#right tennis exists...

[sulatni-ree]

bro i wanna join sports au summer but all the sports i know are filipino,,,

[bluespring864]

face of a man who is desperately trying to remember his French

face of a man who is very glad he has survived an interview in French

[fifteenloove]

I was thinking this morning about what Rafa said about the possibility of very tall servers completely dominating the game in a few years time "if something doesn't change" because their movement is becoming better and better etc. and I'm realising. The only player I can think of who is very tall and still has elite movement at the moment is Jannik😭 (and still, he's not a GIANT, yk). Like every other tall big server that I can think of has some serious problems with movement. I already said it but I really don't know what was he on about💀

[sinnerista]

Dimidrey’s true love

[midnight-train-of-thought]

The urge to call the random numbers in my phone from people who probably don’t remember me grows stronger every day.

But no. I must save them. For the ultimate prank.

[walkman-cat]

i get slapped by mildred! (in gatsby)

[jennacrtega]

is there an art and patrick olympics au. like them competing together idk how it works i just thought about it and am like that would be fun

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

Hey. Hi. Hello. Today I learned about the existence of 15th century Welsh poet Gwerful Mechain and that she apparently has a surviving work of erotic poems.

Please. For Christmas. For Yule. Please tell me more because I can't read Welsh.

Heh heh. Oh, Gwerful Mechain is the absolute best.

(Quick housekeeping to keep the post manageable - I previously wrote about things like cynghanedd and cywydds and englyns and such here, so check that if you need an explanation.)

What's fun is that we don't know a ton about her, because not a lot got written down about people in her time. Her surviving work covers a 40ish year span at the end of the 1400s to just into the 1500s, but we don't know when she was born or died or anything like that. We know her parents' names? And that she was from Mechain, hence the bardic name. And that she married a guy and had a daughter, something which actually does mark out her body of work as different from her contemporaries; being a wife and mother, she couldn't do the usual bardic role of travelling the country to spread news and play at courts. This means she doesn't have any of the praise poetry that a lot of male bards produced about the lords that hosted them.

But, there's stuff we can piece together about her. For one thing, she was not just literate (not a universal skill for anyone at that point, but especially for women), but she was astonishingly well-read and had what appears to be a classical education, given her poetic references and traditional Welsh meters. For another, her work often had recurring themes of religion, sex, and women's rights, sometimes all at the same time.

At the point Gwerful was active, Welsh bardic culture heavily featured ymrysonau. An ymryson is like... well, I hesitate to say "sort of like a rap battle" after the way everyone and their dog now thinks that's what the Mari Lwyd does, but they were like a cross between a rap battle and the publication war between two rival academics. A bard would write an englyn and publish it in the local parish newsletter. Another bard would see this, and write their own englyn about how stupid the first bard's englyn was, and publish it in the same newsletter. The first bard would see this and retaliate. The second bard would retaliate to that. And on and on it would go, like a printed tennis match for all the parishioners to enjoy, until someone wrote a conclusive verse OR until someone went "Lol, you got me good there" and bowed out with dignity. Sometimes, these things were fucking vicious; but other times, they were just banter between two bards who knew each other and were enjoying the chance to keep their poetic skills in tip top condition.

Now, Gwerful was an active and enthusiastic participant in ymrysonau. We have many examples of her work from these. There are two of particular note that I'll list here, each against a different bard:

Dafydd Llwyd o Fathafarn. Mathafarn and Mechain are not so distant from one another, so no real surprise that these two locked horns a lot, but the impression I always got from their ymrysonau is that they were good mates, actually. These fell into the 'banter' category more often than not. Dafydd was a Welsh Nationalist who was hoping for a Welshman to rise up and throw off the yoke of English oppression, and most of his work is about that, but he turned up the filthy erotic shit for any ymryson with Gwerful because BOY HOWDY was that her specialty. IIRC she did occasionally poke fun at his Welsh Nash leanings, especially his obsession with Mab Darogan (OLD Welsh idea that translates to the Son of Prophesy - the Arthur-style figure that will one day drive out the English overlords), but mostly their ymrysonau were incredibly beautifully-written odes that could be summed up as "Dafydd, my man, my good friend, I mean this sincerely: suck my entire clit".

She often won.

Ieuan Dyfi. God, what a fucking asshole. This one was not banter. Gwerful played for blood with this prick.

We actually would know nothing about Ieuan Dyfi if not for Gwerful Mechain, because it was her poetic response to him that meant his only surviving poems made it to the modern day; that, and the record of him being brought before a church court where he admitted adultery with Anni Goch, a married woman. Oh, and the record of him being brought before the law courts at Liverpool, accused of domestic abuse and gambling? If I remember right?

Two things to know that set the scene for what came next:

One of Gwerful Mechain's surviving poems is an englyn considered to be possibly the oldest extant poem about domestic violence written by a woman: I’w gŵr am ei churo (To the husband who beats her)

Dager drwy goler dy galon - ar osgo I asgwrn dy ddwyfron; Dy lin a dyr, dy law’n don, A’th gleddau i’th goluddion.

There are a lot of translations for this one to try to keep its poeticness, but this one is pretty good:

Through your heart’s lining let there be pressed, slanting down, A dagger to the bone in your chest. Your knee smashed, your hand crushed, may the rest Be gutted by the sword you possessed.

She has others, too, that deal with sexual assault, and something scholars often note about Gwerful is her remarkable knowledge of the law as it pertained to women's issues. So she was not, you see, a woman with a high view of a man accused of domestic violence anyway.

But then Ieuan Dyfi wrote five poems about Anni Goch, the married woman he'd fucked, each more "Wow dude, she said no" than the last, culminating in I Anni Goch; a full cywydd of misogynistic Medieval-incel bullshit about how false and evil women are, which listed all the false and evil women of history including classical and mythological figures.

And. Well. Gwerful had some views.

Her responding cywydd - I ateb Ieuan Dyfi am gywydd Anni Goch - basically blasted the guy back into his own impact crater and disintegrated him. What she did with it, essentially, was to mirror his cywydd. Where he'd gone "Isn't it so true how great men throughout history have always been brought low by women, amirite lads? Here's examples", Gwerful went "Isn't it so true how 'great men' throughout history have behaved appallingly and fucked up through their own actions and then somehow managed to blame women, amirite lads? Here's examples." Where his examples had been historical figures, so were hers. Where his had been classical, so were hers. Where he went Biblical, so did she.

And what's so interesting about that last one is how pointed she was with it - for some reason, in his big list of evil women, Ieuan Dyfi did not go for the most obvious and low-hanging of fruit (no pun intended) - he doesn't cite Eve. In response, Gwerful also sidesteps the most obvious and low hanging of fruit - she doesn't cite Mary. In so doing, she makes it clear that she doesn't even need to.

There is no record of him responding to her. IIRC, there is a record of him doing three years in prison.

But! Outside of all of that, the big thing Gwerful was known for was her erotic poetry. You'll be unsurprised to hear that it wasn't written for shits and giggles - much like today, women of the time were told that most of their value was in their looks, and they had plentiful insecurities about their bodies. Gwerful wrote her erotic stuff to confront those insecurities and shine a light on the issue. There are so many examples of this, but far and away the most famous is definitely Cywydd y Cedor - roughly translated, 'Ode to the Vulva'. Though I have also seen it titled Cywydd y Gont - Ode to the Cunt. It's such a shame that the English language is literally, physically not capable of cynghanedd, because it means unless you learn Welsh you will never understand the beauty and the lyricism of the piece, and how it elevates and undercuts the content at the same time; but it's a joyful, masterful, irreverent work that uses the fancy language male poets were forever dedicating to the rest of a woman's body and applies it squarely to the vulva. In fact it basically opens with "Men are cowards, describe more cunts or gtfo" before launching into its main subject matter. The last line is pro-pubic hair, too, like I really must stress how much Gwerful Mechain would have to offer Tumblr if you could speak Welsh. This is probably her most widely translated piece, though, you can definitely find English versions. Although you can tell how blushing and reticent the translator is - and therefore how sanitised their translation is - by whether they've called it Ode to the Vulva/Cunt, or Ode to the Pubic Hair.

Needless to say, the original is not sanitised.

(Actually, I should also say - this one is also a response piece, probably, but in this case to a bard who lived a century earlier - Dafydd ap Gwilym, the absolutely legendary and uncontested king of Welsh romance poetry. He wrote a poem called Cywydd y Gal - Ode to the Penis. I have only just put two and two together on that.)

As a final note, I should say that my personal favourite Gwerful Mechain poem on this subject, mind, is actually I'w morwyn wrth gachu - to the maiden who is shitting. It's an englyn written in Gwerful's customary high poetic form, but it is what it says - it describes a woman taking a shit, and farting as she does. Beautiful and magical and disgusting and banal, all in one go:

Crwciodd lle dihangodd ei dŵr - ’n grychiast O grochan ei llawdwr; Ei deudwll oedd yn dadwr’, Baw a ddaeth, a bwa o ddŵr

Funnily enough, it's hard to find a good translation for this one lol.

My attempt:

She crouched where her water escaped - creased From the cauldron of her heat; Her two holes were arguing, Shit came, and a bow of water

Eh. It's so bland in English. Honestly, if you could read Welsh...

Anyway, if anyone reading this can read Welsh and wants to read some of Gwerful Mechain's stuff - including some of the pieces she was responding to in the ymrysonau - you can find a load here. Otherwise, I hope you enjoyed!

[nymphaura777]

THE VOID: PUPPY EXPLANATION

Sunny is a fluffy little golden retriever puppy who loves belly rubs, zoomies, and chewing on things he probably shouldn’t. But most of all, Sunny loves treats.

One day, he heard the big dogs talking about something called the void.

"The void is where everything already exists," said the wise old husky. "You don’t have to chase it. You just have to know it’s yours."

Sunny’s floppy ears perked up. He had spent so much time running after things tennis balls, squirrels, that one butterfly he never caught. But what if he didn’t have to? What if he could just…have a treat?

So, Sunny did what he did best...he flopped onto the grass and got cozy. He closed his puppy eyes, his little tail thumping against the ground. He let everything go...no chasing, no waiting. Just being.

The world got quiet. No more distractions. Just the soft, warm darkness behind his eyelids.

"I am in the void," Sunny thought, his tiny body completely still. And in that space of pure knowing, he affirmed:

"I have a treat."

He didn’t peek. He didn’t whine. He didn’t roll over and check if it was there. He just knew.

And when he finally opened his eyes? Boom. Right in front of him...a big, delicious treat, waiting just for him.

Sunny wiggled in excitement, chomping down happily. He didn’t have to run, beg, or wait. He just had it.

And from that day on, whenever Sunny wanted something, he didn’t chase. He just laid back, relaxed, and let it be his....

So what we can conclude from Sunny's story?

Sunny’s story teaches us that manifestation isn’t about chasing...it’s about knowing. Just like he stopped running after things and simply trusted that his treat was his, we need to detach from desperation and step into certainty. The void is where everything already exists, and when we stop obsessing, checking, and forcing, things naturally align. Manifestation is effortless when we embody the feeling of already having it, because our reality mirrors our inner state. So instead of stressing over when and how, relax, trust, and let it come to you just like Sunny did.

Credits to: @thedreamgirljournal and @premiumbitch, the idea of this post belongs to originally them, they created about bunny and kitten so I thought creating about puppy!

[missimaginx]

CELEBRITY CRUSH | KA12

pairing: kimi antonelli x f!brazilian!tennis player!reader

plot: where kimi needs to introduce the paddock to you, his celebrity crush.

warnings: narrated in first person (kimi's pov); female reader; italian-brazilian female reader (but you can just ignore that); female tennis player reader; kimi being a nervous and lovesick mess around the reader; possible grammatical errors; english is not my first language :).

a/n: images taken from pinterest. this is my first time writing a one shot 🥹, hope you like it (wc: 3k)

remembering that this is just fiction, all the people portrayed here have their own personalities and their own relationships.

MIAMI GRAN PRIX — 2025

I’m sweating.

Like, a lot.

And I’m not even wearing the race suit yet.

“…and it would be great if you could show her around the paddock, Kimi. She’s Mercedes’ special guest because of the shared Adidas sponsorship, so be nice. Engaged. Natural.” The Mercedes PR finishes with that professional smile that, at this point, feels like the devil’s grin.

I nod. That’s all I can do. Because, honestly? I’m speechless. In shock.

Y/N L/N is going to be here.

THE Y/N L/N.

The girl who lives in my head like she pays rent. The tennis prodigy. The one I watched playing at the Australian Open when I was sixteen and became absolutely certain she’s the love of my life—even though she doesn’t even know I exist.

I’ve seen her on TV. On Instagram. On TikTok. In interview replays. I’ve read articles from Brazilian sites in Brazilian Portuguese and tossed them into Google Translate. I know what brand of racket she uses. I know she likes passion fruit juice and has a superstition about a red hair tie.

And now she’s going to be here.

With me.

Getting a paddock tour.

And I HAVE TO BE NATURAL.

“You’re pacing.” Ollie says, sitting on the press room couch with the most bored expression in the world. “Again. You’ve literally circled the table three times.”

“I’M SHOWING HER AROUND THE PADDOCK, OLLIE.”

“Yeah, you said that. Three times. In different volumes.”

“She’s going to look at me and think ‘who is this idiot?’ And then I’ll stutter and trip over myself and maybe even throw up! Ollie, I MIGHT PUKE IN FRONT OF HER!”

“You’ve raced in torrential rain with zero visibility. You can handle a girl.”

“She’s not just any girl! She’s Y/N L/N!”

“Right. The love of your life you’ve never said ‘hi’ to. Got it.”

“You don’t get it! She’s incredible. She’s focused, determined, elegant, funny—she laughs with her head tilted to the side, and when she’s concentrating on a match she wrinkles her nose in this way that—”

“Okay. That’s it.” Ollie throws his head back, laughing. “Kimi, for the love of God, breathe. You’re just going to show her around, and if it all goes terribly wrong, you’ll never see her again.”

“NOT HELPING!”

“But… what if it goes right?”

I freeze. What would ‘going right’ even mean? She noticing me? Laughing with me? Following me back on Instagram? Calling me ‘Kimi’ with that cute Italian-Brazilian accent?

“You should ask her out,” Ollie says.

I turn to him like he just suggested I break into the FIA president’s office.

“Are you insane?”

“Why not? You’re the same age. She’s an athlete, you’re an athlete. She’s Italian, you’re Italian. You’re both young, rich, good-looking… basically an Adidas commercial couple.”

“I won’t even be able to say ‘hi’! You want me to ask her out?”

“Get ice cream. Ask her out for ice cream.”

“I’M NOT ASKING Y/N L/N OUT FOR ICE CREAM!”

“Why not?” he crosses his arms, laughing. “You think she’ll say no? That she’ll laugh in your face?”

“Yes! No! I don’t know!”

The door opens and Gabriel walks in, energy drink in hand and looking like he was dragged out of bed.

“Good morning to you too,” he says, flopping into the chair next to me. “Everything okay? Kimi looks like he’s seen a ghost.”

“He has,” Ollie replies before I can defend myself. “Or, well, he’s about to. The love of his life.”

Gabi frowns. “Huh?”

“Kimi’s had a crush on a girl for like three years and just found out she’s gonna be here today. In the paddock. As a Mercedes guest. And he has to give her the tour.”

Gabriel blinks, processing. “For real?”

“Totally. He’s already planning his escape through the Williams garage.”

“Who is it?”

“Y/N L/N,” Ollie says.

“Y/N?”

My stomach drops.

“You know her?” I ask, trying to sound casual. (Failing completely.)

“Of course. We’ve known each other since we were twelve. Her parents are friends with my uncles. And she’s INSANE on the court. Just won the Miami Open, did you see?”

“I DID,” I answer with something close to religious fervor. “I watched the whole match. Twice.”

My world tilts.

Gabriel Bortoleto knows Y/N L/N.

GABRIEL. KNOWS. HER.

“What’s she like?” I ask before I can stop myself. “I mean, off the court. Does she like music? Movies? What’s her favorite ice cream flavor? Is she talkative? Quiet? What’s her favorite color? Has she ever dated? Does she—”

“Mate,” Gabi laughs, slow. “Breathe.”

“I am breathing.”

“Doesn’t seem like it.”

Ollie laughs out loud. “Told you it was serious. He’s had a dossier on her since 2022.”

“I just want to be prepared!” I protest.

Gabi looks at me like he’s finally getting the full picture.

“Mate. You’re in love with her, even though you’ve never met?”

“Not in love in love. Just… maybe. A lot. Since forever.”

Ollie grins, the smug smile of someone enjoying someone else’s drama way too much.

“And you still think you shouldn’t ask her out?”

I sink into the chair.

“This is going to be a disaster.”

And Ollie, beside me, pats my shoulder. “Or it’s going to be the beginning of a story we’ll laugh about at your wedding.”

“Not helping.”

“But it’s true.”

And, for the first time, I let that wild thought creep into my brain.

What if… it’s not a disaster?

I’ve only been waiting for two minutes.

But it feels like forty-seven years.

The Mercedes hospitality is quieter now… or maybe it just feels that way. There are still people around. An engineer leaving a meeting room, a kitchen staff member switching trays at the buffet, a couple of marketing folks talking quietly on a corner sofa. But to me, everything seems in slow motion. Like the whole world has faded into background noise while my thoughts race faster than my W16.

I’ve done all the interviews. Talked to more journalists than I can count, answered the same questions so many times the words lost all meaning, and even smiled genuinely when asked about the race. Now there’s just one thing left…

Her. Y/N L/N.

I shift in my seat for the fifth time in two minutes. Run my hand through my hair. Zip and unzip my jacket. Try not to sweat. Fail miserably.

The PR said she’d go get her and bring her here. Told me I just need to be polite. “Natural.” As if that’s possible when I’m about to meet the girl who’s lived rent-free in 90% of my brain since I was sixteen.

I rest my elbow on the armrest, trying to look casual, but my knee’s bouncing. I force myself to breathe—and that’s when I hear it.

A laugh.

Light, crystal clear. With an accent. That kind of laugh someone gives when they’re being polite but genuinely kind.

And I know it’s her.

It’s ridiculous, but I know. The sound hits different. Like the universe has been waiting for her to show up so it could finally be in color.

I hear the PR’s voice along with hers, getting closer every second, and something inside me switches on. I straighten up. Run my hand through my hair again. Try to remember how to say “hi.”

And then she walks in.

And nothing—absolutely nothing—could’ve prepared me for it.

She steps in beside the PR, eyes wandering curiously around the room, and my brain shuts down. Like, literally. Total blackout. Blue screen.

Y/N L/N walks through the door like the universe hit pause so she could have time to exist. The mint green dress—yes, mint green, because she once said in an interview that it’s her favorite shade of green—looks like it was made for this soft lighting. It matches her white sneakers and the dark green lanyard hanging around her neck. It brings out the warm tone of her skin, the insane green of her eyes, the waves of dark brown hair I’ve seen in so many videos—but live, it’s different. It’s better. Everything is better. Every detail.

She smiles, a bit shyly, and glances around like she’s still adjusting to the new environment.

And me? I’m frozen.

She’s… smaller than I imagined. For some reason, in pictures and videos, she looked taller. But now, standing a few steps away from me, her shoulders slightly hunched like she’s shielding herself from the attention, she looks… real. Human. Beautiful in an almost unreal way.

“Y/N, this is Kimi Antonelli. Our driver, and your official tour guide today,” says the PR, lightheartedly. “Kimi, this is Y/N L/N, who you probably already know, but just to remind everyone—she just won the Miami Open.”

But I don’t hear any of that. Or, I do, but it’s all background noise behind her image. I’m too busy… existing in a trance.

She extends her hand, smiling.

“Hi,” she says, with that adorable Italian-Brazilian accent that makes me want to write poetry. “Nice to meet you. And thank you for having me here.”

I look at her hand. Then her face. Then her hand again. Then—

Do something, Kimi.

I shake her hand like it’s made of porcelain. The touch is light, but it feels like a shock. Not the bad kind. The kind that wakes you up.

“It’s… it’s a pleasure,” I say, voice slightly higher than usual. “Like. Really. A lot. I mean—welcome.”

Y/N smiles. God help me, she smiles.

“Thank you,” she says again, with a tiny laugh that makes her nose scrunch up. Just like I love. “I’m a little nervous, to be honest. I’ve never been in a paddock before. Everything looks so… serious.”

“It’s… yeah. It is. But not always. I mean, yes. But also no. It’s fun. Sometimes.”

STOP TALKING, KIMI.

She laughs again, and by some miracle, she doesn’t seem to think I’m completely insane.

The PR chimes in, all cheerful:

“I’ll leave you two to walk around and get familiar with the place. Y/N, anything you want to know or see, Kimi can show you. He knows every corner of this paddock with his eyes closed.”

I nod. Maybe too quickly. Y/N smiles again. And for one whole second, there’s just this.

Her.

And me.

And the suicidal mission of not falling even harder.

The PR leaves us there and vanishes before I can beg her to teach me how to be a functional human being.

Y/N looks at me expectantly, a slight smile on her lips, like she’s silently asking, “So… what now?” I try to remember what the PR said. Show her around the paddock. Right. Easy. I know this place like the back of my hand. I’ve walked through here half-asleep thanks to jet lag more times than I can count. But now, with Y/N by my side, everything feels different. Bigger. Brighter. More… paralyzing.

“So… uh, welcome to the paddock,” I begin, trying to sound casual while gesturing like a school trip tour guide. “This is the Mercedes hospitality. It’s where we eat, have meetings, drink bad coffee, and try to pretend we’ve got our lives under control.”

She laughs. She laughs. And I feel like I’ve gained +10 confidence points… and -15 coordination points because I almost trip over one of the couches.

“It’s a lot calmer than I expected,” she says, looking around. “I thought it’d be, like… chaos. Loud. People running around with tires on fire.”

“Oh, that’s more outside, in the garages. In here we only lose it mentally.”

She giggles again, and I decide I could listen to that sound on loop for the rest of my life.

We start walking slowly, and I steer the tour toward the one place where I feel safer: the team garage. My territory. Maybe here I’ll seem less like a clumsy idiot.

“This is the team’s garage,” I explain, pointing like I’m showing her a sacred temple. “That’s where the cars are, over there’s the tires, back there’s the engineers’ station, and in the far back is where I pretend to understand everything Toto says when he starts throwing quantum physics terms around.”

Y/N watches everything with genuine curiosity. Not the polite kind of interest people fake just to be nice — she actually wants to understand. It’s real. And that somehow makes her even more perfect… and me even more in love.

“Wow… so this is where it all happens,” she says, almost reverently.

“Yeah. And also where it all goes wrong sometimes,” I add with a crooked smile.

“What’s the top speed again?”

“Depends on the track… but in Monza, for example, we can hit 350 km/h.”

“Three hundred and…?” She blinks, stunned. “You’re kidding.”

“I swear.”

“What’s it like?” she asks, her big green eyes—bright, locked on my very average brown ones.

The question catches me off guard — not because it’s rare, but because of the way she asks it. Like it’s magic. Like, for a second, I’m not just the Mercedes driver… but someone she truly admires. Someone she wants to understand.

“It’s…” I take a breath, searching for words that do it justice. “It’s like flying, but with the ground really close. Everything becomes instinct. You feel every movement of the car, every curve in your body. The adrenaline is insane, but at the same time… there’s a weird calm in the middle of the madness. Like time slows down for a few seconds.”

She stares at me, fascinated. A small smile forming.

“That’s… beautiful. And kinda crazy.”

I shrug, unsure what to do with the heat rising in my ears. She thinks it’s beautiful. This. Me. Help.

We keep walking, passing behind the garages. Some teams are organizing equipment, others just killing time. The sounds of tools and conversations blend into a kind of soundtrack.

At one point, we turn a corner and — of course, obviously — we run straight into them. Ollie and Gabriel, standing by the dividing wall between the Haas and Sauber garages, chatting, until their attention shifts to us.

“Look who finally showed up,” Ollie says, flashing that smug teen villain smile. “Our very own Romeo.”

Gabriel takes a bite of the sandwich he’s holding and raises his eyebrows when he sees Y/N.

“Y/N!” he says casually. “Long time! You good?”

She smiles—warmly. “Hey, Gabi! I’m good. You? Still cheating at Uno?”

Gabriel gasps in mock outrage. “I never cheated!”

Ollie laughs. “He cheats at rock-paper-scissors too, Y/N. Watch your back.”

Y/N bursts out laughing, and I smile… but there’s that tiny twist in my stomach. That annoying little reminder: they’re friends. She and Gabi have a kind of closeness I don’t have. Yet.

“Well, we don’t wanna interrupt the date,” Ollie throws out, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s not a date,” I say—way too fast.

“Of course not,” Gabriel says, smiling. “But if it were, you’d be killing it.”

Y/N glances sideways at me with that knowing smirk that makes me trip over my own thoughts.

We keep walking.

“Sorry about them,” I mutter, slightly embarrassed.

“Don’t be. They’re funny.”

“They’re insufferable.”

She laughs again. And this time, it’s freer. Unrestrained. That’s when I realize: she’s relaxed. The Y/N who was tense and reserved when she got here isn’t here anymore. Now it’s just her — and me, desperately trying to look functional next to the girl of my dreams.

We reach a more open part of the paddock, with a side view of the track. The sounds of drivers rushing between interviews, photographers clicking away — it all hums in the background, a reminder that the world out there keeps spinning.

“Tired?” I ask.

“No. I’m enjoying this.” She looks ahead, then at me. “It’s cooler than I expected.”

“You seem more relaxed now.”

“I am. You made it feel… lighter.”

And that’s when the moment shifts. It turns quiet. Intense—in a good way. In a way I’ll remember forever.

We stop near a low wall. The wind plays with her hair, and she tucks a few strands behind her ear, absentmindedly.

“Sometimes I feel kind of lost,” she says softly. “Like… everything happens so fast I forget I’m still just an eighteen-year-old girl.”

I get it. More than I should.

“Yeah… I feel like that too. Like I have to be a grown-up all the time. Responsible. Flawless. Representing the team, Italy… and deep down, I just want to be playing video games. Or… having time to figure out what I feel. To fall in love. Without it feeling like weakness.”

She turns to me. Her green eyes — beautiful in a way that doesn’t feel real — lock onto mine with something careful. Something interested. Something I don’t want to name yet, because maybe it’ll hurt if it’s not real.

And that’s when it hits me: this? This walk, this moment, this smile?

It might be the only chance I get to be like this with her.

I remember what Ollie said earlier. Ask her out.

It’s crazy… but what if?

If it’s a disaster, at least I’ll have a reason to drive like a maniac on Sunday and forget this ever happened.

Y/N’s phone buzzes. She checks the screen.

“My agent. I’ve got to go shoot with Adidas.”

No. Wait. I still—

“Ice cream,” I blurt out, stumbling over the words. “I mean, like… maybe… you… get ice cream with me, I mean, go out— we could— if you want, of course…”

She blinks. Then laughs. Tilting her head slightly, just like I’ve seen her do a thousand times on my phone screen. And for a second I consider quitting F1 and becoming a stand-up comedian if it means making her laugh like that more often.

“Are you asking me out or ordering dessert?” she teases.

“Asking you out,” I manage to say, finally like a functioning human being. “With me. Ice cream. Later. Someday.”

Her smile grows. Slowly. Beautifully.

“I’d love to.”

My brain reboots. Three times.

When my soul finally stops spinning at the speed of my heartbeat, I realize Y/N is pulling a pen out of her purse—one of those permanent markers fans bring for autographs.

“You got any paper?” she asks, uncapping the pen, looking at me.

I get lost in her eyes for a second. Here, in the golden light of sunset, they look more hazel than green. Gorgeous.

“I…” I blink a few times, trying to return to the realm of functional humans, patting my jeans for paper. “No… but…”

Her phone buzzes again, and from the way she groans, I know it’s her agent texting again.

“You can write it here,” I say quickly, holding out my hand.

Y/N blinks, looking at me. I blink back, looking at her. I feel the tips of my ears burning—and I see her cheeks turn pink.

She blinks once more and smiles before stepping closer and touching my hand. The lightness of her touch is already familiar since I shook her hand earlier. And it sends the same electric shiver up my arm, straight to my heart, making it pound even faster.

I watch as Y/N writes her number on my palm with the black permanent marker. And this is one of the rare times I thank the universe for my good memory—because I know I’ll remember how the wind kept tousling her hair, how the orange sunset lit up her focused face, and how her brows furrowed slightly as she tried to make the numbers as clear as possible.

When she finishes writing, I don’t know if it’s my lovesick mind playing tricks on me, but I swear her fingers linger on mine a little longer than necessary before letting go.

“Text me,” she says, smiling and blushing again. “And don’t take forever.”

Before I can come up with a reply, she leans in and presses a quick, warm, perfect kiss to my cheek.

“I honestly thought you weren’t gonna ask me,” she whispers, like it’s a secret.

Then she turns with a soft “see you soon” and disappears down the corridor.

And I just stand there. Frozen. Dazed. Touching the spot where her kiss landed like I’m trying to save it forever.

And for the first time all day, I think:

Maybe Ollie was right.

Because this… definitely wasn’t a disaster.

[limerlove]

romantic devil.

eighteen+ plus, minors dni. content warning: wc 1.6k, a silly trope my brain loves right now — hockeyplayer!vi x tennisplayer!reader. light teasing, smut, enemies to lovers trope, competitive athletes, slight degradation, dubcon (both reader nd vi are slightly drunk), thigh-riding, oral, fingering, praise kink.

hi my violet lovin gays! i am back on the arcane grind. a (maybe) series and the first part is linked below. honestly, this can be read on its own. but this is progress in my eyes and i hope you enjoy. been struggling with completion but we fuckin’ did it. hell the fuck yeah. plus, our fav hockeybutch ♡

hockeyplayer!vi can’t let you live down the undeniable squirting in the locker room in-between your training matches. it’s not like it’s all she can think about. no — it could never be the reason she can’t focus in her own practice. you’re the bane of her existence, the competition for the hottest headlines, and she would love nothing more than to squash like a bug. but for reasons she won’t admit, vi can’t.

even if it’s your off-season, your name sells enough and she sees you everywhere.

it’s not a secret how much you’re adored by the media, the public, and even by everyone vying for a single ounce of your attention. seen and always heard. vi can’t stand it and you do nothing to hide your pure-shot of joy running rancid in your pearly-white grin.

it’s surprising, how much vi lets it dig underneath her skin. the most shocking things of all if vi’s being honest with herself. a pesky thought lingers, one warning caution, especially when vi was fucking someone else but thinking of you.

when the blade of skates glide across the ice, another body checks her into the glass, a lot easier than she should have allowed. her concentration can’t help but fade away into the sunshine of your brightest smile.

she needs to do something about it.

hockeyplayer!vi sneaks up on you when she spots you in the library. alone. in one of your short tennis skirt and vi wonders if it’s your own to torture her. nose buried in your book, headphones over your head, and you’re so lost in your work you don’t even notice her sneak up on you.

“don’t you have somewhere to be?” violet churns out, the instigation prophecy she hopes to fulfill is more than evident. “you always practice on wednesdays.”

the smirk you wear is evil, some would even say malicious. “some would say keeping tabs on me would be stalker-like. oh, how the mighty have fallen.”

“you’re being ridiculous.” vi knows she’s been caught but she won’t be handcuffed into your narrative — however true it may ring she won’t give you the satisfaction of hiding the key. burying her pride along with it.

“it’s nothing — but i’ve just been…hearing some things.”

“so, you’ve actually been listening to something other than the sound of your own voice?”

an immediate eye roll is granted as you slam your book shut, eyes squinting tightly and you’ve got this smile. a dead-ringer for the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen. it’s dangerous and even scathing to be around let alone witness.

“yeah, i have.”

she hates this. when you have the upper hand and there’s little to nothing she can do about it. even if vi knows how you taste, or the face you make when you’re brought over the edge, you have a godly control over her as if you’re the messiah she needs forgiveness from.

vi feels the need to repent when you’re stroking the inside of her exposed thigh, the shorts not doing much to conceal her skin. you’ve cornered her with a faulting need to have your greedy split her open like she’s the pomegranate — a beady and bloody vessel you desperately need to rip apart.

the idea of your affection truly aimed at her is nauseating. something you would never allow to be true.

plausible deniability, it’s what every atom in your body is made of.

“stephanie is quite the jealous woman. seems she wasn’t a fan of hearing me scream your name.”

“yeah princess, i know you’re just really torn up about it. it’s not like you’ve been wanting to stick it to her since freshman year.” like the fuckgirl she is, the vying-violet leans forward with your fingers sliding further into your shorts, daring you to inch forward.

“see! this is why we would never work. you’re so goddamn—”

“so, you have been thinking about us.” vi’s cocky grin will haunt you for the next week, letting her have a small fraction of satisfaction.

hockeyplayer!vi who does her best not to sweat it when you show up to one of her games with your best friend. it’s the best game she’s played all season. your presence warrants nothing but success. there’s not a moment she allowed herself to be off. you’ll give her absolute shit for it. especially after all the game she’s fucking talked to you all week.

you leave by the time she’s showered and walking through the arena and back to her car. to her surprise, she receives a dm through her instagram.

10:39 pm. ace_princess: nice game, violet.

simple. barely even noticeable to the naked eye, but that’s as nice a compliment vi would receive from you. violet tries not to smile too wide but the muscles in her cheeks have other plans.

10:43 pm. violet_vanderson: did you actually just compliment me?

vi thinks to herself — she’ll just leave me on read.

10:55 pm. ace_princess: don’t get used to it.

hockeyplayer!vi happens to be at a party with you, how convenient. the first thing she notices is how different you are tonight. you’re usually so disciplined, so perfectly-polished, the perfect picture princess — the one your father created. molding a star takes more work than one would think but if anyone understands, it’s vi. laying before her is nothing you’ve achieved to be. actually, you’re the embodiment of quite the opposite.

cheap red solo cups, the wave of cannabis infiltrating your system, and in the most pompous brit of them all, caitlyn kiramman. ideally, this wouldn’t have been your night. before your father had berated you, telling you to ice her out.

mija, no distractions. this is your chance, what you’ve been working for your entire life.

not the words you’ve been wanting to hear. no, not at all.

you couldn’t tell violet anything, because if you did, it would somehow make it true. you’d have to look her in the eyes again, knowing you’d have to deny her of whatever wishes she tried to press.

hockeyplayer!vi who can practically sniff the fear off of you. like a bloodhound, she sought you out when she pressed forward into her ex-girlfriend’s home. some might say tasteless but you forced her to be an opportunist. violet refused to leave your side, until half of the party had been abandoned and it was just the two of you in the basement — the both of you tremendously tipsy.

maroon-hued silk, a fabric tailored so short it could hardly be called a dress kisses your thighs as violet threatens to push the material upwards. pointed canines nibble on the skin of your neck, lacing the most refined poetry as she etches each letter with a richly-velvet tongue.

“this— violet…” it’s supposed to be solidified, a warning to heed her aggression, but it only gives her lips more incentive to explore new terrain.

“you can ride my thigh, princess. i know you’re dying for something.” violet’s hot breath is torture; practically branding you with unequivocal remorse.

someone who wasn’t inebriated would force her to at least take you back to her place or kick someone up stairs. not in a temporarily vacant basement where anyone could descend at any moment.

her python fingers might as well have pierced you, fingers gliding over a thin layer of lace but she wastes no time, not like before. this is different.

“take them off.” not before violet makes you whimper, pressing your slick against the fabric. the torture seems to be never ending, making an absolute mess of you, fingers rooted in her devilishly-pink roots.

sliding the panties off, you shove them in her back pocket, “this is the last time you’ll be getting them.”

“we’ll see about that.”

hockeyplayer!vi can't seem to be done with you. first, it was letting you get off on her thigh, bare fucking pussy exposed as glid against her exposed skin. your swollen lips puff even more for her. spreading your cum on twitching, sun-kissed thighs.

the second time, all it takes is your ass up high, your body bent over the couch, hem scrunched up at your stomach. it’s inhumane how you don’t have control when it comes to vi and her hypnotic tongue.

every bit of this is so unlike you. you don’t do this. and you tell yourself this has nothing to do with violet vanderson. it doesn’t mean anything how jealous her little groupies were earlier in the night when she ushered you to take a seat in her lap.

“pretty girl, fuck you can take it so well baby.” violet slurps every drop and if anyone asks — she swears you taste of sweet, homegrown-raspberries kissed by the most golden-hued honey. “can’t stop thinking about taking you to my bed and fucking you either my strap.”

in truthfully pathetic fashion, you cum the moment she says it. the tease of her tongue and the power of her brutally curved fingers sends you over the edge for the second time tonight. while you don’t squirt like the first night, there’s a thorough soak to her black-polished fingers.

“vi, baby—”

the pet name causes vi’s clit to throb viciously. “i know, princess. you did such a good job for me tonight. my perfect girl.”

you moan. the people’s princess moans as you push yourself against her fingers that are keeping a slow rhythm, her sensitivity be damned. god did you fucking love it.

“mhm, did you like that? like when i tell you how precious and good you are for me. letting me take care of this pretty pussy for you.”

“vi, fuck, keep going—” the arc to your back is downright sinful and violet wants to push your limit. just a hair.

gripping onto your luscious curls, she pulls, bending you to her will, her skilled fingers stretching you to the best of her abilities. vi wonders if it’s the alcohol or if she’s finally cracked you, but she decides whatever the reason is — violet’s not letting go of you anytime soon.

[p-seduonym]

Switched at Birth (Part Two)

A/N: I swear I'll get into the yandere stuff (...eventually) I just trying a slow burn for now. Anyway please enjoy and credit goes to @luludeluluramblings for her Switched at Birth Concept.

Yandere!Batfam X Switched! Fem! Reader X Yandere! Wayne! OC

It didn’t take much for Melissa to slot herself into your daily routine. 

If anything, you encouraged it. 

Not at that very moment– no introducing her to her birth parents would have been dampened by your steely yet teary eyed look. So you both settled with Melissa giving you her phone number and contact information before she left. That night, after the sun had long past set, Melissa Wayne lingered just outside the fence. Between the mailbox and the well-loved swing set, she seemed to consider saying something, but decided not to at the last moment. You waved goodbye, only noticing after she was gone that she never touched her cup of tea. 

When your family returned, you kept quiet. It didn’t feel right to reveal something so monumental without her there. Instead, you idly picked at your dinner, nodding along to the usual chatter before excusing yourself to your childhood room.

There, surrounded by bits and bobbles of your past, you searched for Melissa Wayne.

She was hardly the most well-known member of the Wayne family. No dazzling athletic achievements like the ever-sociable Dick Grayson. No reputation for intellect like the prodigious Tim Drake. Nothing set her apart from the others—aside from her biological claim to Bruce Wayne. Even then, Damian seemed to command most of the media’s attention. She wasn’t the only daughter either—Cassandra Cain existed, thrived, and even had a legacy of her own. She didn’t even carry the infamy of a black sheep like Jason Todd.

Melissa Wayne, for all intents and purposes, was a ghost.

A presence overshadowed.

Leaning back in your desk chair, you considered her.

She never even said what tea she liked—maybe she didn’t like tea at all, just being polite. But why? Politeness only makes sense up to a point, then it’s just—what? Habit? A performance? Maybe she just didn’t like coffee. You’d get that, it’s an acquired taste. Or maybe she thought it was too late for coffee, but then, tea has caffeine too, so—what was the point?

You closed your various tabs and looked around.

What about her room? It must have been massive. You’ve only seen the Wayne manor in pictures, but even then all of it seemed a bit much. Did Melissa’s room have that amount of muchness? Maybe it did or maybe it didn’t– you’re not sure which you would prefer. A barren room, filled with nothing but hope and loneliness, or a clustered room filled with everything that had not been acknowledged?

Thinking of both simultaneously made you dizzy so you settled into bed. That is, not before sending a text to her, “12 o’clock, diner on mainstreet. I’ll be there.  Will you come?”

You woke up the next morning to the reply, “Yes, I will”

Melissa, seemingly, didn’t know how to dress casually.

Sitting in the tiny hole-in-the-wall diner, fondly dubbed "The Second Cup," you spotted her before she saw you. Her sharp, polished look—a polo tennis dress paired with a diamond bracelet—clashed awkwardly with the diner's cozy, unpretentious charm. Yet, despite the elegance of her attire, her expression was anything but composed. Simpering, demure—almost out of place. Then, her sad, puppy-dog eyes found you. She took a seat across from you. You wisely ordered only ice water for the table.

“You’re here” She started, carefully.

“Yes? I asked you to come, remember?”

“I know. I just thought–” She cut herself off, “Never mind.”

“Sorry about last night. I haven’t cried since I was five, y’know? But it’s not fair when I’m the one crying”

“It’s fine. I don’t mind.”

“Still, you didn’t even get to meet them. M-Your family, I mean.”

“Mmhmm, I knew it wouldn’t be right away. It’s a lot to take in”

Humming, you stirred your drink with a straw.

“That’s no good, y’know?”

“What is?”

“Acting like that. It’s too stiff– like you gotta understand everything and everyone all the time”

“I don’t understand”

“Look, this is kinda messed up, right? You got a right to say that,”

“I…I know”

“If you know, then come on. Say what you feel. I can’t be the only one thinking this is crazy.”

Melissa’s balled hands clenched on her lap.

“No…it is crazy….awful really”

“Yeah?”

“It’s awful and I’m upset, but also…”

“What?”

“I’m relieved”

You leaned back in your chair.

“Yeah, that makes sense. I mean, who would want a family like that?”

Melissa looks up, and you think she might defend them for a moment. Instead, you saw a flicker of resentment.

“No one would”

At that moment you could only think a single thought.

‘How cute’

But it left you blinking confusedly at yourself. What an odd thought. Regardless, you reached over and took her tightly clenched fist in your hand. Gently unwinding her tense digits, you held her hand in yours.

“Hey, you don’t have to do this right away. And you're not alone. I promise, I’ll be here”

Melissa looked down at your hands.

“...Okay”

In the end, she didn’t tell her parents.

“I don’t want to shock them. It’s not the right time” She reasoned.

You didn’t argue with her. Rather you suggested she come to dinner that evening.

“You’ll get to know them and they’ll get to know you. I won’t tell them. But it’s your choice, alright?”

You sounded so sure, that it was hard to say no. So she said yes.

A/N: I tried to make Reader like Bruce with their habit of adopting people, but I'm not sure if that was too obvious or too subtle. Anyway, I update sporadically so sorry for not be consistent.

[kroosluvr]

featherman seeker

as usual da cele notes under cut

had to get some food so thsi si late... i lterally gluedm yself to my chair to finish this LMAOAO

all of the not-dialogue is just straight up lines frm featherman seeker LMAOOO just rearranged

this takes place during 3rd semester (see: infiltration log on wall on 4th page, also their winter clothes strewn around akira's room) after drawing it i was rereading like oh u cld prob see this as like post-third semester but nah i intended it to be such BECAUSE

i rock w the canon that sumire has no clue abt akechi's past and black mask and the mental shutdowns and shido and the engine room she doesnt know hes supposed to be dead, that he sacrificed himself, etc. so ofc shes going thru the game like yayyy featherman yay and her sort of naivete Gets thru to goro. i imagine this is like idk a game he played in childhood bc he was a featherman fan but now revisiting it bc sumire wanted to try it, hes like. damn. this kinda. uh. well thats crazy how things line up. so i think it kinda grates at him but sumi's excitement and like. enjoyment! of it kinda helps him also enjoy it more

SO LIKE He knows he's going to die. He knows thats how grey pigeon's story ends. but he's happy here, and now, with the people he loves, so that makes it All right for now. it's a sad story but it's the good ending.

also i forgor how/where/when goro exactly Actualizes back into existence but can u imagine if he spawned right into the winter wonderland of shibuya square like (head in hands) smth so like. isolating abt it. in a crowd of ppl being excited over christmas and hes like what the hell im supposed to be Dead right now.

also "you are not alone" in the first panels very important..... right under hte panel w goro and sumi side by side :') yea

ryuji and ann holding akira back. YEA.

i really like the 3rd slide. the colors mmmm BUT YEAH so its goro/akira fighting/saving sumire, hanging out at jazz jin, last stand against adam kadmon, then goro holding sumi and akira's hands in the snow, then them smiling :') kinda like a procession of memories, or to-be memories or whatever

ANYWAY this is also like part of my whatever canon divergence where the royal trio section of 3rd sem is just longer for no reason . (aka: the thieves take longer to win over to their side, idk maruki gives u a longer time on the deal, etc etcetc.) just more royal trio time :3

sumibun akimeow and gorodog in 4th img... hidden.... also tennis rackets. ALSO THE LITTLE POLAROIDS Important. and all their clothes! i imagine they stay over at leblanc A Lot. akira prob convinces sojiro to Keep morgana at his house LOL and he handles the business and stuff just so they can have their safe haven while they struggle to try and win the thieves back and infiltrate the palace etc . (I kinda have a comic or something in the works for this)

more abt dialogue choices

"it's tough for a tutorial stage" - this means smth. i didnt think this thru 100% ASKJDHASDKJA but its to do w akechi's life and how everything was so fucking difficult for him as a kid when it shouldnt have been.

"is the second phase giving you trouble" - also smth to do w akechi. (As u can see these are all half baked metaphors) smth to do w his 'second life" aka: third semester being Difficult. because now he has sumire and akira and he doesn't want to leave them, so dying the 2nd time is gonna suck real bad.

i like shuakesumi btw

[f1cflcfic]

Won't Say I'm in Love (SMAU ft Lando Norris) part ii

pairing: lando norris x tennis player!reader (fem!y/n); past carlos alcaraz x tennis player!reader (fem!y/n)

summary: As a general rule, y/n does not date athletes. You've been there, done that - would not recommend. Besides, you definitely don't do love. There's no time in the world for complicated feelings when there's a career Grand Slam to be won. But what if your heart just refuses to listen?

genre: social meda/mixed au, friends to lovers

note: this is RPF and is obviously in no way, shape, or form reflective of real persons

series: part i

end of January, 2025

1st week of February, 2025

[Excerpt from Red Carpet interview]

Hi Y/N L/N! We're so glad to see you here. First of all, congratulations on your win at the Australian Open.

“Thanks so much! I’m really excited to have started the year this way.”

We’re excited too – and very happy that you could make time to come here to London for this. Your calendar must be incredibly full.

“I do try and always have a week off after the Grand Slams at least, but the WTA Tour schedule has definitely filled out over the years. It’s always a bit of a puzzle to both ensure I can play enough, win points, and at the same time strike that right balance in terms of fitness.  Both mentally and physically.”

And yet you’re adding work for yourself by not only being a top athlete, but now also a brand ambassador for Dior. What made you want to do this?

“It’s a really cool opportunity to just play dress up from time to time, to be honest. Plus, I love that they recognise athletes and sports can be high fashion, too. I always think of how incredibly inspiring Serena Williams is, both on and off the court for breaking boundaries and for showing that sports and fashion can go really well together.”

Did you get any time to relax at all?

"Weirdly, this almost feels relaxing to me, because of how much time you have to carve out and focus on yourself – without any performance target attached to it. But I’ve also taken some time to hang with my friends and family."

You’re turning 27 this year as well, and you’ve been a pro athlete for almost 10 years now. Obviously last year wasn’t the best for you, performance wise. Has that made you reflect on what those performance targets will look like in the future? What’s something you’ve learned in that time?

"I mean, the main goal for me would be to achieve a Career Grand Slam – and just play the best tennis that I can possibly play. And in terms of what I’ve learned, I would say that it’s to choose your friends, your team very wisely. Sometimes I’ve regretted missing major events, and sometimes I’ve regretted giving people too much room in my life. You need people who help you keep that balance.” People who keep you grounded, who tether you. Because being a pro athlete means you have to be really selfish from time to time, and it means sacrifice. I don’t see my baby niece as often as I’d like, for example. But it’s just the way it is."

2nd week of February, 2025

3d week of February, 2025

[Transcript excerpts of Quadrant video]

“Alright so we’ve got our pro-athletes here, ready to battle it out in a game of Wii Sports,” Max starts, quickly introducing Lando and Y/N.

“You are going to lose so bad, Norris,” she says.

“Oh I see, we’re already starting the trash talking,” he retorts. “Haven’t even started the game yet.”

“That’s half the fun, isn’t it? Are we also going to play Mario Kart after this, just to see if Lando has what it takes to beat me on there?” Y/N asks eagerly, turning to Max.

“No fucking way, you always cheat!” Lando exclaims, with Y/N heard protesting in the background. “No I don’t, I just use the shortcuts that exist in the game! That is legitimate!”

(...)

“Birdie gets a birdie,” Lando cheers, though Max quickly chides him for encouraging the competition. “What? It’s not like she’s going to do it again, she’s terrible at this game,” Lando adds, motioning at the otherwise abysmal golf score that Y/N’s Mii character has racked up.

“Hey! She is right here, and she is currently in the lead after winning the bowling and tennis already.”

(...)

“Do you feel good about beating up a girl?” Y/N pouts, after losing the boxing match between her and Lando. He immediately makes a face, spluttering out an indignant “no!” that elicits a laugh from Y/N.

“Alright, that’s enough from both of you. With Lando’s win, it’s now tied again with only baseball to go. We’ll allow you both to consult your coach before starting this next round.”

They both turn to their coach for the day, one of the other Quadrant members, before taking their places – Wii Remote and Nunchuk in hand.

“You ready?

“Ready,” they nod, looking incredibly competitive. They even try and push each other to mess up their scores, devolving into a tickle fight halfway through. “No, Y/N stop, stop, I can’t - I’m crying,” Lando laughs, face red with tears streaming down his face.

“Does that mean I win?” She looks up from where she’d all but tackled Lando onto the ground, but then Max just shakes his head.

“It’s very close – but you’ve got one more pitch to go. You’re gonna need to let Lando hit it, or at least try to.” As soon as the words come out of his mouth, he blanches. Y/N rolls her eyes but starts uncontrollably giggling nonetheless.

“I regretted it as soon as I said it,” Max apologises profusely, but the camera zooms in on Lando who’s trying to hide his face behind both his hands, wheezing as Y/N tries to stand up and compose herself. Once they’ve finally managed to continue, it’s Lando who has the tiniest edge over Y/N.

“Ugh, well. This better not be a bad omen for me this season, but I guess I’d quite like to see you win the championship, Norris.”

“That’s actually very sweet,” he slings his arm around Y/N’s waist, then cracks open the champagne and pours it out over the two of them, with Y/N shrieking loudly at the cold, stickiness.

"So glad that's not part of tennis traditions."

4th week of February, 2025

[Excerpt Exit Press Conference]

“BBC Sport here. Your track record on hard court against Iga is not the best, now with 4 wins and 5 losses. How does that affect your training moving forward?

"Well, it was really close – so I feel like those type of numbers don’t really mean that much when it comes down to just a handful of winners or errors. Iga and I have played each other quite often, and she’s just an incredibly strong player. There’s a reason she’s had a long run at #1 and has returned to that spot for now.

In terms of training, I mean, we’re moving to gravel soon so it’s a completely different ballgame. Literally. We might run into each other again at Indian Wells, so of course we’ll come up with a plan – but my focus is already shifting towards the next Grand Slam, to be honest.”

Question from ViaPlay. Indian Wells is of course known for being the Grand Slam of the West and it’s one of the few 1000s tours where both ATP and WTA players meet. Last year, you entered into the mixed doubles with your then partner. Is that something you’d consider doing again in the future?

"Thanks for the question, but no. I’m playing singles, I’m not ready to mingle – I’m ready to pringle."

Will you actually have time to pringle, as you say? Or is it straight back to training for you?

"I’m going to spend a few days just hanging out, especially because I now have an extra day off all of a sudden. So I’ll try to make the most of that, then switch gears. Thanks."

A/N: Hope this uploads from the airport!! lol - next part coming March 14th, featuring Indian Wells, an interview faux-pas by Y/N, and of course some very fast cars 👀 part iii available here now

♥ likes, comments, reblogs are always very much appreciated ♥

taglist: @linnygirl09 @julesbog @midnight-and-books @sarx164 @obxstiles @freyathehuntress @vhkdncu2ei8997 @berrnuu @lightdragonrayne

[serafilms]

the golden quartet

art donaldson x reader, slight tashi duncan x reader, slight patrick zweig x reader, wc: 2k

author’s note: basically just a way less toxic (?) version of the movie with the reader inserted. they’re all still incredibly codependent and tashi/reader are very much in love and art/patrick are very much in love and art/tashi have their own kind of friendship/relationship and so do patrick/reader, but really patrick and tashi are one couple, art and reader are another couple, but like they would all live together and probably sleep in the same bed hypothetically. but in a healthy way. i like to imagine a world where they’re all codependent but skip all the “villain” allegations in their mess, and it’s just a beautiful unspoken symphony of love and four-way fidelity and infidelity. will probably write more in this universe.

part two here

“Tashi, stop it.”

Tashi stops and her eyes lock in on you, racket dropping to her side. “Stop what?”

You watch the way she bounces the ball a few times and don’t miss the way her gaze keeps flitting to your hand.

“Stop analysing me.”

She lifts a shoulder in a shrug, and doesn’t break your gaze. “It’s my job to analyse the opponent so I know how to win the game.”

“Yeah, but you’re not looking at me like an opponent.” Your lips purse. “You’re looking at me like you’re trying to calculate how to get me back on the court.”

“You’re on the court right now, aren’t you?”

“You know what I mean, Tashi.” Your racket falls to the court exasperatedly and you manage a step towards the net. “It’s over for me, I’m done playing tennis and I’m okay with that, but I’m not sure that you are.”

There’s just a tiny quiver in her eyes before her gaze steels itself again and she nods. “Fine. I get it.”

She tosses you the ball. “Just help me train.”

You watch as Tashi gets into position, and pick up your racket slowly. Maybe you shouldn’t have snapped at her. You so rarely do, but you’ve closed the door on that chapter of your life now, and you’re sick of her trying to pry it open. You don’t want possibilities of what you could have had. You don’t want to put in more years just to watch yourself fail at something you never really liked in the first place.

There’s a dull ache in your chest as you serve the ball.

Tashi Duncan has been your best friend for five years. For the life of you, you can’t remember the details of the tournament you were at, but you had a game against her. It was electrifying. You’d never played tennis like that before. It felt like you’d never known what it was like to breathe before Tashi Duncan. She basically crushed you, but you managed to get in a good few points, had the audience and line judges on the edge of their seats, and at the end of it, when you shook her hand, you felt like you’d just discovered a missing limb.

She found you afterwards in the stands and sat with you to spectate the next few matches. And hadn’t let you go since. You couldn’t imagine a life without Tashi. She was there for your first boyfriend, she was there when you broke up with him, she was there when you failed a class and your parents threatened to pull you out of tennis, and she was there when your wrist shattered and you quit.

Tashi never really understood why it was so easy for you to walk away. “You’re one of the best,” “You have so much potential,” “You can learn to play with your other hand.”

She never seemed to hear you when you said you didn’t want to play anymore. She’d look at you, with her piercing gaze then look away and move on. But the conversation was never over. It was like you didn’t exist to her without tennis, like it was your one achievement, and she couldn’t gauge who you were without it.

You suppose you were flattered, touched even, that she cared so much about you, in her own weird way.

Tashi looks at you questioningly when you lower your racket. You smile, “You should rest up. Your drills are perfect. You’re gonna crush her tomorrow.”

She takes a look at her watch, then nods. You can tell she wants to stay longer, but there’s really no reason to. Especially when you can feel her itching for a real match. That you can’t give her.

You bump her shoulder as the two of you walk out. “Wanna grab some donuts?”

The unimpressed face she gives you makes you laugh. “Come on, we can get you one of those healthy ones. The gluten-free, vegan bullshit.”

“Sounds delicious,” she drawls, but makes no further comments. You grin. A success.

She says nothing as you swing your borderline crippled arm over her shoulder, but you feel her muscles underneath relax just a little bit.

The following day brings a new round of pretentious young assholes on the court. Some of them eye you up as you make your way into the bleachers, whispering to each other. A girl comes up to you and asks for a picture. You’re a little surprised, and feel a little blindsided, but you suppose it’s only been a year since your injury. And well, considering where you are right now, it sure does seem to the rest of the world like you’re not fully done with tennis.

“Yeah, no problem,” you say with a smile.

The girl takes the picture, thanks you profusely then leaves, and you make your way up to the bleachers, and find a nice spot in the middle. Tashi liked you to be right in the middle of the game so you could watch her and her opponent. You wonder if she’s secretly preparing you to become an umpire.

There’s a flurry of whispers all too close to you, and then there’s a shadow blocking the sun to your left.

Two boys stand facing you, staring at you with their mouths slightly agape. You can’t help the amused smile that splits your face.

“Can I help you?”

The brunet snaps back into reality first. “Sorry, we were just— are you Y/N L/N?”

“Yeah, I am,” you say, eyes flitting between the two. They’re cute. Really cute.

The blond shakes his head slightly, like he’s coming out of a trance, and says, “Sorry, this is just the first time we’ve seen or heard about you since….you know.”

He winces, and his head ducks a little like a scolded puppy. “Sorry to hear about that, by the way.”

You let out a laugh that seems to catch his attention again. His friend jabs him in the side with his elbow. “Oh, don’t worry about it, seriously. It’s been a year, I’m over it.”

“Huh,” he says, nodding a little absently. He glances to the brunet, who’s just grinning at him. “Um, by the way, we’re—“

“Art Donaldson and Patrick Zweig, right?”

The blond, Art, looks a little speechless.

Patrick chimes in. “Yeah, that’s us.”

“I watched your game just before. That was quite some victory celebration.”

The way Art’s ears turn red makes you happier than you’d like to admit. There’s a little flip in your stomach as he fumbles, “Yeah, well…”

There’s a flurry of movement as Patrick puts his arm around Art’s neck and pulls him impossibly close in a one armed hug. “Social conduct’s not gonna get in the way of me celebrating with my boy.”

The blond leans away and fights to get Patrick off him, and you smile as you watch. “Don’t worry, it was cute. Plus, I get it. We’re sort of the same way sometimes when it comes to victories. I mean, not the same, but you know.”

That seems to catch Patrick’s attention. “By we, do you mean you and—“

“Tashi Duncan!”

The announcement rings loud and clear through the speakers as she walks onto the court.

It’s almost comical the way Patrick’s jaw goes slack and he slumps onto the seat behind him.

You watch as Tashi waves at her screaming fans, shoots her winning smiles and makes her way to her side. She catches your gaze for a moment and you nod. She looks away and begins to stretch, but you’re not bothered. She knows you’re here, and that’s all you need. Can’t try and take Tashi Duncan out of the zone.

As you sit down, you’re a little surprised to find Art mirroring the action, still looking at you. “So, you’re best friends with Tashi Duncan?”

You nod. “Since we were like, thirteen.”

“Oh wow,” his eyes widen and you can’t help but think how impossibly cute he looks, “that’s almost how long Patrick and I have been friends.”

“Really? Oh, wow.” There’s a beat of silence, just long enough for you to catch each other’s eye and look away with awkward giggles.

Luckily, that’s when the match starts. And your focus locks in.

“COME ON!” Tashi’s scream is palpable in the air.

It feels like the wind has been knocked out of you. You’ve heard it a million times before, but it never fails to strike you.

There’s something akin to awe in Patrick’s eyes. Art looks like he’s in disbelief.

You can’t help but agree with their faces.

“So, are you guys coming to the party tonight?”

Patrick’s eyes flit away from Tashi’s to look at you. “Yeah, we were just talking about earlier. Art was saying how excited he was. He just loves parties.”

You can’t quite decipher the smirk on his face, but he looks like the kind of guy who’s never up to any good, so you turn to Art expectantly.

His eyes meet yours and your stomach does another little flip as he says, “Yeah, I’ll— we’ll be there.”

“Cool,” you reply. “I’ll see you guys later, then.”

You manage one quick glance back as you walk away, and see Patrick grinning and shaking Art’s shoulders. A smile plays at the corner of your lips and you leave.

Tashi finds you at your agreed-upon meeting spot, and wastes no time in grabbing your hand. “Come on.”

“Don’t you need to take pictures with your trophy?”

“Got a few, they’ll take more at the Adidas party. We’ve got to get ready.”

There’s a warm feeling like sunlight dancing in your chest as you let her drag you away.

The party is in full swing by the time you finally spot Art Donaldson and Patrick Zweig lurking in the corner of the yard.

You’d just stepped off the dance floor for a moment, telling Tashi you were going to get another drink. The two boys seem to be arguing about something, but as you close the distance, you can see that they’re grinning too.

“Hey,” you greet the two. Their heads turn towards you in unison and they both stand up straight.

“Hi,” they chorus.

You take a sip of your drink as your eyes flit between the two. “So….what are you guys doing all the way over here?”

“You know,” Art says dryly. “Just enjoying the ambience.”

(Cute and funny. Man, you’re screwed).

“It’s a lot less creepy if you actually talk to her instead of just staring at her.” Your words are directed at Patrick, whose eyebrows shoot up. A smirk falls on his face. His charm instantly covers up the awkwardness.

Art barks out a laugh. (It’s a sound you wish you could inscribe in your mind).

“What makes you think I’m here for her?” Patrick smirks, looking you up and down. It’s so clearly a deflection, but it feels so natural that you can’t help but smile, and you feel your cheeks warm just a tad.

You glance back at the dance floor, and see Tashi excuse herself, glancing at you as she goes for her drink. You reach over to pat him on the shoulder. “Come on, I’ll help you out.”

As you turn on your heel and walk towards Tashi, you hear a slap behind you and an, “Ow!”

“Tashi!” The smile in your voice is audible as she looks up.

“Hey,” she smiles back.

Then, her head tilts to the side and she looks at the boys. “Hi.”

“Hi,” they both say.

There’s a quiet moment in which you all exchange looks, a twinkle in each of your eyes. You can almost feel a spark of something in the air, and suddenly you’re thirteen years old again, meeting Tashi for the first time. Like another puzzle piece has finally fallen into place.

You feel your chest warm. If only you knew what your life was about to become.

[fruitjoos]

It happened in middle school. The moment that loser muttered, “It was just a prank,” you knew—you were unlovable. Your existence was nothing more than cheap laughs and cruel jokes for others to toss around. It didn’t matter that for the next four years, the kindest souls would practically worship the ground you walked on. You never believed them. Not again.

In your opinion, all men were stupid. That included your small circle of friends from your freshman year at Stanford. You could understand why Tashi Duncan broke up with him. Honestly, she was the epitome of class. What knocked her screws loose enough to let him tear through her perfect little life in the first place, you had no idea. You watched as she and Art closed the nonexistent space Patrick had left behind, moving as if he had never existed. Like they didn’t care that he ever had.

It was sad.

Almost as pathetic as Patrick glueing himself to your side for the next eighteen months.

Whenever he visited campus, he followed you on quick grocery runs, camped out in your dorm while you studied, and sometimes, you’d come back to find your CD collection arranged alphabetically, your bed neatly made, or your laundry folded on your desk chair. You felt bad. So bad. You pitied him.

Just as you were settling into bed, ready to crack open your notes, he knocked. You let him in, watching as he shuffled through his bag, raving about some movie he’d bought for the Friday night tradition you’d fallen into.

“Can’t do movie night tonight,” you said, flipping through your textbook. You had a test on Monday.

You could tell he was falling for you. But you wouldn’t budge. And he noticed.

Yet instead of realizing you weren’t interested, he convinced himself he was the problem.

Patrick never said it out loud, but you could see it—the way his shoulders tensed whenever you brushed him off, the way his excitement dulled whenever you told him you were busy. He never complained, never asked for more than what you were willing to give. Instead, he tried harder.

He stayed longer.

He became a fixture in your life without you even realizing it.

At first, it was convenient. Having someone around who knew how you took your coffee, who grabbed your favorite snacks without asking, who could exist in your space without demanding too much from you. But then, it became exhausting. Because Patrick wasn’t just there. He was waiting. For what, you weren’t sure.

Maybe for you to finally look at him the way you once looked at Art. Maybe for you to say yes instead of I can’t tonight. Maybe for you to admit that all the time you spent together meant something more than just habit.

But it didn’t.

At least, not to you.

And yet, every Friday, he still showed up with a new movie. Every weekend, he still found a reason to stay. And every time you let him in, you knew, he was getting his hopes up for something that was never going to happen.

One Friday, just like every other, Patrick made his way to your dorm, a new DVD tucked under his arm. He was mid knock when he heard your voice, laughing, casual, the way you always were when you didn’t think he was around.

“He’s just so clingy.”

Patrick’s hand froze inches from the door.

“Like, it’s kind of pathetic at this point. He follows me everywhere.”

“He doesn’t have anything else going on,” Art chimed in, ever the instigator.

Tashi hummed in agreement. “I mean… it’s sad. He needs a life.”

Patrick didn’t stick around. His stomach twisted, embarrassment curdling in his chest like spoiled milk. He turned on his heel and walked away, the DVD still clutched in his hand.

You thought he was clingy? You thought he had nothing else going on?

He didn’t know what hurt more, the fact that you said it, or the fact that you were right.

That night, he didn’t text. He didn’t show up the next day either.

For the first time in eighteen months, he tried to figure out what his life looked like without you at the center of it.

Tennis. He could go back to that. Try to get on the ATP tour again, even if it meant swallowing his pride. If that didn’t work, maybe he’d get a job, something, anything to make it seem like he wasn’t just orbiting around you, waiting for some kind of purpose.

Because apparently, waiting on you made him pathetic.

Patrick tried. He really did.

He filled out applications, half heartedly scrolling through job listings like any of them would ever compare to being around you. He picked up his racket again, muscle memory guiding him through serves and volleys, but it didn’t feel the same. His body was there, but his mind?

It was with you.

He found himself lingering outside your dorm, fingers flexing at his sides, debating whether to knock. He told himself he was just passing by. Just happened to be in the area. But the truth was, staying away from you felt worse than the embarrassment of knowing what you really thought of him.

So he caved.

One knock, then two.

You opened the door, surprised, blinking at him like you weren’t expecting to see him again. Like you had noticed his absence.

“Hey,” you said, voice soft like butter.

And just like that, he was right back where he started.