking now.

“And if I stay—and if this gets out—I know what they’ll say. That I seduced my way into the headset. That I only win because you let me. And I can’t—I can’t survive that, Lando.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Until he speaks. Softly. Carefully. Completely undone.

“You think I care about any of that?”

You shake your head, eyes blurring. “You should.”

“I don’t,” he says, stepping closer. “I’ve been in love with you since we were kids and I’ve been waiting for you to see it.”

You stop breathing.

“I have let people talk. I’ve watched them rip you apart online, in meetings, in commentary boxes. And you just kept showing up. Not for the glory. Not even for the team. For me. Because you believed in me.”

He’s in front of you now, so close your hands could just—reach.

“So if you’re scared, I’ll take the heat. If they want to come after us, let them. But don’t run away from what we’ve built just because they can’t handle a woman being better than all of them.”

You blink hard, the tears finally falling.

“I wasn’t trying to run from you,” you whisper.

He reaches for your hand.

“Then stay. Not for McLaren. Not for the team. For me. Stay and let me love you out loud.”

You don’t say anything. You just fall into him. And this time, when he catches you — he doesn’t let go.

—

f1gossipgirls

4,100,000 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Well, McLaren is making it very clear that their engineering goddess will not be making the move to Red Bull. 😌

Last night’s Women in Motorsport event, hosted by YN Fewtrell herself, was equal parts groundbreaking, glamorous, and papaya coded power move. McLaren not only doubled down on their support of their youngest ever lead race engineer—they literally built an entire collection around her. Yes, you read that right.

The new McLaren x YN capsule drop—which happens to be co designed by YN, Lando Norris, and Oscar Piastri—blends garage grit with streetwear genius. 

Oh, and Zak Brown? Sources say he stood off stage during the launch with the expression of a proud dad. One thing’s for sure—McLaren isn’t just protecting YN—they’re elevating her. With the performance she’s delivered this season and the cultural pull she’s building off track, any team who thought they could poach her might want to rethink. 

—

time skip- end of season

Race 24. Sunset. Victory. The pit wall erupts. Headsets fly. Crew leap from their chairs. Someone screams. Someone sobs. Champagne is already spraying even though it hasn’t even been five minutes since the checkered flag waved and everything changed. McLaren are Constructors’ Champions. Lando Norris is a World Champion. And you? You’re frozen. Still seated, staring at the final sector times like they might dissolve if you look away.

It’s done. You did it. You were the voice in his ear all season. Through every win, every late brake, every risky undercut. You built the strategies. You held your nerve. You called the shot that sealed the title. And suddenly—arms are around you.

Oscar’s the first to tackle you, practically dragging you out of your seat. “YOU DID IT! WITH THAT BIG BRAIN,” he yells, voice cracking as he yanks off your headset.

Then Zak’s pulling you into a bear hug, shouting, “You genius, you absolute weapon—you just made history!”

And then there’s chaos. Cameras. Journalists. Engineers hugging. Lando doing donuts on track with the British flag trailing out of his halo. Mechanics crying. Oscar waving his P3 trophy like it’s a lightsaber.

And somewhere in the madness, someone shouts—

“WHERE’S Y/N?! GET HER TO THE PODIUM!”

You’re still breathless when they drag you through the garage. Your McLaren polo is soaked in champagne before you even reach parc fermé. You trip over a cable. Someone shoves a bottle in your hand. You’re laughing and crying and blinking back tears as fans chant your name from the grandstands.

“FEEEEW-TRELL! FEEEEW-TRELL!”

And then you see him. Helmet off. Eyes wild. Hair flattened with sweat. Lando stands on the car, arms in the air, tears streaming down his cheeks as the team swarms around him. But the moment his eyes land on you, it’s like the world narrows. He jumps off the car and runs. Straight into you.

The impact nearly knocks the wind out of you, but you wrap your arms around him as he lifts you off the ground and spins you, screaming nonsense into your neck. He’s shaking. You’re crying. And neither of you care who’s watching.

“You did it,” you whisper.

“No,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to look you in the eyes. “We did it. You got me here. You held me together. This championship has your name all over it.”

You want to say something witty. Something cool. But the only thing that escapes is a broken, soft.

“I love you.”

His whole face crumples. Like he’s been holding that in too.

“God, I love you too.”

And he kisses you. Right there. In front of the cameras. In front of the grid. In front of the entire fucking world. And instead of boos, instead of backlash, there’s only cheering. Because finally — finally — no one can deny you. You’re not a PR stunt. You’re not just Max Fewtrell’s sister. You’re not Lando Norris’ distraction.

You’re the architect of this championship. And tonight, the world knows it.

You stay on the podium stage for the celebration, champagne in your eyes, Lando’s hand in yours. Oscar flings his trophy in the air. Zak is pretending he isn’t crying. The team is lifting mechanics onto their shoulders. Pit crew are dancing. Someone starts singing “Sweet Caroline” off-key.

And you? You look around at the chaos, the joy, the sheer disbelief that you finally made it here. And for the first time all season— You feel loved. Not just for what you do. But for who you are.

—

lando

liked by yn_fewtrell, maxfewtrell, oscarpiastri and 11,010,290 others.

lando : FUCK ALL YOU BITCHES THAT DOUBTED MY PRETTY BIG BRAINED GIRLFRIEND. SHE SHOWED YOU AND WON ME A CHAMPIONSHIP

tagged : yn_fewtrell

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

[catthestampede]

I was gonna post this ao3 free but I decided just posted here 

Cottontail or Cottonhead

Danny first got into the business when he was eight.

His parents forgot him—again—at a paranormal convention. By the time they remembered, it had been two weeks.

Jazzy was away at camp, and they only noticed he was missing when she got back.

Those two weeks? Well, they were interesting, to say the least.

Somehow, he ended up being picked up by an assassin. And apparently, he and a group of them decided to see how good this kid really was.

Surprisingly, ghost hunting and assassin work are pretty similar. Ghost hunting and mercenary work? Basically the same thing.

And deep down, Danny’s always been a commit-to-the-bit kind of boy.

So he committed. He ended up gaining a reputation—one of the best child assassins out there. So good, in fact, that no one even knows his real name.

Or what his face really looks looks.

No one needs to know it’s because of stranger danger that no one knows his name—

or that he was going through a phase where he thought surgical masks were the coolest thing ever.

By the time he left, he knew things no eight-year-old should know.

⸻

The next year, history repeated itself.

And then again the year after that—but this time, Danny actually went out of his way to get jobs. Because, well…

The bills were piling up. Mom and Dad weren’t paying them—again.

Jazz tried her best, but at the end of the day, she was only two years older than him. Way too young to handle all of this.

On top of that, she was focused on getting good grades so she could earn a scholarship for college.

Danny tried to make money, but no one really wanted to hire a “freaky Fenton.”

So, when it came time for the convention?

He made up some excuse about summer camp.

Instead of two weeks, he got six. And by the end of it, he’d taken the lives of nine men.

Made more than enough money to cover him and Jazz for the rest of the year—until next summer.

He wouldn’t say he felt particularly good about it. But he didn’t really feel anything at all.

He Googled the men later, trying to find some reason to feel guilty. He didn’t.

He felt more guilt about not feeling guilt than anything else.

⸻

Time passed. By the time he was twelve, he was well known in the underworld.

He even got a nickname: The Killer Cottontail.

He’s not sure how to feel about that. But it’s too late to change it now.

He’s pretty sure it started as “Copperhead,” but was changed to “Cottontail” because of how young and cute he looked—which, rude.

(In reality, he got the nickname because the white part of his shirt always poked out of the back of his jacket like a rabbit tail.)

All in all, though? Not the worst way his life could’ve gone.

⸻

He met Bruce Wayne when he was eleven.

Danny had been hired to kill a man named Mr. Pennyworth.

Bruce thought Danny was there to kill him—which was kind of self-important, but also a reasonable assumption, he guessed.

The man panicked and offered to pay him ten times his original rate. Danny would’ve been a fool to say no.

He gave Bruce a business card and left.

⸻

Apparently, that day started a very weird relationship.

That card had a connection to Danny’s business phone, and Mr. Bruce apparently took it as an invitation to text him.

For “jobs.”

Which apparently included fetch quests… and sending pictures of his dog.

In all fairness, Ace might actually be the best dog in existence.

Danny will never not respond to pictures of that dog.

Bruce also hired him for smaller tasks like:

• Get information on Penguin’s goons

• Capture this criminal and turn him in

• What do you know about this underworld figure?

Danny enjoys the relationship, though he constantly has to remind himself to stay professional.

Also, Mr. Bruce is way smarter than he looks—or acts.

Several mercenaries have warned him about that. When Danny brought Bruce up once, Mr. Deathstroke got a weird look on his face—like he knew something but wasn’t saying it.

So Danny’s always careful about what he says around Mr. Bruce.

⸻

That odd little relationship lasted about six months.

A few days after Danny’s twelfth birthday, Bruce called him in for another job.

It was weirdly simple.

Bruce wanted him to babysit his newest kid.

Danny has no idea if Bruce realizes how insane that is.

Or that said “kid” is a trained assassin. And kind of a little punk.

Maybe Danny should introduce Bruce to How I Met Your Mother and the whole “crazy-hotness” scale, because wow—Talia al Ghul is definitely on the crazy end.

Normally, Danny wouldn’t leave Jazz alone for more than a couple of days.

But she’s staying the rest of the winter with a friend out of state.

Her school turned digital for the next 3–4 months while the building gets repaired. (Mom and Dad really need to stop jumping straight to missile-grade ghost weapons. Start with something small, maybe?)

So, for the next few months, Danny’s going to be babysitting Damian Wayne during his first days of school.

Joy. 😩

Still—it’s good money. Enough to help Jazz’s college fund. Maybe even enough to start his own.

In two days, he starts his new job for the next three months 

@bluebird8683

"I'll pay you 10 times the amount you were given to take me out." Bruce Wayne is, very out of character, super serious and looking at him so intense.

Danny isn't paid enough to figure out why the supposed himbo isn't acting like it.

"You know what? Yeah. Deal." He fishes his phone out, accepting the money transfer and calls his boss for the day.

"Heyyy big guy– yeah‐ I know... anyway! I'm not killing Bruce Wayne, you should find someone different to do it— bye!" And he hangs up, cutting the shouting with a grin.

"If you ever, and I mean, ever need someone out of the way, call me."

He happily hands his contact information to the billionaire and swoops out of the window.

He is rich! So mega rich!

("Did you just buy the mercenary?"

"He's a kid! I panicked!"

"At least you got a phone number??")

[adastra121]

There have been many changes to Jin’s daily routine since arriving in Eridia — alas, an alchemist’s work never ends. 🧪📖📚

If you wanted to take a look at my other OCs’ daily schedules:

Luneth’s Daily Schedule

Alon’s Daily Schedule

[bigmasterpiece4444]

What Everyone Is Forgetting: Everything Is Possible

Disclaimer: First of all, I want to say that what I’m saying comes from my own experience and from what I’ve built as truth for myself in this reality. Just because I say it doesn’t mean it’s actually that way (I’m only sharing what I’ve learned). Remember that from each point of view, reality is different or works in a different way.

Lately, I’ve found myself thinking a lot (a lot, really...) Things have happened to me in this reality that feel like a sharp splinter in my brain and heart. Yes, even though I’ve proven to myself that reality shifting is real and that I’ve consciously manifested many things, I still fall into the “trap” of the 3D. Sometimes circumstances get the best of me and I feel like they’ll make me forget everything I’ve learned, but that never really happens. I know there’s something much greater than we can even imagine. I feel it in the air, in my whole being. I feel the calling. I feel like all of this is just a game (a game we can take control of or keep letting control us).

I completely understand you. Even though you keep persisting and persisting, you can’t see anything, or feel it. You feel like time slips through your fingers and you can barely catch a distant glimpse of your desire. It’s okay, breathe, say it out loud, let it go. Just because you have doubts doesn’t mean it won’t happen. I know exactly how it feels because I still go through those thoughts. I know that lately on Tumblr, posts keep saying things like (persist, don’t give in to the 3D, circumstances don’t matter, PERSIST NONSTOP). And well, that’s fine, but I think those who “made it” forget something. At some point, at some moment, they had those same thoughts and doubts, those same fears. Most people who succeeded did so in very different ways. Some believed, some didn’t. Some fell asleep and woke up there, some just assumed, some used a method. Some saw things, felt things, and there are also those who didn’t feel the shift at all (it just happened naturally). Believe me, even those who’ve shifted still have fears, doubts, and blocks.

This is where this theory comes in. (I read this theory from @reynashift and she got it from @alisluvrob, by the way I couldn’t find her profile. That’s her Tumblr account but I saw her on TikTok, her posts are in Spanish). Everyone always says (at least in the shifting community) that we’re constantly changing realities without realizing it. I kept repeating that too, even though I didn’t feel it as truth for myself. Every time I said it, inside me it sounded like (how is that possible? So there’s no fixed reality? Then what are we? Where are we? Is nothing real?). The doubts haunted me.

Until I read that we don’t just shift realities randomly for no reason. Instead, there are branches in every reality/universe and depending on the decisions we make, we choose which branch to follow. Imagine a tree. That tree represents exactly where you are right now. This tree has branches and each one of those branches holds infinite outcomes that unfold depending on the decision you make in this moment. Let’s take a simple example: right now you’re reading this post and you decide you’re going to try it. You lay down on your bed and in your mind there are two dominant possibilities (among infinite ones). You either shift or you don’t. And unconsciously, you choose the branch where it didn’t happen because you let doubt take over and in your beliefs there’s this idea that you can’t do it if you have doubts. But in reality, you didn’t fail because you had doubts but because you unconsciously chose the branch where it didn’t happen. So now choose consciously to go down the branch where it doesn’t matter whether the doubts exist or not (it will happen anyway). Choose the branch that feels right for you and aligns with your own truth.

This means that everything is possible and you can achieve it in any way. You can consciously choose which branch to follow and it doesn’t matter what you believe in (because it’s not wrong, because you are the one who defines reality). Everything you believe leads you to a branch where that belief works and helps you shift. It will work because this experience is unique, personal, individual. There are no rules. Nothing can stop you. You can do it freely, however you want. Everything works, everything is valid and real. Do whatever you want, experiment, live, live your way, do it your way. If you believe that following a method step by step will help, do it. If you believe that doing “nothing” works, then keep doing that. Please start listening to yourself (what is it that you want? what makes you feel good?). Stop putting other people’s beliefs first and follow what your heart tells you.

I had an epiphany. I was forgetting about myself and what actually feels right for me. Every day I would go on Tumblr and read about what worked for others and tried to follow that, but it didn’t feel good for me and I remembered. Honestly, I let fear take over, but it’s okay. Every experience is unique and real.

[trannyradfem]

How does it do that when you have zero idea what we even believe in? You tell me the violence I suffered doesn't give me a free pass to "discriminate" but exactly what have I said that's even discriminatory? Seriously, name a single thing I've said here that's discriminatory. I'm waiting.

All I've said is that transfems do not have the right to harm us and get away with it. Exactly how is that non-inclusive? Exactly how does that "ignore" intersex people?

Also... "my binary"??? What are you even talking about. Can you please respond to something I've actually said?? I'm literally NB, GNC, and being worked up for intersex conditions. I literally didn't HAVE a proper puberty as a teen. I don't appreciate you passively misgendering me OR trying to speak over me as if I'm some ignorant outsider. I've been here for decades, hell, I've probably been trans longer than you've been ALIVE. Where do you get off putting these putrid words in my mouth?

Literally NOWHERE did I say transmascs need RF to save them. What I DID say is that if the trans movement keeps drawing dumb lines in the sand while allowing transfems to abuse transmascs scott free, there will be more of us RF trans people. That is a fact.

The trans community hates vulnerable minorities way more than RFs ever did, especially when it cannot even hold space for those harmed by it, or hold those who cause this level of harm accountable. RFs do Not want to erase trans people, and you'd know that if you actually read anything we DO believe in, instead of listening to the lies of the trans community that serve only to make you feel like you have no other option than to continue receiving gender-affirming abuse. Seriously, go read some Dworkin and tell me what you think. If you're brave enough.

It's never, "Who did that to you? We need to get them out of our community". It's always, "Suck it the fuck up and keep taking the abuse, because it doesn't happen often enough for me to personally care about it". You're a fucking fool if this is how you treat people, and yet you somehow think you've got the moral highground.

Trans women that mock us, degrade us, or try to trigger our dysphoria ARE NOT ALLIES. If that hurts trans people, then they need to stop siding with people who ACTUALLY HARM US instead of making feminists the scapegoat.

You don't have to tolerate being treated like that just because the community has lied to you and made you feel like nobody else will love or accept you for who you are.

Also, I literally have several transfem friends, one of which literally got me into RF LMAO. They are sick and tired of porn-addicted behavior and sexual harassment, and that being a part of transfem culture when it never should've even an acceptable benchmark. One of my transfem friends regularly comments on how dysphoric and uncomfortable she is in transfem spaces because of this consistent trend of NOT HOLDING ABUSERS ACCOUNTABLE. That shit literally HURTS TRANS WOMEN TOO. But for the record, I shouldn't fucking need a trans womans endorsement in order for my criticism on a community I literally belong to, to matter.

Hell, since posting my 1st reply, I've suddenly had a dump of 40+ notifications of new interactions with my blog overnight, with all but your response being solely positive, and the majority of the accounts belonging to trans people. People scrolling so far back on my blog that they reach posts from literal months ago, and then following me. Clearly, what I'm saying is resonating with others. Tell me why that is if I'm simply being "discriminatory".

You are just being so ignorant right now. This entire narrative you're trying to build even about me is built on nothing but assumptions and lies to the extent that you have even misgendered me. But you're the morally superior one? Yeah, right. Try again.

uvb76fan is posting in this tag talking about all the ways trans men have it “worse”, while misrepresenting the statistic she is citing. most likely banking on no one looking closer or reading the links.

this person is a terf. if you search trans on her blog it is immediately clear, i am not using terf loosely she is literally actually a terf.

we cannot let our weariness at not being heard by some of our community push us into the sick and malformed arms of transmisogyny and radical feminism, these people do not care about us at all, they are trying to harm every single one of us. our solidarity with trans women, men and people as whole should cause us to slam hard on the breaks. no matter how many trans women you see being antitransmasculine it does not mean that there are not so many more who are our genuine allies, do not let the algorithm pushing hateful person after hateful person your way skew your understandings. the transphobes want dissent, they want us to tear each other apart. we do not need to contribute to the harm to have ours lessened. (causing harm to a vulnerable minority is never morally correct no matter what got you there in the first place. also straight up trans women are easy to love and are inherently deeply deserving of community solidarity, and fascism (which terfs are) should not have any appeal whatsoever no matter how hurt you are but i digress.)

on another note: we cannot and must not reactively take on the mentalities of trans rad fems, no gender in the trans community needs to be the most oppressed to be taken seriously and given respect in our community, the equality in our suffering is immense and must be acknowledged without each group needing to prove we are the most victimized to get the care and community support we need. this is harmful no matter who is doing it. we absolutely must nip this kind of thinking in the bud.

push back on terfs in this tag everywhere you can, and if there is a reason you cannot comment or reblog to shut them down, block them on sight.

[biggirlscantcry]

a little tiny drabble thing i did last night when i was craving some cuddles

this is short enough so i thought id post it here and ao3!!!! so u can click the link below or just hang around here for a tiny little sickfic

also thank u to my fav @thenoellebird for being so sweet when i showed you this your encouragement means the world !!!!

**title is from a crane wives song fun fact (thank u @pinefamilycatsau for introducing me to that band)

before you read, pls note the following:

DO NOT TAG AS STANCEST/PROSHIP. IN FACT, PLS DON'T INTERACT AT ALL. YOU WILL BE BLOCKED.

with that out of the way, i give you... this:

——————————————————————————————————

"Steady, Steady"

Stan woke groggily, trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes. His ears still rang with the sounds of whatever he’d been dreaming of— he didn’t quite remember. But it wasn’t a nightmare. There was no familiar pounding heart, no blank spot in his mind where something awful was waiting to remind him of his past. He rubbed at his face and glanced at the clock beside him. Four in the damn morning. 

Wait. Four in the morning— he was supposed to be up! He was supposed to be taking care of— 

Ford. 

He was immediately out of bed, craning his neck to search for his brother, who— Christ. Of course he wasn’t there. 

Hearing a distant, tell-take clanging sound from the kitchen, he followed the source. 

He stumbled through the dark hallway until he felt the floor change beneath his feet, from wood to tile. He felt around on the wall until he found the light switch, and flipped it. 

Ford stood at the counter. More accurately, he hunched over the counter, his face red. Droplets of sweat trickled down his face. He had one lazy hand curled around a coffee mug, but the only actual coffee Stan could see was in a puddle on the counter. He elected to clean it up later— he had a more pressing task at hand.

The minute Ford saw his twin, he made a tiny trill and let the mug roll out of his hands, then broke into a fit of harsh coughs. He pressed tightly against the counter, gripping it with white knuckles. The coughs were nearly gags at this point. Damn it, don’t throw up again. 

Stan was by his side in an instant, rubbing his back. “Ford, what are you doin’ up?” He groaned, running his other hand through his hair. “You’re supposed to be restin’.” 

When the coughs finally subsided, Ford shook his head lazily, blinking in a confused sort of way. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He snapped it closed and huffed, finally letting out an odd little chirping noise. 

Stan had been trying to stay awake. Since Ford had gone for that unexpected swim in the artic and gotten a nasty case of walking pneumonia, he’d been a little— out of it. And on top of that, he had quite the stomach bug from their last time making port. It was flu season, after all, and they’d been around all those people. 

Stan had stayed awake for almost three uninterrupted days taking care of him, only taking tiny, at most hour long, naps. His days had consisted of making soup, taking temperatures, cleaning out soiled buckets, and running cold packs to his feverish brother. 

“C’mon, let’s get you back to bed.” He took his brother’s hand and Ford immediately slumped into him, a tiny little trill escaping him. 

“Mmgh—” Whatever he was trying to say, he couldn’t finish. He was wracked by another bout of coughing, and he doubled over. Stan hurried to keep his brother on his feet, holding a hand to his back to steady him. 

Ford gasped, the harsh, wet coughs finally out of his system, and took in a shaky breath. It came out almost more like a whine. 

Together, they took slow, sluggish steps toward the bedroom, with Ford leaning heavily on his brother, pulling at the fabric of Stan’s shirt. 

Stan stared up at the ladder to Ford’s bunk and immediately knew that it was a bad idea. Ford could barely walk without getting dizzy. Instead, Stan laid him down gently in his own bed, opting to keep him on top of the covers— he was already red and sweating and panting, and he was only in a t-shirt and thin pajama pants. 

Stan was about to climb up the ladder when Ford made a miserable whine and reached his arms out, like a child that wanted to be held. 

Stan’s heart melted. “Aw, buddy…” He crawled into bed beside his twin, holding his arms out in invitation. 

Almost immediately, Ford burrowed his head into Stan’s chest, wrapping his arms around him lazily, trilling softly. His breaths were shaky and wet. 

“Don’— f-feel well…” He sniffled miserably and swiped at his nose. 

“Oh, Ford, s’ okay, you’re gonna be just fine.” He wrapped his arms around his brother— tight enough to be secure, but loose enough not to make him even more uncomfortably hot. 

Ford groaned, wiping sluggishly at the sweat on his face. Stan pulled away, thinking he was making the heat worse. But Ford whined louder, pulling Stan back almost aggressively. 

“N-No—” Even in the half word he spoke, Stan could tell how thick and heavy Ford’s voice was— a clear indicator how congested he must feel. He coughed again, his body curling against Stan’s as the fit wracked him with trembling. Stan just stroked his back, making slow, soothing circles with his finger. 

“Mm—” Another nasty cough. “L-Lee—“ A pitiful chirp. Ford eventually gave up and just squirmed again, clinging desperately. His body radiated heat. 

“Don’t try and talk, Si—” Nope. Do not call him that when he’s already loopy. “Ford. You’ll just make that cough worse.” 

Ford whined pitifully, but let his body slump and his eyes flutter closed. 

“You’re alright, just go to sleep. Way too early to be up anyways.” His own exhaustion was taking over. But his brother was safe, and his brother was secure in his arms. It was okay to fall asleep— Ford was right here, and he wasn’t going anywhere. Ever again. “We’re okay. We’re alright.” 

Ford’s breathing evened out slowly, though it was still raspy and shaking. He made little trills in his sleep, occasionally twitching. After a while, Stan couldn’t be sure how long, Ford began to let out quiet, rumbling purrs. Stan couldn’t see it, but he was quite sure his brother was smiling in his cocoon. He really was just like a cat sometimes. But Stan didn’t mind a bit. He chuckled under his breath and finally let himself relax completely, slumped over the covers. He was so damn tired. 

He felt his consciousness slipping, and looped his hand into his brother’s for safety. 

“G’night, Ford,” he whispered softly. “Sleep tight.”

[i-dare-say]

I have a theory about Airplane's original outline, the one he lost which was supposed to be mature and deal with more complicated themes than what PIDW actually became. Some posts on here made me curious about what other people would think of it.

What if Shen Yuan didn't transmigrate into a copy of PIDW, but the actual original outline?

We know Airplane lost the file when his computer randomly died and that he had plans for Tianlang-jun to be the final boss and for Shen Jiu to be a direct parallel to Luo Binghe.

We're not told when he lost the file.

What part of PIDW was he writing at that moment? Was it when Luo Binghe was 14? But he lost the file, discarded the original outline and went for the stallion novel.

While a new universe was born, as Airplane decided to satisfy his readers more than follow his own ideas, the original universe was left unfinished, lost without an ending.

The system has worked in other universes before, so it knows how to deal with this. It takes a soul from another world to finish the story and bring it to its original ending instead of the one in PIDW.

Who better than the author? Airplane, who had to discard his art to make money for a living. He'd be the perfect one for the job.

But, as we know, Airplane doesn't actually change much. The role of Shang Qinghua proves to be too removed from Luo Binghe, and he's not given enough incentive or instructions to do it.

The system learns from this first mistake: next it takes someone who hates the ending of the PIDW universe, and puts them right where the original outline stops, in a role deeply tied to Luo Binghe, giving them clear objectives and punishments if they don't follow the instructions.

It works.

Shen Yuan is dropped into the original outline and actually manages to deliver on all its promises. That's why Shen Jiu's past is revealed, why we get to know the truth of Tianlang-jun's relationship with Su Xiyan and all that the Palace Master did, all plot points that never existed in PIDW.

(Why the characters are much smarter, why the female characters have a personality other than being their archetypes)

You could argue that they do exist in PIDW, hidden under all the monster fighting and maiden fucking. But PIDW is a stallion novel, with tropes and a narrative that follow a certain structure. I can't imagine the events of svsss ever happening in a story like that.

The original outline though? Yeah, 100%. It already had the potential of being complicated, with all those secrets and mysteries, so it's not that hard for it to add the relationship that is born between Luo Binghe and Shen Qingqiu to the mix.

And, this is the reason why we only got to meet Bingge but not his original outline counterpart.

Let's be honest: if a third universe existed other than svsss and PIDW, with a lonely Luo Binghe that never finds love, you bet your ass he would eventually find his way to svsss like Bingge did. But it never happened.

Because Bingmei is him.

[questionablecuttlefish]

I am moreso tb critical . They barely spoke any lines to each other and the time they got together was the au episode to justify it . Also I’m not going to say but a famous voice actor keeps trying to make his ship happen . Also it feels like everything jinx is or does is erased bc omg couple goals . And it’s the whole puppy crush taken to a next level .

Yeah, I find the whole thing personally a bit baffling, because I was totally okay with what was actually there on the show. I remember sitting there at the end of Episode 6 with my girlfriend going "Well we're 2/3rds through the series with no Ekko, I guess they're really not doing Timebomb stuff hey." And then episode 7 lmao.

The AU was an, uh, novel way to deal with Ekko's unresolved feelings about his childhood friend turned nemesis, but the payoff seemed to be spelled out? I thought? It really felt like it was laying Ekko's crush to rest as he accepted Jinx couldn't be the Powder of his dreams.

I just didn't get any romantic vibes at all from Main Timeline Ekko and Jinx, the contrast between them and his romance with AU!Powder made that even clearer, as did everything that happened in the final battle and after. His last shot is burning a mourning paper into the breeze, literally letting her go, ffs.

It's a pretty cut and dried Perfect World Bubble Episode trope and I thought it put a bittersweet, poignant full stop on their troubled relationship.

But then the fandom happened, and to be honest, while I once respected Timebomb as a valid, understandable alternate ship for Jinx, I'm done with it now.

I can't deal with the Canon Brigade. I can't stand Lightcannon shippers being all but forced at gunpoint to preface every social post with "guys I also like Timebomb but" or risk being harassed. I can't stand all mentions of "Lux" and "Lightcannon" being banned on relevant reddit subs. I don't like bullies and homophobes and I won't bow to either.

No, I don't like Timebomb, I never will again, thanks to people like this. You could almost say "I had a crush, until I started talking to the fans..."

No, I won't multiship, I don't care if you do, but I don't have to, and I don't.

Both ships were crack ships based on throwaway scraps of dialogue until Amanda Overton got heart eyes and it's time to stop pretending there's any more validity than that.

Lightcannon was, literally, here first, and pretending it's somehow less valid and has no place in the fandom is just homophobia and queer erasure and I have no time for that shit.

If people want to ship Timebomb, if they see something meaningful there that I don't, I'm not going to tell them they can't have it, who the fuck am I? Just another shipper with opinions.

All I can say is that it just doesn't work for me. And I love Ekko, I love Jinx, but their stories, their canon, has had barely anything to do with each other until now, and erasing them both to force the genius time twisting hero of the Undercity and the chaotic freewheeling destruction terrorist into a hetero tradwife fantasy is throwing away 99% of both of their stories and doing both characters a massive disservice.

Don't get me wrong, Ekko is great, I f'cking love writing him, his whole League canon is amazing and it's heartbreaking that they tossed it away for Arcane, the dynamic of their broken friendship is rich and interesting to explore, but it's better off as that. They both have better options that open up whole new adventures instead of ending their stories.

[carpe-mamilia]

You know what show I really hope the ghosts put on while they were all together? HMS Pinafore. Everyone from Fanny onwards most likely knew it reasonably well already, either by cultural osmosis or from being a theatre gay, and for the rest it's probably the easiest operetta to pick up that's ever existed.

I imagine it would have gone down something like this:

Josephine Corcoran- Kitty

Ralph Rackstraw - Thomas

Absolute no-brainers for the lead soprano and tenor. Ralph scores extra points for being one of the most dramatic and flouncy tenors Gilbert ever wrote. At one point he has a speech that's so flowery it's genuinely incomprehensible. Unfortunately his big aria is terribly dull (still in-character tbh) but both of Josephine's are brilliant. Especially "The hours creep on apace", where, having secretly accepted Ralph's proposal, she does waver a bit since, after all, he is a bit of a pleb.

Captain Corcoran - The Captain

Keeps the Pinafore ship-shape and Bristol-fashion. Would have a lovely father-daughter relationship with Josephine. Gets to be in lots of bangin' numbers, especially "I am the Captain of the Pinafore".

Captain: I do my best to satisfy you all -

Crew: And with you we're quite content!

Captain: You're exceedingly polite and I think it's only right to return the compliment.

Sir Joseph Porter - Julian

Marvellously smug and superior patter baritone who got to his lofty position via flattery and luck rather than merit. No direction needed.

Little Buttercup - Fanny

I think she would struggle playing someone who's meant to be lowly, but on the other hand she'd probably really get into every other aspect of the character, especially when she gets to drop mysterious hints all the way through, and dramatically reveal the twist at the end. (She also really reminds me of the mature student who played Little Buttercup for my university's Light Opera Society once, who was very definitely another repressed middle-aged horndog. Get it, girl.)

Cousin Hebe - Mary

Not much of a part, but I suspect getting Mary to concentrate on something like this for any length of time without going off on a tangent would be... tricky. Would be enthusiastic about helping Josephine and might have to be held back from headbutting Captain Corcoran when he tries to stop the elopement.

Dick Deadeye - Robin

Hunched, triangular bass Dick Deadeye growls his way through the opera causing chaos just... 'cos. Is far more perceptive than the Captain and has to really spell out that Josephine and Ralph are planning on running away together.

Bosun's Mate - Humphrey's head

Carpenter's mate and director - Pat

This probably required slightly delicate handling, since Pat is the better singer (and He is an Englishman is harder than it looks), but a) keeping rehearsals from descending into anarchy probably took all his energy and b) Humphrey might have been slightly grumpy being relegated to a really tiny role again. At least they both get to be in A British Tar is a Soaring Soul.

Chorus of sisters, cousins, and aunts - Humphrey's body

Carries the whole show on his back.

[licorishh]

double ?? upload ???? yeaaaahh i've gotten FASTERRrr for whatever that's worth so complementary blyla because guess what i miss them too (nobody was surprised by that)

[eshithepetty]

"Haha Dream BBQ is so random and incomprehensible" "did they take drugs to make this lol" "you're actually not meant to understand anything in this series it's ok" "Joel G just makes up stuff on the spot based on what would be funny" "it's just random for random's sake" "is this AI" "stop theorising, it's not that deep" SHUT UPPPPPPPPPP

[sunderwight]

Thinking about a bingqiu Dreamling AU where Shen Yuan and Shang Qinghua are both bored deities, just sort of taking a brief sojourn through the mortal world to shoot the shit and see some interesting monster or other that Shen Yuan has heard about, when they come across a tea house and decide to take a break and do some people-watching instead.

Shen Yuan is well into something of a shut-in phase, which Shang Qinghua doesn't like, mostly because when Shen Yuan is in those phases he doesn't do particularly well either. Shen Yuan's a social butterfly, for however little he cares to actually acknowledge it about himself, and his critique of Shang Qinghua's literary masterpieces gets so much harsher when he's not getting enough enrichment.

So when they overhear one of the kitchen boys solemnly insisting that he is going to do everything in his power to never die, and Shen Yuan laments that the boy would probably regret such a wish if it came true, Shang Qinghua decides to bestow a rare bit of godly power onto this mortal and grant his wish.

He doesn't make him a god, of course, that wouldn't even be in his ability. At least, not without using up more time and effort than he's prepared to expend on this one random kid. But immortality on its own is not that difficult. The boy will still finish growing up, and will still be able to be harmed, to know hunger and pain and illness. It just won't ever kill him.

Shen Yuan sighs that it's a cruel thing to do to a mortal, especially one with such low odds of ever cultivating other skills to mitigate the potential torment of it all. But Shang Qinghua just shrugs and they place bets, that this boy will ask for the immortality to be revoked in a hundred years, or two hundred, or so on, or else he won't. Shen Qingqiu approaches the kitchen boy and flusters and bewilders him by telling him to meet him back here again in a hundred years time.

A hundred years later, the tea house is larger. The boy has grown to be a striking young man, who looks at Shen Yuan with wariness and something else, something almost like awe, as he asks what manner of creature he's made this bargain with. Shen Yuan assures him that he has no nefarious intentions, and instead asks Luo Binghe how the past century of his life has gone.

Horribly, at least at first. Binghe's mother had already died by the time they met, but afterwards he managed to earn enough money to travel to a nearby sect. Working in the tea house's kitchen was just a minor stopover along the way. Shen Yuan was wrong, it seems, about his odds of becoming a cultivator -- Luo Binghe earned entry as a disciple.

Yet, he had no success. The master who took him on was unaccountably cruel and mercurial, and Luo Binghe's attempts to cultivate failed. Looking back he sees now that there were many times when he should have died but didn't, but when it was all happening he just thought himself lucky. At least until an enemy sect attacked a cultivation conference, and he suffered mortal wounds that absolutely should have killed him (or anyone) but still didn't die. (No demon race or abyss in this AU, but there are still demonic and fantastical creatures.)

His cruel master, upon witnessing this, accused him of heretical practices and tried to kill him as well by flinging him off the edge of a gorge. The fall was terrible. Binghe lay at the bottom in a horrifying state, injured beyond reason and yet, still, he didn't die. Eventually his body recovered enough for him to drag himself out, and once he did the only thing on his mind was getting revenge. For the next several decades he managed to ingratiate himself to all manner of potential allies, forging alliances, accumulating blackmail, and convincing people that he had to be some powerful cultivator through his supernatural resilience, lack of visible aging, and a lot of bluffing. He got revenge on his old teacher, drove his first sect into ruin, and rose to prominence as a feared and respected leader of the cultivation world.

Shen Yuan listens with clear interest, asking plenty of questions and seemingly quite taken up with the story. At the conclusion, Luo Binghe admits that his actual cultivation is still mostly a matter of smoke and mirrors, and wonders if -- now that the hundred years have passed -- Shen Yuan means to strip his immortality from him.

Shen Yuan asks if Luo Binghe wants that. When Luo Binghe says no, he accepts the answer, and tells him to meet him back here again in another hundred years. Luo Binghe calls after him, but before he can ask anything more, Shen Yuan has disappeared again.

A hundred years later, Binghe arrives back at the tea house with an entourage befitting of an emperor. The tea house has also expanded. Luo Binghe orders a lavish feast from them, which everyone hastens to provide. He's spent the past several decades consolidating his power, forging alliances with key political players via several marriages, producing heirs, and crushing his enemies. As he brags about the state of his massive harem to Shen Yuan, the deity's eyes begin to glaze over. He doesn't seem impressed. He also doesn't seem to care much for the food, and eventually his attention is stolen away by a conversation at another table. The diners are discussing the exploits of a promising new poet and novelist. Try as he might, Luo Binghe fails to regain Shen Yuan's attention before the evening is done. Shen Yuan doesn't think it's a big deal -- after all, if Binghe is still riding on top of the world, he's probably not going to want his immortality gift revoked just yet!

Another hundred years go by. The tea house has returned to a more modest situation, the next time Shen Yuan sets foot in it. He waits an unusually long while for his guest to arrive, and when he does, he's almost stopped at the door by the tea house's servers. It's only when Shen Yuan bids them let him through that Luo Binghe is able to come to the table, almost collapsing against it and desperately falling onto the arrangement of snacks with obvious hunger.

Shen Yuan wonders if this, now, will be when the boy (no longer a boy) asks for the immortality to be revoked. Surprisingly, he finds himself resistant to the idea, even though it's also clear that the game has run too long. Maybe hundred year check-ins were too short? He doesn't like the implications of what's gone on, even if he's not really surprised about it either.

Between desperate mouthfuls of food, Luo Binghe explains that without mastering inedia, going hungry but never dying is a deeply unpleasant experience. Shen Yuan orders more food. Once Binghe has finally eaten his fill, he begins, haltingly, to explain his situation. His clothes are ragged, he is painfully thin, and his gaze is haunted.

Apparently, several of his wives conspired to assassinate him, despite his reputation as unkillable. Realizing that most poisons and such didn't kill him, but that he could still be incapacitated, they hatched a scheme to dose his food with a powerful sleeping agent, and then walled him up in a famous ancestral tomb. They went to great length to ensure that it was impossible to escape from. It took Binghe decades to do it anyway, digging away at the floors, and when he got out he found that his power base had collapsed. In-fighting and the incursion of his enemies had led to the deaths of all of his children, and what wives had survived had either fled or remarried. Not that he particularly wanted them back at that point, since the ones actually most loyal to him had also been killed early on after his own "death". His face marked him, to the eyes of his enemy, as a surviving descendant of himself. He was hunted down, chased across the continent and back again, until he managed to fall into enough obscurity that his pursuers abandoned the chase. Except that he has nothing, and any time he tries to regain something, he runs the risk of being hounded again. Those who might see some potential in him still remember the collapse of his recent "dynasty" and slam doors in his face, or else try and turn him over to those now in power in pursuit of a reward. Those who don't know that much see only a dirty beggar, and usually run him off on that basis instead.

Shen Yuan, almost hesitant, asks if Luo Binghe would like to have his immortality revoked.

Luo Binghe declines. How will he be able to take revenge on those who wronged him if he is dead? He has a hit list a mile long by now.

Which is definitely not the most noble of reasons to persist, but Shen Yuan finds himself reluctant to ask twice. Instead he orders more food, and then even reserves one of the traveler's rooms above the tea house for several days. By then the sky is turning grey, and Luo Binghe is losing his apparent battle with exhaustion. Shen Yuan presses the key into his hand, thinking it's probably not enough, but there are limits to how much gods are supposed to interfere and Shang Qinghua already stretched them to the breaking point with this entire scenario.

He leaves, not seeing the hand that reaches after him just before he is out of the door and gone.

Another hundred years pass. This time, Shen Yuan arrives to find Luo Binghe already waiting for him. He isn't surprised to see that Binghe's situation has visibly improved -- maybe he was keeping closer tabs on him, just a little bit, for this past while. If only to be sure he wouldn't have to warn the tea house workers to expect an unorthodox visitor again! But no, Binghe has been doing well enough for himself. No more harems or thrones, though. He dresses more like a well-off merchant now, deliberately posing as his own mortal descendant rather than as a great immortal cultivator. The food at the table looks far more delicious than usual too (Binghe commandeered the tea house's kitchen himself this time). As they chat, Shen Yuan is regaled with the exploits of Luo Binghe's travels and adventures, how even though he initially set out to claim revenge on those who overthrew him, by the time he was in a position to actually do so they had already died of the usual causes (time, illness, their own schemes backfiring, etc). Subsequently, only their children and grandchildren were left with the scraps of power they had obtained, and when one of those children employed Luo Binghe as a bodyguard, his initial plan to assassinate them eventually fell by the wayside. After all, the wrongdoings weren't actually theirs. From that point, Binghe was able to restore himself to a more comfortable life, joining his new employer on their travels until he had set aside enough earnings to take his leave before his youthful good-looks earned him suspicion. He then began investing in travel and trade, specifically cargo ships, because never spending too long in the same place or around the same people helped disguise his immortality. He had found that, at least for now, this served him better than playing the part of a cultivator. It also gave him time to try and actually repair his ruined cultivation base somewhat, and fighting pirates proved very diverting.

Binghe is midway through recounting his adventures with a gigantic sea monster, while Shen Yuan hangs on every word, when they're interrupted by the arrival of a brash young mistress, clearly wealthy and trained in cultivation. The young lady declares that there is a rumor that a fallen god and a demon meet in this tea house once a century, that they wield strange powers, etc etc, and she intends to interrogate them both with the assistance of her hired muscle and her own spiritual weapon, and discover the truth of the matter. Then she whips out, well, a whip!

Before Shen Yuan can deal with the matter, Luo Binghe is already on his feet, disarming the goons and breaking a few arms in the process. Shen Yuan is so distracted that he almost misses the whip aimed right for him, but before Binghe can catch the barbed weapon with his bare hand (wtf, Binghe, no) Shen Yuan deflects it with a wave of his fan, and then efficiently knocks the troublesome young lady unconscious. The hired muscle flees, Shen Yuan arranges for their assailant to be placed in a room upstairs until she regains consciousness, and he and Binghe resume their meal and conversation in relative peace.

Even though it's clear that Luo Binghe has not yet reached the end of his tolerance for life, Shen Yuan nevertheless finds himself strangely reluctant to part ways at the end of the night. Still, he does, because that's what is expected of him, gently denying Luo Binghe's suggestions that they find some other establishment to continue their conversation at. He also has to investigate these "rumors" that the young lady mentioned. It's probably nothing (Shang Qinghua has a loose tongue when he's drunk, and a lot of imaginative storytellers have frequented this tea house over the years) but he doesn't like being caught unawares like that. Heavenly politics are... complicated, it's best not to court unwanted attention in any capacity.

Another hundred years go by. This time, when they meet at the tea house, Luo Binghe asks Shen Yuan why he keeps it up. Why did he pick Binghe? What is he really after? When Shen Yuan fails to give any kind of clear answer, Luo Binghe shoots his shot and makes a (very obvious) move on him.

Shen Yuan, flustered, gets up and flees. Ignoring Luo Binghe's calls after him. It just doesn't make any sense! Why would Binghe do that?! He's a man who once had a harem of wives in the triple digits! Clearly he's not gay, so what was that all about? Was he just messing with him?! How dare he! Etc, etc.

Another century passes. Luo Binghe waits at the tea house, which has fallen onto hard times again. With the construction of some new roadways, travelers no longer pass through as often. Binghe listens, worried, to the proprietor's laments that this old place will probably not be around in another hundred years. He listens because he has no one else to speak to, because Shen Yuan has not shown up. Not that morning, not during the day, not come evening, and not now that it is closing time. Binghe nevertheless charms and bribes the proprietor to let him stay even after the place has shuttered.

It seems damning, of course. He pressed too hard and now his mysterious benefactor wants nothing more to do with him. Except, no, he refuses to accept that. He's still immortal. And he has gleaned enough of Shen Yuan's character by now that he thinks that even if he was rejected, he would be let down more clearly and gently than this. The more he thinks about it, the less willing Luo Binghe is to believe that he has been deliberately stood up (also, since the tenor of his confession was different from Hob Gadling's, he never delivered an ultimatum about what it might imply when they met up again).

Over the centuries, Luo Binghe has built up a few contacts with similarly strange and supernatural stories. Cultivators, sure, but also others, fortune tellers and people of strange ancestry, questionable abilities, those who have interacted with powerful beings of mysterious provenance. He makes his way to a certain gambling den, frequented often by such people, and while he flashes around enough money to draw curiosity, he collects information. Shen Yuan wasn't the only person who started paying more attention to the kinds of rumors surrounding the two of them after their confrontation with the young cultivator a couple centuries ago. And in fact, Luo Binghe has been spending many, many years trying to find out more about his mystery man. Though, too many potential deities and immortals fit his description for him to have ever conclusively figured much out.

This is how Binghe gets wind of a rumor that an eccentric occultist has somehow captured a god in his basement...

[rohirric-hunter]

Genuinely amused when people who don't know anything about Christianity try to draw on it as a source for their fantasy -- "Oh this is my half-demon OC who takes damage from holy things and is stuck in a church, better hope that communion wine in the back doesn't spill anywhere!" You mean the regular. wine in the back? The very normal alcohol that is completely indistinguishable from any other alcohol to anyone at all until the actual communion ceremony? The Mogen David? That wine? Okay. Sure. *is imagining your OC screaming and running from a liquor store*

[elftwink]

idk what people pleaser needs to hear this, but everyone at work liking you is the nightmare scenario. there is no light at the end of the tunnel doing that where everyone loves you forever. if you had to crush any parts of yourself to be likable you will forever have to keep the pressure on and you will never get to relax. you have to say no and you have to say I disagree and you have to say actually I didn't like that or I thought it was unfair and most of all you have to stop automatically agreeing before you even have a chance to think about if you do agree. it will feel very painful but it's the difference between stepping on a sharp rock and living with a small splinter in your foot for 20 years. also your coworkers liking the version of you that never complains and always agrees with them is not liking you it is actually them liking themselves which you are reflecting back to them. there is no such thing as everyone liking you. remember this or suffer the consequences

[tea-cat-arts]

I simply think this fandom doesn't give Wei Wuxian enough credit for the various ways in which he saved Lan Wangji