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pitlanepeach · 22 days ago

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Radio Silence | Chapter Forty

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

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

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, pregnancy, strong language, slight smut, a bit of general anxiety.

Notes — Welcome to Miami!!!!!

2024 (Miami—Imola)

The McLaren garage was quiet in that early-morning lull before the chaos. Screens still black. Tyres covered. Mechanics nursing coffees and stretching into the day. Amelia stood just inside the halo of overhead lights, hands on her hips, watching her car, her car, come alive in pieces.

The floor gleamed with fresh resin. The side-pods were lean, smooth, seamless in their curvature. The front wing was finally the right spec; the airflow data had confirmed it. The new floor geometry played nicer with the updated rear suspension. The whole package, finally cohesive.

It had taken months of pushing. Quiet conversations. Brutal ones. Drawings on the back of napkins, pacing in her kitchen at 2am. And it was all here now, carbon and copper and logic made real.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just circled the car slowly, one hand brushing against the wing mirror, the leading edge of the nose, the curve of the intake. Reverent, almost.

Tom stood a few feet back, sipping from a thermal mug. He was always nearby at the moment; watching and learning. “Looks different,” he said.

Amelia nodded. “This is the car I designed from the beginning. No compromises. No shortcuts.” She crouched beside the floor, fingers tracing the sculpted undercut, the exact shape she’d fought for. “We’ve been patch-working upgrades onto old foundations. But this; this is a clean slate. It’s mine. Finally.”

“So it’s ready?” He asked.

She looked up at him, eyes sharp. “Yeah. It’s ready to win.”

Lando ducked into the garage then, still in joggers and a hoodie, yawning around a protein bar. He caught her eye, then stopped mid-step. “Holy shit.”

Amelia nodded.

He stepped closer, hands in his pockets. Studied the car with wide eyes, taking in every minor adjustment, every small change that’d somehow made the entire car look different. Meaner.

“It looks fast.” He breathed.

“It is.”

He turned toward her, something quiet in his expression. “You happy?”

Amelia didn’t blink. “I’m relieved. Now it’ll do exactly what I designed it to do.”

Oscar wandered in a moment later, eyebrows lifting when he saw the chassis. “Oh shit, this the final spec?”

“The one I promised you both,” Amelia muttered.

Oscar grinned, circling the nose. “Looks like a weapon.”

Amelia hummed. “That’s because it is. All the patchwork’s gone. This weekend, you’ll both be driving the car I built for you from the ground up.”

Tom, now beside her, tapped his pen against his notebook. “You going to name it?”

Amelia looked at him like he’d grown two heads. “It already has a name — and that name has my initials in it anyway. Why would I give it another name?”

Oscar shrugged. “I name my chassis something new every weekend.”

“That’s because you’re weird.” She told him.

But later, when they were running race simulations and Lando had slipped out for media, she sat alone beside Oscar’s car, one hand resting lightly on the side-pod. Just for a second. And under her breath, too soft for anyone to hear: “Don’t let me down.”

Because it was all here now; her vision, her work, her legacy in motion.

And in Miami, for the first time all year, she was finally going to see her car on track.

—

Even in Miami, the F1 Academy paddock felt smaller. Tighter-knit. Less spectacle, more steel. It reminded Amelia of the early days she’d watched on flickering TV screens—before race suits were tailored, before engineers had agents. When she’d been three feet tall and already knew more about car setup than most of the men working on them.

She walked beside Susie, the low hum of tyre warmers and generators buzzing faintly underfoot. The air smelled like brake dust and fuel. It smelled like home.

“You don’t get much spare time,” Susie said, glancing down at the curve of Amelia’s bump beneath her papaya hoodie. “So thanks for making this one count.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Amelia said, eyes scanning the compact garages. “These girls are the future of motorsport.”

A mechanic rolled a jack across their path. A knot of young drivers stood nearby, still in their fireproofs, talking fast, voices tight with nerves.

Susie called one over. “Chloe. Come here a sec.”

Chloe Chambers jogged over, ponytail bouncing, already grinning like she knew exactly who Amelia was.

“Amelia Norris,” Susie said, pride softening her voice. “Meet Chloe. One of our brightest. She’s been dying to pick your brain.”

Chloe stuck out a hand, eyes wide. “I’ve watched every onboard from Oscar since you started working with him. And you basically built this year’s McLaren, right?”

Amelia glanced at the hand, winced, then gave a small shrug. “Built it. Argued over it. Cried about it once or twice. So—yes.”

Chloe lit up, dropped her hand like she didn’t even register the rejection. “I want to do what you do. I mean—I want to drive first. But also understand the car. Maybe even design one. Someday.”

Amelia's smile tugged sideways, something more serious behind it. “Then don’t let anyone tell you to choose. You don’t have to.”

A few more girls wandered over—Doriane, Abbi, Maya. One asked if it was true she’d rewritten part of the ride height algorithm in the middle of the night, thanks to pregnancy nausea.

“It’s true,” she said dryly. “Wouldn’t recommend it. I couldn’t stand the smell of carbon fibre for three days.”

They laughed, young, high, unfiltered, and something eased in her chest. She didn’t feel like a figurehead here. Not a myth. Just one of them. Older, yes. Blunter, definitely. But still part of it.

“Do you still get nervous?” One asked. “Being Oscar’s engineer?”

“No,” Amelia said. “But sometimes, I get… quiet before an upgrade. Or a tough strategy call. But I trust the hours I put in. That’s how you survive in this job—you trust the work, then you trust yourself.”

They asked for a photo. She said yes.

Afterwards, stepping back into the heat and light, Amelia felt something shift beneath her ribs. Not the baby. Something else.

“These girls,” she murmured. “They’re so—”

“Ready,” Susie finished. “They just need someone to show them what’s possible.”

Amelia looked down at her belly. The baby kicked once, low and firm. She wondered—would her daughter want this one day? The speed. The noise. The risk.

Would she want her to?

She didn’t know.

But she knew this: she wanted the door to be open. And she wanted it to stay that way.

“Well,” Amelia said, eyes back on the track. “Let’s make sure the road stays clear.”

Susie nodded, a quiet kind of promise in her voice. “That’s exactly why we’re here.”

—

The room was dark.

Not pitch-black—just enough light from the closed blinds to trace the edges of things. A spare media suite deep in the team hospitality unit, soundproofed from the bustle outside. Cold air whispered from the vents overhead.

Amelia sat curled up on the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn to her chest. Her hoodie sleeves were pulled down over her hands. In her lap, she twisted the stim toy between her fingers: click, roll, flip, snap. Again. Again. Again.

Her morning had unravelled in that invisible way it sometimes did. Nothing catastrophic—just too many voices, too many schedule changes, someone touching her shoulder without warning. The wrong texture on the cutlery at breakfast. The wrong smell in the paddock. She’d swallowed it all down with a brittle smile until she couldn’t anymore. Now the inside of her head felt raw and overlit, and only silence helped.

Click. Roll. Flip. Snap.

The door opened.

Soft, slow. No bright light flooding in. Just a narrow slice of hallway glow and a silhouette. Lando.

He didn’t say anything. He just stepped inside, closed the door again behind him. Let the dark settle. He moved quietly, then sat beside her, legs stretched out, shoulder to shoulder with hers.

A beat later, the door creaked again. Oscar this time.

She didn’t look up, but she knew him by the shape of his walk, the subtle way he moved like he was trying not to wake a sleeping cat. He settled on her other side, crossed-legged, just close enough to touch but not quite.

Nobody spoke.

Amelia kept clicking. Rolling. Flipping. Snapping.

And slowly, her breathing evened out.

Lando reached over and gently brushed his fingers across the back of her hand. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. She let him. Then let her head tilt sideways until it rested lightly on his shoulder.

Oscar stayed quiet, respectful in that way he always was with her—like he got it, even if he didn’t always understand. He just existed beside her, like a grounding point.

The toy made a soft clack as she turned it over again, her fingers finding the rhythm she liked best. The baby shifted inside her, low and firm. She exhaled slowly.

They weren’t talking. They weren’t asking her what she needed. They just were. Present. Patient. Steady.

It hit her, then, with quiet force: how deeply she was loved. Just… for being.

She blinked hard. One tear, maybe two. Nothing dramatic. Just the kind that came when the pressure released, even just a little.

Click. Roll. Flip. Snap.

Lando rested a hand on her hip, tracing soft circles on the red, itchy stretch marks. Oscar leaned his head against the wall, eyes closed, humming something tuneless under his breath.

Amelia let the dark hold all three of them.

And she knew that soon, she’d feel okay again.

—

Amelia had gone out for air.

That was the plan, anyway—just ten quiet minutes away from the structured chaos of media day. No cameras, no questions. Just walking, hoodie on, head down, hands in her pockets.

But somewhere along the paddock hospitality row, she saw them—six or seven VIP fans lingering near the McLaren garage, lanyards bright, eyes wide, trying not to look starstruck and failing. Most of them were young women. One had a notebook. Another had made her own earrings out of mini DRS wings. A third was nervously adjusting the hem of her papaya windbreaker.

They saw her before she could disappear.

“Hi—sorry—Amelia?”

She could’ve smiled and nodded and kept walking. Instead, she stopped. “Yes,” she said. “Hello. You’re not supposed to be standing there. You’ll block the tyre trolleys.”

One of them blurted, “You’re, like… kind of our hero.”

Amelia blinked at them. “Why?”

Which made them all laugh awkwardly.

“I mean,” the DRS earring girl said, “you built the car. Everyone knows it. You’re the reason we’re consistently getting podiums again.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Amelia said bluntly. “But thank you.”

The girl with the notebook held it out. “Could I maybe ask you a few questions? Just for fun?”

Amelia glanced around. There was a patch of artificial turf by the hospitality tents where a drinks cooler sat forgotten. No cameras. No execs. No schedule.

“Fine,” she said. “But I want to sit down. And I want something to eat.”

Fifteen minutes later, Amelia was cross-legged on a grassy patch, a fizzy drink in one hand and a half-eaten granola bar in the other, surrounded by a semicircle of fascinated girls. Someone had scrounged up crisps and trail mix from a hospitality unit. It was, essentially, a picnic.

She’d taken a napkin and a pen and was now drawing vortex flows and side-pod shapes in clean, confident lines, explaining how turbulent air off the front wing could be used as a tool, not just a nuisance.

“People always think air is the enemy,” she said. “It’s not. It’s a language. And if you understand what it’s saying, the car will behave for you.”

Someone gasped. Someone else scribbled furiously. One girl offered Amelia a gummy bear, which she accepted without breaking eye contact from the diagram.

“Do you… want your daughter to be an engineer too?” One asked, softly.

Amelia paused. “I want her to believe that she can be anything she wants to be.”

That was when Lando found her.

He was coming from an interview and nearly missed the scene entirely. Then he spotted her—Amelia, sitting in the middle of the grass like a camp counsellor or a pre-school teacher, surrounded by fans who all looked like they were in total and utter awe of her.

Oscar arrived seconds later. “Is this… what’s going on?”

“I think it’s a cult,” Lando whispered. “My wife has created a cult and she is their leader.”

One of the girls spotted them and nudged the others. The whole circle turned.

“Oh. Hi,” Amelia said, gesturing vaguely to them. “They asked me about ground effect. I got carried away.”

Lando sat down beside her without a word. Oscar followed, grabbing a crisp from the communal bowl like this was all perfectly normal.

“We’re learning,” Oscar said solemnly. “Let’s not interrupt the professor, Lando.”

One of the girls burst into laughter. Amelia handed her the napkin diagram and grinned.

And there, in the middle of a media day she’d meant to escape, Amelia Norris held court not to journalists or executives; but to the next generation. Bright-eyed. Hungry to learn. Eager to belong.

—

Later, Lando slipped an arm around Amelia’s shoulders.

“So,” he said, voice light but steady, “when our daughter’s old enough, do we risk teaching her about vortex generators and having her build a wind tunnel in our bathroom?”

Amelia rolled her eyes, resting her head against his chest. “Who knows? She might put us all out of a job.”

He laughed softly. “She’ll definitely get your brains.”

“And your stubbornness.” She gave him a sidelong look. “And adrenaline addiction.”

“Great combo.”

They walked slowly back toward the garage.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“If she wanted to race,” Amelia started, her hand moving instinctively to her hip, “would you want that for her?”

Lando scrunched his nose, bit his lip. “God. Uh…” He paused, searching her eyes. “I’d be worried. Not happy about it, but if it’s what she wanted, I’d make it happen.”

She studied him. “You’d make it happen even if it made you unhappy?”

“Worried,” he corrected gently. “Worried sick, probably. I’ve crashed, seen the worst of it. You know how dangerous this sport is. Would you be okay with it?”

She shrugged. “I’d tell her the risks, the stats. Karting? Sure. But racing professionally… I don’t know.” She hesitated, voice quieter. “I don’t know.”

Lando cupped her cheek. “It’s okay not to know yet.”

“I don’t know,” she repeated, staring into his eyes as panic fluttered beneath her skin. “Why don’t I know? I should.”

He pulled her close, voice low. “It doesn’t work like that, baby. I’m sorry.”

She sniffled, clutching his shirt. “Parenting is already hard and she isn’t even born yet.”

“Yeah,” Lando agreed, with a shaky kind of inhale. “Yeah.”

—

Amelia sat on the couch in their hotel room, fiddling with her stim toy, brow furrowed. The past few weeks had been… confusing. She knew about pregnancy hormones, but this sudden surge in her sex drive? That was new and confusing territory.

Lando entered the room, carrying a glass of water. He caught her eye and smiled, but there was a flicker of something (nervousness?) in his gaze.

“You okay?” He asked, voice a bit higher than usual.

Amelia bit her lip. “Can I ask you something?”

He nodded quickly, almost too quickly.

“Is it… normal to suddenly want sex all the time? Like, nonstop?” Her voice was blunt but uncertain. ‘I’m nervous to look it up in-case weird stuff comes up.”

Lando’s face flushed, and he scratched the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at her. “Uh, yeah. Totally normal. Second trimester… hormones and all that.” He cleared his throat. “Not that I’m complaining.”

Amelia blinked, surprised by his sudden heat.

Lando shifted closer, cheeks still pink. “I mean, it’s… well, you’re pretty irresistible right now.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Irresistible?”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah. So, uh… we can make you feel better, if you want?”

Before she could respond, he leaned in, brushing his lips lightly against hers. The kiss was soft but full of promise, and Amelia’s heart sped up in that familiar way; equal parts surprise and warmth.

When they parted, Lando grinned sheepishly. “You want to?”

Amelia stared at him. “Yeah. Now. And then again a few more times. And tomorrow morning before we go to the track.”

He stared at her for a beat before he smiled wide, sharp little fangs and all.

—

Amelia lay awake.

Her head rested on Lando’s chest, his hand soft against the curve of her belly. His breathing was slow, steady, familiar. She could feel the faint shift of it under her cheek.

She stared at the ceiling, fingers tracing idle circles over the sheets.

She hadn’t expected to want him like that. Not with this body — not now, not so much. And yet…

Flashes of the night flickered across her mind like bright sparks.

Lando’s laugh, half-muffled against her neck.

His voice, rough, whispering, “You sure? You’re sure?”

The way he’d kissed the inside of her wrist every time.

Her hoodie halfway off, clumsily caught around her elbows.

The sound she made when he touched her lower back — sharp, surprised.

His thumb brushing gently over her bump, reverent. “Hi, baby,” he’d whispered, “Your mum’s kind of a goddess.”

She blushed in the dark just thinking about it.

But what stuck with her most wasn’t the heat — it was how seen she felt. How known. How safe.

She’d spent most of her life learning to translate herself for the world. She thought that’s what relationships would always have to be — filtering, explaining, shrinking things down.

But with Lando, she had never once had to do that.

He read the pauses in her voice like she would read telemetry. Felt her silences without trying to explain. Met her confusion with patience, not pity. Anticipated the needs she hadn’t even decoded herself yet.

She tilted her head, studying him in the quiet.

She hadn’t just fallen in love with him all those year ago.

She’d grown into love with him — steady, real, elemental.

And somehow, impossibly, he kept giving her more reasons to love him even more.

She pressed a kiss to his chest, so soft he didn’t stir.

Then closed her eyes, finally ready to sleep.

—

The bathroom lights were aggressively bright for how little sleep Amelia had gotten.

She was perched on the closed toilet lid, sleep-shirt inside out, bump resting on her thighs, and a toothbrush in her mouth. Her phone leaned against a half-used roll of toilet paper on the counter, and Pietra’s face filled the screen, already smirking.

“You look like you’ve been run over,” Pietra said with wide eyes.

Amelia spat into the sink. “I had sex for four hours straight last night.”

Pietra choked on her iced coffee. “Good morning, mami.”

Amelia shrugged like she was reporting on tyre deg. “Hormones.”

“Second trimester hitting like DRS on the main straight, huh?”

She nodded seriously. “It’s physiological. There’s blood flow redistribution and heightened sensitivity in—”

“Stop,” Pietra laughed. “You can’t do the engineering breakdown of your sex life.”

Amelia grinned, a little proud. “I definitely can. Do you want to see my graphs?”

“No graphs.Please. No vibes. How’s Lando coping?”

“Hydrated. Exhausted. Still asleep,” she said, brushing through her tangled hair. “He kept making these noises like he couldn’t believe what was happening.”

Pietra chuckled. “Yeah, he’s down bad for you, my girl.”

“I know,” Amelia said. “He, like, kept kissing my wrist.”

“Amelia. Please.”

“No, like he held it and did it twice.”

There was a pause.

Pietra blinked slowly. “That’s so sweet.”

“He made me feel like myself again.” She flushed.

Pietra was quiet, her smile gentler now. “Because you are.”

Amelia nodded once. “He’s also half-worried that our daughter might invent a bathtub wind tunnel.”

“Oh God,” Pietra said, grinning again. “That little girl is going to make him go grey. I hope she cuts up her dolls and builds a diffuser from their severed limbs.”

“She won’t have dolls.” Amelia said dryly. “She’ll have CFD software.” Even though her tone was flat, the twitch of her lips betrayed her joke.

Pietra laughed. Amelia finished tying her hair into a low, slightly messy ponytail. A streak of sunlight cut through the window, warming the tiles beneath her feet.

“I should go,” she said. “Track walk in forty-five minutes.”

“Tell Lando I said ‘well done’.”

Amelia rolled her eyes. “No. That’s weird.”

“You love me anyway!”

Amelia ended the call and stared at herself in the mirror for a second.

Messy. Flushed. A little wild-looking.

Entirely herself.

And deeply, deeply loved.

—

The heat shimmered off the asphalt in waves, the whole paddock buzzing with anticipation. Miami was loud, chaotic, full of pastel shirts and bass-heavy DJ sets; but the McLaren garage felt like a storm waiting to break.

Amelia had one hand on Oscar’s halo as he settled into the car. Focused. Calm. Starting fourth on the grid. It was a good starting position, but they both knew it wasn’t going to be an easy climb through the field — if they even managed to keep their position into turn one.

“Conditions are fine. Brakes might take a while to come in. Let the tyres come to you.”

Oscar looked up at her, half-grinning under his visor. “And if I don’t?”

“I’ll scream at you over the radio for being annoying and not listening to me.”

He laughed. “As usual.”

She patted the car once, stepped back, and moved to her tiny little thrown-together desk just as Lando passed her on his way to climb into his car. His hand grabbed her back. Their eyes met. He gave her a look; small, private, thrilling. The kind of look that said: I think today is the day.

She nodded once. Just once.

She’d believed in him for years now — since before Sochi, since before he’d even been given the full-time McLaren seat.

He was capable of incredible things.

—

The first 20 laps were a blur of strategy juggling and telemetry surges. Amelia was locked into Oscar’s race; managing his energy deployment, traffic, undercut threats.

He was driving sharp. But something wasn’t sticking.

A slow pit stop on Lap 32 killed their momentum. They dropped back into traffic. She clenched her jaw, recalculated in seconds, called Plan C.

“Ducky, don’t lose steam. We’re still in this for good points. Head down.”

“Copy,” he said, clipped. Frustrated, but fighting.

But further up the field, Lando was flying.

And then there was the safety car.

Chaos. All improper preparation and garages rushing.

And then Lando exited the pits. And he hadn’t just made up a few positions — he’d taken the lead.

The garage erupted. Amelia nearly stood up from her station. She felt it before the numbers confirmed it — Lando was about to win his first Grand Prix.

She could barely breathe.

—

Oscar crossed the line P6. Solid points. Not what they hoped for, but not failure.

But Lando…

Lando held off Max for the last five laps like his life depended on it. No mistakes. Just pure, blistering pace and nerves of steel.

And then—

“Lando Norris. That’s P1. You are a Formula One race winner!”

Will’s words cracked through the comms.

The garage exploded.

Amelia didn’t move.

She sat frozen, one hand over her mouth, the other gripping the edge of the console like it would float her back to earth.

He’d done it.

Finally.

No more self-doubt. No more what-ifs.

Lando won.

Her husband, who stayed up with her until 3am looking at ride height data; had won.

And he did it in the car she built for him.

"We did it, Will. Amelia — baby, we did it. We did it!" He said over the radio.

The first race it was fully her spec — and sure, they’d gotten ‘lucky’ with the safety-car, but luck was insubstantial. His pace said it all.

He’d won. And he’d won by a mile.

—

The moment she found him in Parc Ferme, still helmeted, still breathless, still shocked, she ran.

Not far; just to the holding area, where only a few people were allowed. But she was McLaren’s lead engineer. She was also his wife.

She had every right.

He turned and saw her and the helmet came off in one swoop.

His face was flushed, eyes red-rimmed, disbelieving.

She launched into his arms and he caught her without hesitation, arms around her waist, face buried in her shoulder.

“I can’t believe it,” he whispered. “I won. I fucking won, baby.”

“I can believe it,” she said, steady and breathless. “I knew it was coming. How long have I told you that this would happen for you? You’ve been driving like a winner all year, Lando.”

He kissed her, fast, messy, barely containing the wild joy in him. “Tell me you saw the move on Max.”

“I saw it. It was amazing.”

He laughed against her neck, giddy and stunned and vibrating with relief. “I did it, Amelia.”

“You did.” She leaned into him, eyes pricking with tears. “I am so, so proud of you. So proud.”

—

They went to a few parties. Smaller ones. Danced together — Lando being celebrated in exactly the way he deserved.

He hadn’t been all to keen on the idea of his visibly pregnancy wife going into the Miami nightclub, but she’d insisted they go. Even just for a little while.

Oscar and Lando stayed close — like bodyguards. Max was no better, hovering, constantly bringing her water. It was sweet. It was nice to still be involved in the celebrations.

His trophy sat on their hotel room table.

Lando was in the shower, singing Queen, completely off-key.

Amelia sat on the bed in one of his t-shirts, one hand on her belly, the other tracing the MCL38-AN etched into the side of the silver.

Their daughter kicked.

She smiled. “Your dad,” she whispered, “is a Formula One race winner.”

—

They touched down just before dawn, Heathrow still hushed in early morning fog. Amelia’s body ached with the kind of deep exhaustion that only adrenaline can leave behind; but her hand never left Lando’s.

He’d won. That wasn’t going to stop echoing in her head any time soon.

By the time they got to his parents’ house, the sky had cracked open with gentle rain. The front door opened before they even rang the doorbell.

His mum pulled him into a tight hug, burying her face in his chest. His dad hovered behind, proud and misty-eyed in the quiet way he always was. There were champagne flutes already out in the kitchen, a cake someone had clearly stayed up late decorating — “P1, Finally!” scrawled in sugar icing.

But what caught Amelia off guard was how his mum hugged her too.

Carefully, because of the bump. But tightly. Fully. Without hesitation.

“We were watching,” she said, her voice warm in Amelia’s ear. “I’ve never screamed so loud in my life. He wouldn’t have gotten here without you, you know?”

Amelia blinked. Didn’t know what to say to that. Just squeezed her hand and nodded.

—

Later, in the quiet of Lando’s childhood bedroom, Amelia lay curled into his side beneath soft, over-washed sheets. The walls were still plastered with old racing posters, a few crooked photos of karting days — a little shrine to where it all began.

The trophy was on the dresser.

Not a glass cabinet, not a pedestal. Just… sitting there. Like it belonged next to a lava lamp and a stack of F1 magazines from 2009.

Amelia snorted at the sight of it. “You really just plonked it there?”

“It’s weird, right?” Lando said, his voice drowsy. “Feels like it should be… more. But also not. I don’t know.”

“It’s exactly right,” she said. “It belongs where you started.”

He looked over at her. Tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You okay?”

She nodded. Then, after a moment, “It’s strange. Everyone talks about how hard it is to get here. To win. To be part of something like this. But nobody tells you how hard it is to… stop. To come down from it. To believe that it’s real.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just pulled her closer, hand on her belly. “She’s gonna know,” he said softly. “Our daughter. She’s going to grow up knowing this is possible. Because she’ll have you. And she’ll have me too.”

“You,” Amelia said firmly, “are going to be her favourite person.”

He flushed, kissed her shoulder. “You’re both my favourite.”

—

Breakfast was a chaotic, sweet mess. His younger cousins had come by with orange balloons and mini trophies made of Lego. His grandmother insisted on touching Amelia’s belly and declared, in full authority, that the baby would be born with racing boots on already.

Someone pulled out a bottle of something sparkling, and Lando looked like he might cry for the tenth time in 48 hours.

Amelia stepped outside with her tea, just for a moment. The garden smelled like damp grass and daffodils.

Lando came out after her, wrapping his arms around her from behind, nose pressed into her neck.

“We really did it,” he murmured.

“You did.”

“No,” he said. “We.”

She leaned back into him, eyes fluttering shut.

For once, she didn’t argue.

—

The highly sought after private clinic was tucked behind a row of converted barns; all soft wood beams and white walls, the kind of place that smelled faintly of lavender and sterilised plastic. Quiet. Private. No waiting rooms. No fluorescent lights.

It had taken Amelia weeks to agree to in-person visits. Not because she didn’t trust the care, but because the idea of new faces, new spaces, new sounds — it made her skin hum in the wrong way.

But this midwife, Fiona, had been patient. Kind. Spoken to her over the phone like Amelia wasn’t strange or fragile or complicated. Just… herself. And today, for the first time, they were meeting in real life.

Amelia sat in the softly-lit consultation room, sleeves pulled over her knuckles, while Lando leaned back in the chair beside her, fingers loosely linked with hers.

The door opened, and Fiona stepped in; mid-forties maybe, silver at her temples, Doc Martens under a midi skirt. Exuding a calm energy.

“Hello, Amelia,” she said with a small smile. “It’s good to finally meet you properly.”

Amelia blinked at her. “You don’t sound as tall as you do on the phone.”

Fiona laughed, delighted. “That’s a first. Most people say I sound shorter.”

Lando grinned. “She’s very good at spatial audio. It’s… sort of freaky.”

Amelia elbowed him lightly. “It’s not freaky. It’s useful.”

“I know, baby,” he said, kissing her hair.

Fiona sat, not rushing. Just matching the room to Amelia’s pace.

“Shall we talk through everything slowly?” She offered. “We’ll do the checkup, listen to baby’s heartbeat if you’re feeling up for it — and then talk about next steps. I’ve got your notes printed exactly how you like them. Font size 13, double spaced.”

That surprised a smile out of Amelia. “You remembered.”

“Of course I did.”

—

Fiona talked her through every step before touching her. Let Amelia guide where the Doppler went. Gave her control.

The heartbeat came through — fast and steady and perfect.

Lando stared at the screen like it was made of gold.

“There she is,” he murmured. “There’s our girl.”

Amelia stared at the graph. “Still sounds like a horse galloping.”

“Strong horse,” Fiona said. “Very healthy.”

They spent another fifteen minutes going over nutrition changes, sleeping positions, birth plans. Fiona never pushed. Never filled silence with filler words. Just waited.

“You’re very good at this,” Amelia said finally. “I don’t like many people.”

Fiona smiled gently. “That means a lot. Thank you.”

—

They stepped back out into the quiet spring air, a softness between them.

Lando opened the car door for her, waiting until she was settled before getting in himself. He looked over at her, one hand finding hers on the armrest.

“I like her,” he said.

“I don’t hate her,” Amelia replied, which was even better.

“You did so well,” he added softly. “I’m really proud of you.”

She glanced at him. “Why?”

“Because I know how much it costs you to do things that feel uncertain,” he said. “And you still showed up for her. For our daughter.”

Amelia’s eyes prickled, caught off guard by the depth in his voice.

“She deserves someone better than me, sometimes,” she whispered.

“No,” he said firmly. “She’s getting someone more brilliant, more brave, more herself than anyone could hope for.”

She kissed him. “Okay. Take me to get some chicken, please?”

—

The kitchen was full of soft light and the smell of roast chicken and rosemary potatoes. There were too many voices, too many overlapping stories, the occasional clink of cutlery — but somehow, it didn’t overwhelm Amelia the way it usually did. Maybe it was the dimmer switch Lando had installed last year. Maybe it was the way he kept checking in with her from across the room. Or maybe… maybe it was just the peace that came from knowing her daughter was still tucked safe inside her, heartbeat strong.

Dinner was warm.

They passed around the scan print-outs — Lando sliding them carefully across the table. His mum teared up a little at the clearest one, where the outline of a tiny face and curled fingers was visible.

“She’s so beautiful already,” Cisca whispered.

“She looks like an angry shrimp,” Amelia said flatly, which made Adam chuckle into his wine.

“An angry shrimp with a big Norris head,” Lando added.

“Oi,” Adam said. “Watch it.”

“She’s got Amelia’s precision, though,” Lando added, turning the scan toward his dad. “Perfect symmetry in the profile. Look at that jawline. Look.”

“She’s 38 centimetres long, Lando,” Amelia said, eyebrows raised. “She’s still just a smudge.”

He shrugged, grinning. “Let me have this.”

—

Cisca topped up everyone’s water and gently set her glass down. “Have you two thought much about… the birth yet? Or after? What it’ll look like, who you want with you, where?”

Amelia nodded immediately, already sliding her phone from the edge of her placemat. “Yes. I’ve got it all planned.”

She pulled up a bullet-pointed note, clean and colour-coded. “I’ll be labouring at home for as long as is medically safe, with Fiona monitoring. Then transferring to the birth centre — the one with the adjustable light panels and hydrotherapy. I’ve selected a playlist that aligns with optimal relaxation frequencies, and Lando will be coached on pressure-point guidance in case I don’t want verbal input. We’ll have backup bags packed and pre-positioned in the car by Week 37.”

The table went still for a moment. Not unkind. Just… a bit awed.

“And after?” Adam asked gently.

“Fiona will do at-home checks. I’ll be off work technically, but I’ll still be supporting Oscar’s data remotely if we’re out of hospital. I’m going to stay with my mum in Woking. Sleep will be rotational in the first two weeks depending on Lando’s schedule, but my mum had already agreed to step in. Breastfeeding is Plan A, bottle Plan B. I have a spreadsheet.”

There was a quiet pause.

Then Cisca reached over the table, her hand warm as it closed gently over Amelia’s. “That all sounds wonderful, my darling. But, and this is only a but, if it doesn’t go exactly the way you’ve planned, don’t panic,” she said. Her voice was soft but certain. “Sometimes babies decide to do things their own way.”

Amelia didn’t flinch from the contact — rare for her. She just looked at Cisca’s hand, and then at her face. “I know that,” she said, a little stiffly. “Logically.”

“But knowing it logically isn’t the same as feeling okay when it happens,” Cisca said gently.

Amelia looked down at the scan photo in front of her. Then quietly, almost like a confession, “I want to do it right. I want her to feel safe from the second she arrives.”

“She will,” Lando said, reaching for her hand under the table. “Because she’ll have you.”

—

The door was already open before they even made it up the path.

“There she is!” Zak’s voice boomed from the hallway as Amelia climbed out of the car, Lando trailing behind with his hand protectively on the small of her back.

Tracey appeared right behind him, dish towel still slung over her shoulder. “Let her breathe, Zak, Jesus.”

Amelia barely had time to blink before she was enveloped in one of her mother’s trademark, over-long hugs — all vanilla perfume and chaotic warmth.

“I can’t believe how much she’s grown,” Tracey murmured, hands sliding down to press lightly at Amelia’s bump. “My granddaughter’s in there, that’s crazy.”

“She’s the size a watermelon,” Amelia said, dry. “A big watermelon. But still.”

Lando grinned. “Not for long. She’s growing every day.”

Zak clapped a hand on his son-in-law’s shoulder. “Still wrapping my head around the fact that you’re gonna be a dad, son.”

“Same,” Lando replied with a breathy laugh.

—

The Browns’ home was bigger than you might expect, but still carried the energy of a family who talked over each other and left laundry on stair banisters. The TV was on in the background playing a re-run of some F1 docuseries, and Zak had already pulled out a bottle of strawberry alcohol-free wine.

“No, Dad,” Amelia said, waving him off. “No bubbles. I’ll get heartburn.”

“I’ve got ginger beer!” Tracey called from the kitchen. “And saltines!”

Amelia drifted toward the fireplace, fingers brushing over old framed photos. There was one of her as a little girl with a screwdriver in one hand. Another of Zak holding her on his shoulders at the Silverstone track.

She stared at that one for a beat too long.

“You okay, kiddo?” Zak asked gently, appearing beside her.

She didn’t look up. “Yeah. Just remembering.”

“You’d sit on the garage floor with the brake calipers,” Zak said, fond. “You used to name them.”

“They needed names. They had personalities.”

“You said one was ‘grumpy and over-torqued.’ You were five.”

She let out a tiny laugh.

—

Dinner was loud. American-style pot roast, mashed potatoes, green beans drowning in butter. Tracey refilled everyone’s drinks every ten minutes. Zak told old stories about testing sessions Amelia had half-forgotten.

Later, Amelia found a quiet spot in her childhood bedroom, lights dimmed, the duvet still vaguely smelling of fabric softener. Lando leaned against the doorframe, watching her brush her fingers over an old model car she’d built with Zak when she was nine.

“You okay, baby?” He asked.

She nodded. “Yeah. I’m nervous to be staying here again, after having the baby. I wish we could just… have her in Monaco and disappear for a few months.” She frowned. “We didn’t plan our timing very well, did we? You’ll be mid-season, and Oscar won’t have me there, and—“

Lando crossed to her and wrapped his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder.“Hey. Hey, calm down, baby. I think that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be,” he murmured. “You’ll want your mum, yeah? She’ll be able to help you adjust without being overbearing.”

She hummed against his chest, her hands closing around his shirt. “What if you’re not here when it happens?”

He was quiet for a beat. “I’ll come home as soon as possible, baby. I promise.”

“I don’t want you to miss a single session.” She said, hotly. “But I want you with me all the time and I can’t have both, can I?”

“No, baby. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” He murmured. “It’s fine, baby.”

—

Amelia stood at the edge of the test platform, squinting at the flow viz spread across the prototype floor. She wasn’t officially here to work, just visiting. Just dropping in. Just… checking the numbers. Seeing the model. Touching the damn tunnel wall like it could somehow speak to her.

“It’s still bleeding airflow here,” she muttered to herself, pointing at the front of the floor, just under the bargeboard curve. “Boundary layer’s detaching early.”

“Still better than Ferrari’s design,” someone mumbled behind her.

“Low bar,” she shot back.

She didn’t look up. Her fingers danced automatically across the control screen. Toggling split channel overlays, flipping between computational fluid dynamics layers. She could feel her heartbeat syncing with the faint thrum of the tunnel, her mind slotting into gear like it always had.

Until she felt someone step beside her, too quietly for a regular engineer.

“Amelia,” Oscar said softly, hands in his hoodie pockets. “Hey.”

She blinked, her brain still five seconds behind in aero-language.

He glanced at the setup, then at her bump, then back to her face. “Did you… sleep at all last night?” He asked.

“I took a nap on Lando’s thigh for twenty-three minutes in the car,” she said.

Oscar huffed. “Very normal. Very healthy.”

She turned back to the airflow sim. “This isn’t right. The adjustment from the Miami spec — it’s throwing off drag balance on the mid-straight.”

“Amelia.”

She didn’t answer this time. Just kept muttering corrections under her breath, lips moving like she was translating a language no one else could see.

Oscar stepped closer, then placed one hand gently on her wrist — not to stop her, just to connect.“You’ve been here for hours. You can come back to this later,” he said.

“I don’t know how to be here without doing something.”

“I know,” Oscar said. “But we’re not racing this week. And you’re allowed to just… exist in this space without trying to fix every tiny issue that you see.”

Amelia looked at him. Her mouth opened, then shut again. He didn’t push. Just stood with her in the quiet hum of the room, solid and calm.

Eventually, she whispered, “My brain’s too loud when I stop.”

“Then let me help you turn the volume down,” Oscar said simply. “C’mon. Let’s go sit by the lake for a bit.”

—

They ended up outside with two mugs of ginger tea that Oscar had somehow convinced catering to let them take out of the dining hall. Amelia sat with her feet up on the bench edge, dress stretched over her bump, breathing slower now.

She watched the fountain spray in silence for a few minutes before saying, “Thanks.”

“For the tea?”

“For not treating me like I’m fragile,” she said. “But also not treating me like I’m a machine.”

Oscar smiled sideways. “You’re a human. A terrifyingly brilliant, data-possessed human. But still.”

She let out a tired laugh and leaned her head briefly on his shoulder. “Don’t tell Lando I had a moment.”

“Alright,” he said. “It’ll stay between us and the ducks.”

She smiled. “My ducky and my ducks — conspiring together. Cute.”

He rolled his eyes.

—

The morning sun hit the Emilia-Romagna pit lane with a sharpness that reminded Amelia of why she loved racing. Clean, brutal light cutting through the lingering coolness of dawn.

She stood just inside the garage, eyes scanning telemetry streams on her iPad, but her mind elsewhere. This was her second-to-last race before maternity leave. A strange mix of accomplishment and anticipation knotted inside her.

Lando caught her eye across the garage, giving a small thumbs-up. She returned the gesture with a faint smile.

Oscar approached, carrying his helmet. “Ready?” He asked.

“Of course I am.”

—

During a quiet moment before qualifying, Amelia slipped out from behind the pit wall to find Lando.

He reached for her hand, squeezing it lightly. “You okay?”

She nodded. “I’m okay. Just… thinking about how this is all starting to feel a bit too much like a goodbye for my liking.”

He brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “We’ll hold the fort. You’ll be back before you know it. You don’t need to worry.”

Her eyes softened. “I know. But it feels… weird.”

He held her. Kissed her. “You’ll be fine, baby.”

—

The race was intense. Strategy calls fired rapidly, tyres switching, gaps closing. Amelia’s voice came calm and precise over the radio, guiding Oscar through every corner, every lap.

When the checkered flag finally waved, Oscar finished fourth — solid, but just off the podium. Amelia exhaled, a complex wave of pride and bittersweet acceptance washing over her.

Lando’s race had been even more intense; a nail-biting late charge from Lando, a nail-bitingly close finish between him and Max.

They’d take second.

But she could see it. Hear it.

Her husband had enjoyed winning. And he was hungry for more.

—

Back in the garage, the team gathered around the screens replaying Lando’s brilliant win at Miami — a reminder of the highs to come. Amelia let herself smile, feeling the warmth of the team around her.

Lando slipped an arm around her waist. “Only one more weekend to go,” he murmured.

She leaned into him. “Yeah.”

Tom gave them a nervous smile. “I feel ready to take the reins. Do you think I’m ready?”

“As ready as you could possibly be.” Amelia told him.

Oscar laughed a bit. “I feel like I’m being passed between my divorced parents.”

Amelia rolled her eyes at him. “You’re ridiculous, ducky.”

NEXT CHAPTER

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honeytonedhottie · 11 months ago

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HONEYS IT GIRL MAGAZINE july edition⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🎀

welcome back to honeys it girl magazine, this is the july catalog. get ready for the inside scoop on data that i've collected, things i've learned/started doing, and just general info like that organized in kind of a teen-magazine inspired fashion. a magazine for it girls ✨ and now please enjoy, the it girl magazine.

in this addition i've experimented with new sections (like the horoscope section) so i hope that u guys look forward to it and if u have any more suggestions for the magazine feel free to share and without further ado, lets get into it with some beauty talk…💬🎀

BEAUTY SHOPPING LIST ;

♡ kiko milano lipgloss

♡ L.A girl glitter spray

♡ cotton candy baby lipgloss from victorias secret

i've gone for more tubes of cotton candy baby because its just SUCH a good lipgloss but i recently lost mine and its been on my list to get next time i go to the mall…💬🎀

♡ crispy marshmallow bars body wash from philosophy

ugh just the NAME of this soap sounds absolutely delicious and im dying to try it out. im a big fan of the philosophy body washes anyways because of the quality and scents…💬🎀

♡ coconut craze lipgloss from victorias secret

♡ pink mimosa lipgloss from victorias secret

another thing that i wanted to talk about in this months beauty column is the DIFFERENCE that blush placement makes. so i was scrolling on pinterest when i came across this chart that talked about blush placement.

when you apply blush a certain way it balances out ur beautiful features and plays around with proportions in such a way that can make ur features more prominent. also the way that u apply ur blush totally changes the way that ur makeup looks.

for example when u apply blush to the apples of ur cheeks it gives a more youthful and glowy effect. when u put blush high on ur cheekbones it gives a more lifted and sculpted look which is where the blush chart comes in. depending on ur face shape u can determine which style of blush placement complements ur pretty face the best 💗

WHAT R WE LISTENING TO? ;

the most listened to album i've listened to all month has been butterfly by mariah carey. it was released in 1997 and every single song on that album is a total MASTER PIECE. some of my favorites include

♡ honey (DUH)

♡ babydoll

however that album is from 1997 so lets talk about some new music that i LOVED that also dropped this month…💬🎀

♡ brat- charli xcx

♡ muse - jimin

another album that has been gathering lots of attention on lots of social media platforms is ice spice's Y2K album and i've seen a lot of mixed reviews about it. personally im not a fan of the album, my favorite song on the album is did it first but im not a fan of the album as a whole. im curious though to hear what your thoughts on the album are…💬🎀

FASHION FLOPS VS FASHION BOPS ;

in this column, lets look at some old and new fashion trends and see which trends are flops and which ones are bops. my sources include vogue, and glamour magazine…💬🎀

according to vogue, statement gowns are OUT and discreet chics are IN. discreet chic is mixing basics in minimalist yet compelling ways. this includes things like trench coats, pencil skirts, trouser suits and good jeans.

according to glamour magazine, crisp whites and butter yellows are trending this summer. along with sequins and basics like denim pants and white t-shirts, polished kitten heels and mary jane flats also. the styles that are trending for this summer are boho 3.0 and little white dresses.

something i can DEF get behind is little white dresses. its like a blank canvas on which u can make the outfit into whatever you want. personally i would style a tiny white dress with chunky bracelets and wedges/kitten heels…💬🎀

LETS TALK MANIFESTATION ;

manifestation techniques are overrated - all you have to do to manifest is affirm -> persist. thats essentially all you have to do and when i first started i was so caught up in techniques and routines that i wasn't even affirming/persisting. i was doing anything and everything and i saw manifestation as a process and manifestation is NOT a process. when i shifted that and realized that manifesting is instant and all techniques are for funsies, the pressure was taken off.

this is an excerpt from my manifestation opinions post and i've released this poll to talk about what manifestation topic you guys would like me to talk about and the winner was saturation so lets talk about it. so what does it mean to saturate? i got this question a while ago in my inbox so im just gonna copy and paste my response.

saturating is simply soaking ur mind in the fact that u already have what u want. i do this with affirming, some people do other things to saturate but affirming is the most simple for me. just think as if u have it over and over and over again…💬🎀

you can saturate for hours at a time or a little bit everyday it doesnt rly matter its just thinking over and over again. i saturate while listening to music, playing video games, doing mundane tasks etc. all i do is think my affirmations and thats all! if theres something specific that u guys are curious about with saturation lemme know in the comments but its super simple bcuz MANIFESTING is super simple.

JENNIE KIM STYLE DISSECTION ;

jennie kim is a fashion ICON. i swear every photo that i see of her, her outfit, hair, face, everything is absolutely perfect. jennie's style is very posh and feminine. and a rly great example of this would be her look below. i love how she color coordinated her hair accessories to her outfit and the black and pink is so ICONIC cuz she was a black pink member.

shes rocking her trademark chanel in the form of a waist chain and everything just goes together beautifully. jennie knows how to mix posh and hyper femininity in her outfits super well and we can see that in her next outfit…💬🎀

THE CHANEL CHAIN AHHH IM OBSESSED. in the next outfit shes rocking a red two piece with buttons that just add that very chic and posh look. her chanel chain is such a statement piece and her matching chanel purse, shes literally chanels princess atp.

WHATS MY HOROSCOPE (JULY 22-29) ;

♡ its leo season and leo season is all about TIMING. you will receive ur answer very soon, listen to ur intuition and notice how everything is coming together for you. while you’re shining in the moment, remember to think about the future when mercury enters virgo and your value zone on thursday. you’ll want to go over details with a fine-tooth comb, so take your time making decisions. don’t rush into anything!

♡ for aries the next four weeks are ideal for enjoying entertainment, starting hobbies, and expressing yourself. indulge in the pleasures that summer has to offer without burning your life down.however, while you enjoy the rest of your summer, consider getting your life in order when mercury enters virgo and your productivity zone on thursday. the retrograde will be here shortly, aries, so take this time to get your ducks in a row.

♡ for taurus, start the week by practicing self-care when the sun enters leo and your home zone on monday. the next few weeks could be a little hectic, so try to spend as much time as you can with your loved ones. be generous with your time by hosting family dinners and small parties.despite the upcoming retrograde, you’ll still have plenty of opportunities for some fun when mercury enters virgo and your creativity zone on thursday. this is a great time to busy yourself with creative projects, flirt with people, and entertain yourself with concerts and movies. have fun!

♡ for gemini, you’ll have a flair for the dramatic over the next few weeks once the sun enters leo and your communication zone on monday. everything you do and say will be bold and vibrant. your social calendar will be full of summer activities, so enjoy yourself without getting exhausted.get ready to become the family problem solver when mercury enters virgo and your home zone on thursday. it seems like everyone is coming to you to fix their lives before the retrograde, so this is a great time to focus on domestic issues. remember to set boundaries so any family drama doesn’t bring you down, gemini.

♡ for cancer, as your season comes to an end, your mind will be on your financial security when the sun enters leo and your value zone on monday. however, if you want any luxury in your life, you’re going to have to work for it. this is a great time to start side hustles and invest in things that matter to you. say what you mean and mean what you say when mercury enters virgo and your communication zone on thursday. this transit gives you the ability to cut through the chaos and get to the truth of any issue.

♡ for virgo, spend the rest of your summer break away from the madding crowd when the sun enters leo and your privacy zone on monday. over the next few weeks, you might feel the need to retreat from the world and focus on yourself. give yourself a mental and emotional cleanse before your season begins. your communication skills get a major boost this week when mercury enters your sign on thursday. while this is a brief reunion before the retrograde, this is a great time for new beginnings and getting your point across. speak with confidence, virgo.

♡ for libra, you’ll be feeling like a social butterfly over the next few weeks once the sun enters leo and your friendship zone on monday. this is a great time to hit the summer parties and make some connections. you could even meet your new besties. have fun! however, you might feel the need to retreat into yourself when mercury enters virgo and your subconscious zone on thursday. perfectionism could lead to your undoing as you come to terms with what’s working and not working in your life. focus on how to fix these areas without overcorrecting, libra. analyze your dreams to find clarity.

♡ for scorpio, despite being in the heart of summer, you’re more focused on building a reputation and making a name for yourself when the sun enters leo and your public image zone on monday. over the next four weeks, go after your ambitions and stand out from the crowd to get noticed by the right people. you’ll be especially interested in your personal aspirations when mercury enters virgo and your humanitarian zone on thursday. you have some big dreams, so lay the groundwork to get them going. make a wish, scorpio. it might come true.

♡ for sagittarius, start the week on an adventurous note when the sun enters leo and your expansion zone on monday. the next few weeks will give you opportunities to expand your horizons, for better or worse. this is a great time to travel or interact with people from different walks of life. as we get into the heat of summer, start thinking about your future when mercury enters virgo and your career zone on thursday. this is a great time to think about your professional goals and how you can get ahead in the workplace. think smarter and harder, sagittarius.

♡ for capricorn, the start of the week brings changes to your life when the sun enters leo and your transformation zone on monday. you might feel like a phoenix over the next few weeks as you sit with the ashes of your former life. while the sun shines a light on everything that is hidden, you’ll need to decide what to let go of, capricorn. class is in session when mercury enters virgo and your expansion zone on thursday, especially since this transit will give you plenty of lessons to learn, for better or worse. this is a great time to expand your mental horizons through education. it could change your life.

♡ for aquarius, “me” turns into “we” over the next few weeks when the sun enters leo and your partnership zone on monday. this is more than just a summer fling; it’s the real thing, so lock it down now. however, make sure to balance your time together and apart or it could cause some drama. read between the lines and you can uncover hidden meanings when mercury enters virgo and your intuition zone on thursday. trust your gut, aquarius, because it can guide you through the hidden motives others might have for you. be careful, and don’t make any big decisions before the retrograde.

♡ for pisces, even in the heat of summer, you’ll still have plenty of work to do when the sun enters leo and your productivity zone on monday. work on taking care of yourself through self-improvement. what do you want to get better at, pisces? try it out now. the rest of the summer could be intense, so make sure you have a buddy to help you through when mercury enters virgo and your partnership zone on thursday. this is a great time to end all conflict and work on agreements before the retrograde hits. compromise is key, if you’re willing to work at it.

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allalrightagain · 11 months ago

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I got another one! Not to be mean but I do feel like our priorities (and his) are a little out of order if a card with my signature actually made a difference.

alright the political campaign texts and emails are bad at the best of times but I just got one asking for me to "sign a card thanking Joe Biden for his career in public service" like we work together at a fucking high school and he's a secretary that's been here since the walls went up

#like on the one hand I do feel like he got forced out #but also. i stand by my comment about feeling like this is about the secretary who was asked to retire #i’m sure there’s plenty of support on twitter his SM people can screencap and show to him if it really matters that much #also I’m ngl this feels like a very specific data mining technique to get a specific demographic of people who do sign these kinds of cards #whether legitimately from the dems or from scammers it’s hard to say #anyways you will not catch me clicking on a sketchy cold-texted link OR signing a card #LT talks #us politics

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 5 months ago

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Hi! I'm trying to get into writing twst fanfiction, but I'm having some trouble with keeping the boys in-character. What do you think are their base traits? Like, what's the foundation of their personalities?

Hello! I spent a long time debating about whether to respond to this ask or not. Ultimately, a lot of the thoughts I would include in my response are the same as what I have already expressed here. However, I've noticed that this has become sort of a recurring issue, so I'd like to address this more seriously.

I've recently been getting a lot of people requesting that I basically tell them how to write the Twst characters. Tens and tens of them, in fact (too many to include all in one post). Sometimes it's an ask like, "please list out strengths/weaknesses or a summary of their character traits", and sometimes it's more specific like, "here is a prompt I am working on; how do you think [character] would act in this situation?" I'm NOT comfortable with either type of ask and refuse to answer asks of this nature.

I want to be clear: this is NOT the same as asking for general writing advice; this is literally just asking to be spoon-fed the answers. There is a difference between seeking advice on how to overcome writer's block or asking what are techniques to show, don't tell (which is general writing advice) versus asking someone to specifically instruct them on how to write Leona Kingscholar from the hit Disney mobile game Twisted Wonderland. The former is okay with me, while the latter is not.

While I am flattered that people care about my opinion and hold it in high regard, I am not here to be a cheat sheet, and nor are my opinions the "most correct". There is no single "correct" way to write a character, and even if there was, it's certainly not mine. Only the Twst devs themselves are the "most correct", as whatever they produce is what ends up as canon.

As I have said in my previous post on this topic, having someone else tell you how to write does little to help you. Writing is a skill, and skills are not inherent. They are something you train in, practice, and learn. Looking at a bunch of adjectives will not help you write or understand the characters any better than you currently do. If anything, it just means you don’t develop or practice your critical analysis skills. In a worse-case scenario, it devalues what a writer does, as it places the burden on them to condense what they know into a laundry list of characterization--as if it doesn't take us tons of time to hone those writing skills. The only real way to get the results you want is to do your own research, develop your own interpretations, and practice, practice, practice. There is no magic pill or shortcut or streamlining or easy way to do it and come out with a quality result. You have to be willing to put in the time and the effort to learn a skill, and that extends to writing, be it for this fandom, another fandom, or even for non-fandom writing. Think about it like this: when you're writing a good research paper, do you go and ask a single other source to gather all your data and summarize it for you? Of course not. You have to go out and manually collect the resources, do the reading, take notes, and gain an understanding of those resources. Then you use your newfound knowledge to summarize and to synthesize your own conclusions in your research paper. The same logic applies for writing in fandom.

I'm not sure why there is this sudden interest in shortcuts. Is it social media shortening our attention spans? Is it the rise of A.I. like ChatGPT making people more reliant on and more comfortable with summaries? Is it that people are concerned with nailing characterization or instant success the first time around? Is it that the internet's so much crueler with comments + feedback that we want to avoid OOC-ness as much as possible? Is it that I just so happen to like talking about character analysis so people think I must know everything? It could be any of these reasons or a combination of them--but whatever the reasoning is, it still leaves a bad taste in my mouth. It's concerning to me that it seems like people are becoming less and less interested in thinking for themselves and instead are increasingly reliant on others telling them how to create. You NEED to fail and get stuff wrong. You NEED to be able to have the courage to try things on your own. Don't be afraid of failure--failure isn't inherently a bad thing, it is how we learn, grow, and shape our own styles and ways of thinking! I definitely was not perfect when I first started out. I had to fail and stumble and struggle to get my craft to where it is today. So did every single one of your favorite creators. Artists had stick figures, writers had their first words. No artist or writer started off making masterpieces. Arguably, they still don't. Every creator is continuously learning and trying to improve their craft. It's not as though they hit perfection one day and decided to stay stagnant. I feel that it devalues what we make when we try to boil down all the skill we've developed into easy "answer keys" for others to digest. Again, you can ask all you want and seek out as many shortcuts as you like, but that's not going to be properly absorbed into your brain unless you walk the walk for yourself. You can't assume that learning these things will be as easy as reading a summary, memorizing a tutorial, figuring out what brush someone uses, etc.--it wasn't for the people you're asking for this advice from either. Failing is normal and expected. You will also never be able to create something that pleases everyone or something that everyone agrees with--so instead of trying to appeal to an unseen audience, please focus on creating what makes you happy. You have your own creative journeys ahead of you, so don't be scared to walk that road! It can be tough and you'll hit roadblocks and challenges--but overcome them, and you'll become even stronger and more skilled than you were before.

Best of luck!

#disney twst #disney twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland #notes from the writing raven #advice #question

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milfstalin · 9 months ago

Text

When I met Stalin, I did not find him enigmatic. I found him the easiest person to talk to I ever met. He is far and away the best committee chairman of my experience. He can bring everybody’s views out and combine them in the minimum of time. His method of running committees reminded me somewhat of Jane Addams of Hull House or Lillian D. Wald of Henry Street Settlement. They had the same kind of democratically efficient technique, but they used more high pressure than Stalin did.

If Stalin has been inaccessible to foreigners—there were exceptions even to this—that does not mean that he lived in isolation, in a sort of Kremlin ivory tower. There were close to 200,000,000 people keeping him busy. He was seeing a lot of them. Not always necessarily the party leaders. A milkmaid who had broken the milking record, a scientist who had broken the atom, an aviator who flew to America, a coal miner who invented a new labor process, a workman with a housing difficulty, an engineer balked by new conditions—any person representing either a signal achievement or a typical problem might be invited by Stalin to talk it over. That was the way he got his data and kept in touch with the movement of the country.

[...]

My first impression of him was vaguely disappointing. A stocky figure in a simple suit of khaki color, direct, unassuming, whose first concern was to know whether I understood Russian sufficiently to take part in discussion. Not very imposing for so great a man, I thought. Then we sat down rather casually, and Stalin was not even at the head of the table; Voroshilov was. Stalin took a place where he could see all our faces and started the talk by a pointed question to the man against whom I had complained. After that Stalin seemed to become a sort of background, against which other people’s comments went on. The brilliant wit of Kaganovich, the cheerful chuckle of Voroshilov, the characteristics of the lesser people called to consult, all suddenly stood out. I began to understand them all and like them; I even began to understand the editor against whom I had complained. Suddenly I myself was talking and getting my facts out faster and more clearly than I ever did in my life. People seemed to agree with me. Everything got to the point very fast and smoothly, with Stalin saying less than anyone.

Afterward in thinking it over I realized how Stalin’s genius for listening helped each of us express ourselves and understand the others. I recalled his trick of repeating a word of mine either with questioning intonation or a slight emphasis, which suddenly made me feel I had either not quite seen the point or perhaps had overstated it, and so drove me to make it plainer. I recalled how he had done this to others also. Then I understood that his listening has been a dynamic force.

This listening habit dates back to the early days of his revolutionary career. “I remember him very well from the early days of our Party,” said a veteran Bolshevik to me. “A quiet youth who sat at the edge of the committee, saying almost nothing, but listening very much. Toward the end he would make a few comments, sometimes merely as questions. Gradually we came to see that he always summed up best our joint thinking.” The description will be recognized by anyone who ever met Stalin. In any group he is usually last to express his opinion. He does not want to block the full expression of others, as he might easily do by speaking first. Besides this, he is always learning by listening.

“He listens even to the way the grass grows,” said a Soviet citizen to me.

On the data thus gathered, Stalin forms conclusions, not “alone in the night,” which Emil Ludwig said was Mussolini’s way, but in conference and discussion. Even in interviews, he seldom receives the interviewer alone; Molotov, Voroshilov, or Kaganovich are likely to be about. Probably he does not even grant an interview without discussing it first with his closest comrades. This is a habit he formed very early. In the days of the underground revolutionary movement, he grew accustomed to close teamwork with comrades who held each other’s lives in their hands. In order to survive, they must learn to agree quickly and unanimously, to feel each other’s instincts, to guess even at a distance each other’s brains. It was in such a group that he gained his Party name—it is not the one that he was born with—“the Steel One, Stalin.”

[...]

Stalin brings certain important qualities to these joint decisions. People who meet him are first of all impressed by his directness and simplicity, his swift approach. Next they notice his clearness and objectivity in handling questions. He completely lacks Hitler’s emotional hysteria and Mussolini’s cocky self-assertion; he does not thrust himself into the picture. Gradually one becomes aware of his keen analysis, his colossal knowledge, his grip of world politics, his willingness to face facts, and especially his long view, which fits the problem into history, judging not only its immediate factors, but its past and future too.

Stalin’s rise to power came rather slowly. The rise of his type is slow and sure. It began far back with his study of human history and especially the history of revolutions. President Roosevelt commented to me with surprise on Stalin’s knowledge of the Cromwellian Revolution in Britain as shown in his talk with H. G. Wells. But Stalin quite naturally studied both the British and the American historical revolutions far more intimately than British and American politicians do. Tsarist Russia was due for a revolution. Stalin intended to be in it and help give it form. He made himself a thorough scientist on the process of history from the Marxian viewpoint: how the masses of people live, how their industrial technique and social forms develop, how social classes arise and struggle, how they succeed. Stalin analyzed and compared all past revolutions. He wrote many books about them. But he is not only a scientist; he also acts.

In the early days of the Revolution, Stalin’s name was hardly known outside the Party. In 1923, during Lenin’s last illness, I was told by men whose judgment I trusted that Stalin was “our coming man.” They based this on his keen knowledge of political forces and his close attention to political organization as secretary of the Communist Party. They also based it on his accurate timing of swift action and said that thus far in the Revolution he hid not once guessed wrong. They said that he was the man to whom “responsible Party men” turned for the clearest statement of what they all thought., In those days Trotsky sneered at Stalin as the “most average man” in the Party. In a sense it was true. Stalin keeps close to the “average man”; the “average man” is the material of politics. But Stalin does it with a genius that is very far from average.

“The art of leadership,” said Stalin once, “is a serious matter. One must not lag behind the movement, because to do so is to become isolated from the masses. But one must not rush ahead, for this is to lose contact with the masses.” He was telling his comrades how to become leaders; he was also expressing his own ideal, which he has very effectively practiced.

[...]

Glimpses of Stalin’s personal relations come chiefly through his contacts with picturesque figures who have helped make Soviet history. Valery Chkalov, the brilliant aviator who made the first flight across the North Pole from Moscow to America, told of an afternoon that he spent at Stalin’s summer home from four o’clock till after midnight. Stalin sang many Volga songs, put on gramophone records for the younger people to dance, and generally behaved like a normal human being relaxing in the heart of his family. He said he had learned the songs in his Siberian exile when there wasn’t much to do but sing.

The three women aviators who broke all world records for women by their spectacular flight from Moscow to the Far East were later entertained at an evening party at the Kremlin in their honor. One of them, Raskova, related afterwards how Stalin had joked with them about the prehistoric days of the matriarchate when women ruled human society. He said that in the early days of human development women had created agriculture as a basis for society and progress, while men “only hunted and went to war.” After a reference to the long subsequent centuries of woman’s slavery, Stalin added, “Now these three women come to avenge the heavy centuries of woman’s suppression.”

[...]

“Comrades! Citizens!” he said, as he has said often. Then he added, “Brothers and Sisters!” It was the first time Stalin ever used in public those close family words. To everyone who heard them, those words meant that the situation was very serious, that they must now face the ultimate test together and that they must all be closer and dearer to each other than they had ever been before. It meant that Stalin wanted to put a supporting arm across their shoulders, giving them strength for the task they had to do. This task was nothing less than to accept in their own bodies the shock of the most hellish assault of history, to withstand it, to break it, and by breaking it save the world. They knew they had to do it, and Stalin knew they would.

Stalin made perfectly plain that the danger was grave, that the German armies had taken most of the Baltic states, that the struggle would be very costly, and that the issues were between “freedom or slavery, life or death to the Soviet State.” He told them: “The enemy is cruel and implacable. He is out to seize our lands, watered with our sweat . . . to convert our peoples into the slaves of German princes and barons.” He called upon the “daring initiative and intelligence that are inherent in our people,” which he himself for more than twenty years had helped to create. He outlined in some detail the bitter path they should follow, each in his own region, and said that they would find allies among the freedom-loving peoples of the world. Then he summoned them “forward—to victory.”

Erskine Caldwell, reporting that dawn from Moscow, said that tremendous crowds stood in the city squares listening to the loud speakers, “holding their breath in such profound silence that one could hear every inflection of Stalin’s voice.” Twice during the speech, even the sound of water being poured into a glass could be heard as Stalin stopped to drink. For several minutes after Stalin had finished the silence continued. Then a motherly-looking woman said, “He works so hard, I wonder when he finds time to sleep. I am worried about his health.”

That was the way that Stalin took the Soviet people into the test of war.

#stalin #anna louis strong #ussr #writing #journalism #article

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horizontwinflames · 2 years ago

Text

Horizon AU: Twin Flames - Isaac (Zero Dawn Act) final concept/design.

*texts' transcriptions under the cut after the images*

REPOST, EDIT/USE OR FEED MY ART TO AI ISN'T ALLOWED

Read about Aloy, Beta and Elisabet in this AU [here]

omg... I thought I would never finish this... BUT YAY! Here it is finally! Isaac's final design and concepts!

This AU has an ongoing fanfic! You can read on Ao3: [LINK]

Text transcription:

First image:

Isaac - Roughly 3.2m/10.4' -Unknown age (probably just a few months).

Isaac is an original machine character in this alternative universe.

Isaac is the loyal machine companion of the Sobeck family, serving as both a traveling and battle mount. The sisters unintentionally created him while trying to figure out a way to increase the machine override time. The process they applied in the -back then- simple Watcher rebooted their AI and programming back to its essential functions and disconnected them from their original master, HEPHAESTUS. Once he received his name from Beta, the three family members became his new masters, which he unthinkingly obey to.

Due to his blank AI, Isaac is developing his own sentience and personality by absorbing his masters’ traits and behaviors and learning their morals and concepts. He also downloaded all of the sisters’ Focuses’ data to have some initial communication and works as a backup, so he only knows what they know.

He can speak with anyone with a Focus through its text-to-speech function by sending text messages to them - thus, people who don’t have a Focus only hear his Watcher noises. He can still communicate with other machines normally, so he also works as an information gatherer to help in missions and studies.

Second image:

Once a simple Watcher, now a super advanced mount and best friend of the Sobeck family.

Isaac's customizable body can adapt him to travel in any terrain, even underwater. He's able to reach high speeds at a low energy and heating cost - he's also lighter than it seems. His sleek, almost snake-ish, body shape makes maneuvering more dynamic for his rider.

His propulsors give him the ability to do long leaps and high jumps, helping the sisters get to places they wouldn't be able to reach by themselves. But a repetitive use of said skills in a short timespan can drain his energy and overheat him quickly.

Like his owners, he's not adept at using one single type of weapon. Isaac's tail ranged weapons and armor can be changed to better adapt to the situation. However, he hasn't developed efficient battle techniques yet, as he's still learning with the Sobecks. Note that his Sawtooth's sabers aren't intended to be used to fight but to climb and carry objects.

Melee Tail Weapons: Thunderjaw's tail, Stalker's tail blade, Stormbird's tail (also used to swim), Frostclaw's front paws.

Ranged Weapons: Thunderjaw's Disk Launcher, Ravager's Cannon, Scorcher's Mine Launcher, Bellowback's Snout.

Armors: Nora (stealth), Carja (speed), Oseran (tank), Banuk (damage), Old World (mixed).

Isaac is a mount adapted for two people: One is the rider, and the other is the cannoneer. He syncs with them through their Focuses, so his responses to their commands are more instantaneous. The rider directs Isaac where to go and when and how to use the tail weapon. Meanwhile, the cannoneer controls the ranged weapons and propulsors.

Only those who have a Focus can see his holographic face. The images shown are a collection of emojis the sisters found in Old World Ruins (which they update when they find more). His three "horns" also can move solemnly to make him more expressive.

Being composed of many different machine parts makes Isaac the first machine chimera to exist - still keeping the base shape of a Watcher, but huge. He was customized by the Sobecks little by little through the Cauldrons they visited on their first journey.

He can still stretch his neck like a Watcher can normally do.

His eye received enhancements to better aid the Sobecks in their daily life and journeys - such as infrared, thermic, and ultrasound visions.

He also has in his head a sound device to play audio files, such as music from the Old World, and a holoprojector.

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2kidult · 29 days ago

Note

Can I use the same way to manifest?😭

yes you can absolutely use the same approach for manifesting !!!

okay so shifting and manifesting aren't completely identical, like obviously they're different flavors different contexts different intended outcomes. shifting is about stepping into entirely different realities while manifesting is about reshaping this one.

but at the core you're still doing the same fundamental thing: you're moving your consciousness. you're refusing to accept current circumstances as permanent. you're aligning with a different version of what's possible.

the anti-method works for both because it's not really about the destination it's about that core assumption shift. that moment when you stop trying to get something and start operating like you already have it.

so with manifesting instead of "i need to attract money" you hold that same gentle knowing "i already have it, it's already mine" not as a question to solve but as this soft interruption to your brain's scarcity programming

you're not performing manifestation you're not doing techniques you're just... not buying into the story that says you lack anything

your current circumstances become background noise. irrelevant data from an old version of reality that you're not particularly interested in anymore

whether you call it shifting to your rich girl dr or manifesting financial freedom, you're still consciousness rearranging itself around a different assumption about what's real

the labels matter way less than the fact that it works. you stop trying you start assuming and reality catches up because it has no choice

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isuckatwritingsobenice · 5 months ago

Text

A/N: I got this request and decided to break it into three parts! Part one is Alastor’s version, this part is Vox’s version, the next will be Husks!

Warnings: Vox trying to be sneaky but failing

Navigation! // Alastor’s Version!!

Void

Vox didn’t take an interest in people easily. His attention was usually monopolized by his beloved tech—saturating screens, commanding networks, spreading his influence like a virus through Hell’s sprawling digital web. People? They were predictable. Boring. But you? You were different.

He couldn’t pinpoint what intrigued him at first. Maybe it was the strange, quiet confidence you carried, the way your presence seemed to bend reality ever so slightly even when you weren’t using your powers. Or maybe it was how your abilities—those of a living black hole—had the potential to be the most powerful force in Hell, if properly utilized.

And Vox loved power.

From the moment he saw you collapse into that swirling, incomprehensible void, reality fracturing and trembling as your form dissolved, Vox was hooked. Not in the charming, lovestruck way; no, his interest was colder, calculated.

“Fascinating,” he murmured as he watched from the safety of a nearby screen. “Absolutely fascinating.”

When you reformed, dazed and exhausted, he appeared before you, stepping out of the static with his signature smug grin.

“Well, well,” he said, his mechanical voice buzzing faintly. “A walking singularity. And here I thought I’d seen everything Hell had to offer.”

You frowned at him, not sure what to make of the tall, screen-headed demon. “Do I know you?”

“Name’s Vox,” he said, extending a hand that buzzed faintly with static. “I run things around here. Networks, data, communications—if it’s on a screen, it’s mine.”

You hesitated but shook his hand anyway. His grip was surprisingly warm, but there was something about him that felt… off. “Nice to meet you, I guess,” you said cautiously.

His grin widened, his screen flickering slightly. “Oh, the pleasure’s all mine,” he purred. “You and I are going to get along just fine.”

From that day on, Vox made it his mission to befriend you—or, more accurately, to gain your trust. He was charming, charismatic, and just manipulative enough to keep you guessing about his true intentions.

He’d show up unexpectedly, claiming he was “just in the neighborhood,” and offer to help you control your powers.

“Your abilities are incredible,” he’d say, leaning against a wall with his arms crossed. “But you’re not using them to their full potential. You could do so much more with a little… guidance.”

“What kind of guidance?” you asked, eyeing him warily.

“Oh, you know,” he said casually, waving a hand. “Channeling your energy, focusing your pull. You’d be unstoppable. You just need someone to show you how.”

It was tempting, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t curious. You’d struggled to control your powers for as long as you could remember, and Vox seemed to know what he was talking about.

Reluctantly, you agreed to let him help.

At first, Vox’s guidance seemed harmless, even helpful. He taught you techniques to focus your energy, to direct your gravitational pull in specific ways. With his help, you learned to collapse objects into the void without letting it spiral out of control.

But it didn’t take long for his true motives to surface.

One day, he brought you to a massive, abandoned industrial complex on the outskirts of Hell. The building was filled with ancient, malfunctioning machinery, wires sparking and screens flickering.

“What is this place?” you asked, your voice echoing in the cavernous space.

“My latest project,” Vox said, his grin widening. “With your powers, we can turn this outdated junk into something revolutionary. Imagine it—a network powered by the energy of a black hole. Limitless potential. Infinite connectivity. Hell would never be the same.”

You hesitated, a pit forming in your stomach. “I don’t know… this feels dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” Vox laughed, the sound sharp and buzzing. “Come on, [Y/N]. This is progress. You’ve got the power to change everything, and I’m giving you the chance to do it.”

Against your better judgment, you agreed to help.

At first, everything seemed fine. Vox guided you through the process, teaching you how to harness your energy to power the massive machinery. The complex came to life under your touch, screens flickering and wires sparking as your gravitational pull fed the network.

But it wasn’t long before the strain began to show.

Every session left you more exhausted than the last, your body trembling with the effort of maintaining control. The void inside you grew louder, its pull stronger, and you began to feel like you were losing yourself.

“Vox,” you said one day, your voice weak and trembling. “I don’t think I can keep doing this.”

He waved you off, his attention focused on a screen displaying the network’s progress. “You’re fine,” he said dismissively. “Just a little more, and we’ll be done.”

But you weren’t fine. The pull of the void was becoming unbearable, and you could feel yourself slipping closer to the edge with each passing moment.

One day, as you powered the network, you lost control. The void surged outward, consuming everything in its path. Machinery collapsed, screens shattered, and Vox barely managed to pull you back before the entire complex was swallowed.

When you reformed, trembling and barely conscious, he knelt beside you, his usual smugness replaced by something almost like concern.

“[Y/N],” he said, his voice unusually soft. “Are you okay?”

You shook your head, tears streaming down your face. “I can’t do this anymore, Vox. It’s killing me.”

For the first time, his grin faltered. He stared at you, the realization of what he’d done hitting him like a punch to the gut.

Vox wasn’t used to feeling guilt, but as he looked at you—exhausted, broken, and barely holding yourself together—he felt something twist in his chest. He had pushed you too far, all for his own gain, and now you were paying the price.

He reached out, hesitating for a moment before placing a hand on your shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his usual bravado nowhere to be found. “I didn’t mean for it to get this bad.”

You looked up at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. “Why did you do it, Vox?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He sighed, his screen flickering with static. “At first? It was about the power. Your abilities… they’re incredible, and I wanted to see how far we could push them. But somewhere along the way…” He trailed off, his screen dimming slightly. “Somewhere along the way, it stopped being just about that.”

“What do you mean?”

He met your gaze, his crimson eyes unusually soft. “I mean I care about you, [Y/N]. More than I realized. And I hate that I’ve hurt you.”

From that day on, Vox changed. He stopped pushing you to use your powers for his projects, instead focusing on helping you recover. He still had his sharp tongue and cocky demeanor, but there was a gentleness to him now, a willingness to put your well-being above his ambitions.

“Guess I’m not such a heartless bastard after all,” he joked one day, his screen flickering with a sheepish grin.

You smiled, feeling a warmth you hadn’t felt in a long time. “Guess not.”

Though it wasn’t easy, the two of you began to rebuild—your trust in him, his understanding of you, and the strange, unexpected bond you shared.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt like you weren’t facing the void alone.

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin demon #vox the tv demon #vox x reader #hazbin vox #hazbin hotel vox #vox hazbin hotel

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baldieboi · 29 days ago

Text

Shadows Within Shadows

Seventeen | part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5

@w-40-k @ghrgrsfdesfrfg

Cassian¹ withdrew deeper into the shadow of the maintenance alcove, his midnight blue armor adjusted to absorb rather than reflect the dim light of the corridor. His breathing slowed to an imperceptible rhythm, a technique learned from his youth on Nostramo.

The Word Bearer had noticed something. Not him specifically but something.

Interesting.

The chaplain had changed his path, chosen an unexpected corridor. A test? A coincidence? Either way Cassian had nearly been caught flat footed which was an unforgivable error for one trained in the art of terror.

He watched Erebus disappear around a corner then waited seventeen heartbeats before moving. Seventeen. A number of ill-omen on Nostramo.² Appropriate given how many days remained until the Word Bearers departed.

The soft hiss of his armor's joints was dampened by the modifications his Legion's tech-marines had implemented before this self-assigned mission. The sound suppression wasn't perfect, nothing was, but it was sufficient to fool most ears. Even transhuman ones.

But the First Chaplain wasn't most ears. That was becoming increasingly apparent.

Cassian slipped between maintenance shafts, following a route that bypassed the main corridors. His knowledge of the Vengeful Spirit's layout had become intimate over the months of his stay. It was probably better, he suspected, than many who had served on her for years.

"Sixteen junctions," he whispered to himself, counting down as he moved. "Fifteen. Fourteen." The habit kept his mind focused, prevented the whispers that sometimes came when he was too long in darkness.

His purpose here had evolved since its inception. What began as a challenge, could a Night Lord remain undetected aboard the flagship of the Emperor's favored son?, had become something more complex. He'd gathered intelligence as expected of him but he'd also found something unexpectedly satisfying in becoming the ship's ghost.

Cassian always watches. The phrase brought a cold smile to his lips. The mortal crew's fear was a soft thing, not the sharp terror his Legion typically cultivated. A ghost story rather than a horror.

Until now it had been merely amusing to watch how the myth spread. Now it might prove problematic.

He paused at a junction, head tilted, listening for the faint sounds of ship's operations. His helm's autosenses picked up the elevated heartbeats of a maintenance crew three corridors over, nothing unusual. But something else lingered in the air. A scent that didn't belong.

Incense.

Faint but distinctive. The kind used in Word Bearer rituals.

Cassian's eyes narrowed behind his helm. Erebus was laying groundwork already. Marking territories perhaps. Or simply creating sensory traps to detect intruders.

Clever.

He backtracked, choosing an alternate route. Tonight called for observation, not confrontation. The First Chaplain was up to something beyond the official reasons for his visit. Cassian had witnessed enough meetings and secretive data transfers to be certain of that.

And now Erebus was aware that someone was watching. This complicated matters.

Cassian reached a maintenance shaft that would take him to the lower decks where he'd established one of several hidden niches. As he climbed down, his thoughts turned tactical.

The Word Bearer would seek information first. Logical. Methodical. He would mine the human crew for rumors, perhaps seek access to security logs. Cassian had measures in place to counter the latter, phantom data trails, false sightings in impossible sequences. The confusion would buy time.

But the former... The humans talked. Always talked. Their fear of 'Cassian' was controlled, predictable. They used it to police themselves. If Erebus began asking questions...

A cold spark of anticipation ignited in Cassian's chest. This could be the true test he'd been seeking.

He reached his hidden alcove, a maintenance bay supposedly decommissioned due to radiation leakage. The warning runes kept the curious away and his own modifications ensured no actual radiation signatures registered on scans.

Inside he removed his helm and set it on the small workbench. The recycled air felt stale against his pale skin. His eyes, naturally adapted to Nostramo's eternal night, had no need for the dim illumination he permitted himself but light helped organize thoughts.

"Seventeen days," he murmured, voice hoarse from disuse.

He began cataloging what he knew of Erebus, both from observation and Legion intelligence. The Word Bearer was more than it appeared to the casual viewers. Cassian wasn't sure if it was danger or something else but since the specifics of that possible danger remained elusive. He operated through layers of meaning and suggestion. Even his words of friendship carried hidden barbs.

A worthy opponent, then.

Cassian felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward. He wouldn't just hide from the First Chaplain. That would be... inefficient. Better to control what Erebus discovered. Feed him half-truths. Lead him down carefully constructed paths.

After all sometimes the best way to stay hidden was to be seen exactly where and when you chose.

He began preparing for tomorrow. The hunt had begun.

And night was his domain.

Note: I admit that a Night Lord is probably a bit way too predictable, however his reasons to be there shouldn't be outlandish. Or probably it is. I kind of liked the idea and had to go through with it.

¹His real name is unknown to you. For now. He is an oc, of course, so it is perhaps irrelevant.

²I just made it up to fit the title and everything. Erebus is of the XVIIth legion, seventeen days... I had to.

#warhammer #warhammer 40000 #warhammer 40k #warhammer 30k #pre heresy #night lord oc #erebus #fuck erebus #warhammer fanfic

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basilone · 1 year ago

Note

I want to hear your thoughts on fandom and the recent influx of the term content creation!

Well, anon, you are in luck! (Or not, depending on your definition of luck. 😉) I just so happen to have many Thoughts & Opinions™ about this. I will get wordy, this will get lengthy, and I will be social and put most of my thoughts under a readmore cut.

I personally try to avoid the terms ‘content’ and ‘content creation’ when talking about fandom works and a fandom’s creative pursuits nowadays. Occasionally, sure, it happens that it slips out anyway – it’s a term we’re all really used to using! – but I want to be as mindful about its use as possible. This is a personal decision on my account and I won’t get uppity about other people’s use of these terms, though.

But, Killy, you might say... why would you avoid using these terms? For me, here’s why:

Content is not synonymous with art;

Content creation indicates something different than art creation;

Fandom should not be subject to consumerism;

Fandom is about connection.

If all a fandom puts out is classified as content, that fandom is going to die.

Yeah. I know. Melodramatic much? I’m on my fainting couch here, folks. 😂 But let’s dig in, shall we?

You know, maybe it’s just the archivist in me that balks at the term ‘content’. Content is a data entry field in the archival system we use at my real-life job: literally speaking, this data entry field is where we put a brief summary of the document attached to that specific archival file. It contains information that tells you the key takeaways of what the document is about, but it will not contain the full text of the document itself. Content is one of the points of access for our archival search: I know what I’m looking for, so I put a few keywords into our search and it pulls up the relevant file. But what do I need, really need, in my line of work? It’s the document itself, not the data entry field. The document tells me the whole story that I need to be able to truly do my job well. The content-field is a cliffnotes edition of that story.

It’s the same way with the art we create in fandom. I’m gonna take myself as an example here, because I create a fair bit! (Shocking, I know. Local Tumblr cryptid sighting, more at 11. 😎) I spend hours writing fic. I spend hours sorting through screencaps before screeching at Photoshop for a lengthy amount of time. I spend days pouring over quotes, books, documents, photographs, tutorials, and other things that will help me create something cool. I apply color theory, art framing/perspective, narrative focus, and many other theories and techniques to my writing and my giffing. If I were to put my finished work or any of my WIPs in that same archive system, it would be the document within the archival file. The tags I use on my posts? Those are markers similar to the content-field. They tell you who my gifset depicts and from which show it is. They tell you which OC of mine my fic is about. My work contains these things I tagged.

But my creative work is not content itself.

Content is marketable, easy access, blurb-y stuff. Content is something you absorb within one minute flat. Content is the highlight reel. It’s what fills a page, something you’ll scroll past in a heartbeat, something that barely stands out in a long long long list of stuff. Content is what you consume on a lazy Sunday afternoon without ever being forced to read lengthy pieces, take in the details of what you see, pause mid-scroll to ponder the meaning of life, whatever else have you. Create content and you create a flash in the pan, a quick laugh maybe, before it fizzles back out again. Create content and it’s here today and gone tomorrow without anyone mourning its absence for too long.

Art should last longer than that, don’t you think? 😉

So when I see people put a fic request in an askbox and it’s phrased like “Speirs x spy!reader fluff” and that very same request makes its way into about ten more askboxes before the fandom starts comparing asks? I might be inclined to classify us all as slot machines. Put an ask in and out rolls a fic. Who cares which slot machine it came from? As long as you’ve got your painstakingly crafted fics that you consume the same way you do actual content, right? We, its writers, are just lucky if we get a pat of acknowledgement on our little slot machine head for our troubles, aren’t we?

When I see an overly detailed summary of what sounds like a full-fledged fic in an askbox and the demand is “write this for me”, I recoil from the screen and go “child, who the hell birthed you, were you raised in a barn?” out loud. If you can tell a story in the space of an askbox, consider asking for help to let that story – a story you own, a story that is more yours that it could ever be mine – grow into what it has the potential to be.

When I see fics and gifsets and other creations get likes but not reblogs, I mutter something about the state of fandom economy these days. We exist in a little fandom bubble. Our bubble can’t expand or blow from place to place without a little help from our friends. And you’re my friends, right? I know the follow-button says follow, guys, believe me, I’m not that far gone, but for me ‘follow’ means ‘friend’. 💚 You’re my buddy now. Suck it up. We’ll share a can of peaches. 🍑

When I see fics and other creations get reblogged without tags or comments attached, I die a little on the inside. I feel like a little Victorian orphan child going “please, reblogger, a little penny of thought for its creator, if it pleases?”. I feel like commentless and/or tagless reblogging is giving me nothing, nothing at all, about who you are.

And I want to get to know you! I want to know who’s in my notes. I want to know who’s scrambling through my MotA gifsets like a fat little raccoon inhaling its third helping of a box of jelly-filled donuts. I want to know who is adopting which character and why. I want to know that it’s your birthday, or that you had a bad day and needed a pick-me-up, or that you are locked in an Ikea at three in the morning reading my blog by the bright lights of countless Solhetta bulbs. I want to know that you love my OC Darlene but that you ain’t sure what the hell my OC Lottie’s got to do with anything. I want to know what tickles you – a turn of phrase I used, a color in a gifset, a little detail I captured that made me go !!!!!! on the inside while I was creating too – and I want to know what moves you.

What reaches into the soil of your being and nourishes you enough to blossom into whichever lovely self you can grow to be? What is precious to you? What comforts you in the dark nights of your soul, when all light feels like it’s faded out? What do you love, truly love? What feeling and thought and idea and love love LOVE do you consume – truly consume, head to tail, no takebacks – and what are you consumed by in turn?

Let me connect with you. Let me know the little internet scraps of you that tell me you’re a DeMarco girlie, or that you’re here for Hoosier only, or that you’re as feral and batty about Speirs as I am, or that you actually really can’t stand the one dude everyone else raves about. Let me know that you like angsty quotes on gifsets – feel free to yell at me for making you schedule an impromptu therapy session – or let me know you saw what I did in my fic there and you’ll be demanding compensation from me while you lie down and wail about it. Let me know you’re very into those lovely blues on a gifset (I know, SO good, right??) or that you are side-eyeing me because that close-up of your fave turned you into a little puddle.

Let me know what moves you, because I created these things with love. I created them because they moved me, too. I created them because I have a story to tell, somehow. I created them because the whole world is a string of stories and I want to pass the heart of them on to you. I created them not because I want to jump on a hypetrain that races past all the episodes and all the alternate universes and all the stories without stopping, but because I want to soak up the sun and point at something and tell you “look, isn’t this beautiful?”. I created them not because I am looking for a quick fix or a distraction or an escape, but because I want to give you something that nourishes you as it has nourished me.

That’s so much more than that quick flash in the pan, yeah? That’s so much more than what content could ever hope to be. That’s something that lasts beyond the clicks and gives you an ever-expanding horizon that leaves you wondering just what in the world is next.

Let me repeat point five: if all a fandom puts out is classified as content, that fandom is going to die. Because content doesn’t sustain you. Connection does. And connection? That happens with meaningful interaction. That happens when you stop getting followers and start getting friends. That happens when you treat all forms of art as something unique that can be precious to someone, rather than something to like today and forget about tomorrow.

Can I do a lil mic drop? Yeah. I think I’m gonna. Just this once. 🎤

#fandom things #yeah so this got long but in my defense I have never pontificated about this in public much before #sometimes I reveal myself as the crochety little fandom old I am #creative asks

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pitlanepeach · 2 months ago

Text

Radio Silence | Chapter Fourteen

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

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

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, jealous lando, protective grid, sexual content

Notes — Welcome to the 2021 Formula One season! (Testing, but still... it counts). Also... hehehehehehehe double update <3

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

2021

WhatsApp Groupchat — 2021 F1 Grid

Lewis H. A warm welcome to our 2021 rookies! Mick, and Yuki :)

Lando N. Yeah, welcome or whatever More importantly, does anyone know if I can call up the Apple store in Woking and get them to deliver to me? Even though it’s closed rn

Lewis H. What happened? Did her iPad break?

Lando N. Yeah mate, completely toast.

Max V. Shit. I can have one express delivered to your flat, Lando. It is, of course, a work expense.

Yuki T. Uh hey I guess! I thought this was a work only chat? Did I get the wrong briefing?

George R. It usually is, but as admin I allow Amelia-based chat @Yuki

Mick S. Hey! Great to be here. Um, just curious though. Who is Amelia?

Max V. My lead technical engineer.

Lando N. My girlfriend.

Lewis H. Zak Brown’s daughter.

Fernando A. Her iPad is broken? I will bring her one now. Lando, send me your home address.

Mick S. Ohhh, I actually know Amelia Brown!

Lando N. ?????????? @Mick

Fernando A. Lando you have not sent me your address.

Max V. @Fernando I have already purchased the iPad.

Mick S. @Lando we met years ago, mate. She used to ski with her family where mine did in the winter.

Lando N. You heard the part where she’s my girlfriend, yeah @Mick?

Mick S. Yes…

Lando N. Good.

Fernando A. @Max She will need it delivered to her soon.

Charles L. It finally broke? Wow. Lasted far longer than I believed it would.

Lando N. @Charles Not a good time for jokes, mate. She’s devastated

Daniel R. Should I start carrying a spare iPad to races with me just in case? LOL.

Lando N. Wait that’s a good idea Somebody write that down Max write that down

Max V. I purchased three. I will carry the spares

Fernando A. Vamos, Max!

Pierre G. I bet the rookies are so confused lmao. Welcome to the grid group chat. We discuss penalties, race conditions, plane shares, and Amelia Brown.

Carlos S. @Lando How is she? Did she freak out?

Lando N. She’s good now. All chill.

Lewis H. Tell her that I just bought her a new bunny sticker book. I’ll give it to her at testing.

Lance S. If I buy her the entire Apple company, do you think she will come and fix the Aston Martin car?

Max V. NO.

Yuki T. This is the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen in any grid group chat, and the f2 chat used to get weird lol

George R. Welcome to the grid, Yuki. Keep your head on straight, and if you ever find a lost iPad with a bunny sticker on it anywhere in the paddock, make sure it gets back to Amelia asap

Lando N. Thats important for all of the rookies to know @Mick @Yuki

Mick S. Sure I’ll keep an eye out!

Lando N. Actually I change my mind Mick if you see an iPad just leave it yeah :)

Mick S. ????

Pierre G. This is going to be a great year.

Checo P. All of the other drivers have this chat muted, yes?

Kimi R. Yes.

—

Amelia was crouched down by Max's car, her hand resting on the tire as she scanned through the data on her iPad. The numbers on the screen felt too slow, almost static, compared to the racing thoughts racing through her head.

Beside her, Jos loomed over her, a red-ink pen poised above her little black notebook. He was taking notes for her. Her mind was moving faster than her hands could keep up, and sometimes, just sometimes, she needed someone like him, methodical, steady, and patient, to help her process it all.

Her fingers flicked over the screen, swiping through the data from Max's morning run, when she paused, eyes flicking to Jos. “You see what I see?” she asked, her voice low, as if speaking any louder might break the delicate focus she’d managed to carve out for herself.

Jos nodded, his eyes scanning the information on the screen before looking back down at the scribbles he’d started in her notebook. “More rear stability in the high-speed corners. We’ll need to adjust the dampers again,” he said, his voice calm and matter-of-fact.

Amelia’s eyes tightened slightly as she thought. “We might need to soften the rear more. The front’s too reactive. Max is going to be fighting it in corners three and four, especially.” She tapped the screen lightly, zooming in on the section of the track map. “The car’s settling into a snap too fast, can’t keep up with the rear load in the high-speed sections.”

Jos made a mark in her notebook. “Front end’s still too eager, then?” He sighed.

“Yeah, exactly,” Amelia made a face. “We soften that just a little bit more. Max needs more confidence in the corners. Less initial bite, more consistency. Maybe tweak the ride height slightly too.” Her words were coming faster now as the solution to their issues fell into place in her brain.

As the day wore on, Max’s car was fine-tuned with the adjustments, and Amelia watched on with satisfaction as everything came together in perfect harmony.

They had a plan. The tweaks would work. Max would be happy with the handling.

She turned to Jos when the mechanics started to wheel Max’s car back into the garage for the final time, day one of testing officially over, giving him a small but appreciative smile.

He pulled her notebook out of the pocket of his jeans and handed it over. “I hope you can understand my handwriting.”

—

Amelia sat opposite Max at one of the small team tables in the Red Bull hospitality unit. Most of the staff had already filtered out for the night, their voices fading down the hallway as engineers, PR reps, and mechanics headed for shuttles and taxis. But the two of them lingered — Amelia, still editing Jos’ scribbled notes from earlier in the day, and Max, who had quietly gotten into the habit of not leaving until she did.

It was almost sweet. He dropped her off to Lando at her hotel room at the end of every day like she was a preschooler getting passed between divorced parents. She hadn’t said anything about it, partly because it was practical, and partly because she didn’t mind it. It was nice not to have to worry about being alone.

Across from her, Max was hunched low in his chair, arms folded tight across his chest, mouth set in a hard line. His gaze flicked from the tabletop to her notebook and back again, a rhythm she’d seen a hundred times before. It meant he was thinking. Hard. Or more likely, overthinking.

She didn’t bother looking up. “Just say it.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You’ve been fidgeting with your straw for six minutes. It’s starting to irritate me.”

Max exhaled through his nose, leaning back into the bench with a groan. “You are very annoying.”

“Mhmm,” she hummed, finally meeting his eyes. “Max, tell me.”

He hesitated, then shifted forward, resting his elbows on the table. There was a pause, a rare, tentative kind, and then, quieter than usual, he said, “I’m nervous.”

That made her put the pen down.

“For the season?” she asked, although she already suspected the answer.

Max nodded. “Everyone keeps saying 2021 is my year. Like it’s inevitable. Like this is it. And I want it — Fuck, I want it so bad. I’ve worked for it my whole life. But now that it’s here, I don’t know…” He rubbed a hand down his face. “What if it doesn’t happen?”

“It might not,” Amelia said plainly.

Max looked like he wanted to argue, but stopped short, blinking at her. “Comforting.”

“You’re not asking for comfort,” she said. “You’re asking if you’re good enough. And yes, you are. But this sport doesn’t always care about that.”

He let that sit for a moment. Nodded.

Then, quieter still, “There’s something else.”

Amelia raised an eyebrow.

“I met someone. Over the break.”

She made a face. “Someone?”

He groaned. “Don’t do the eyebrow thing.”

She relaxed her face. “Who did you meet?”

Max scratched at the edge of the table. “I met her in Monaco. She’s nice. A lawyer . She thinks I’m just… Max. I didn’t tell her about the racing. About… everything. She doesn’t follow F1.”

Amelia leaned forward slightly. “So she doesn’t know who you are.”

He shrugged helplessly. “She knows who I am. Just not… what I do.”

Amelia tilted her head. “And you like that?”

“I think so,” he said. “It’s peaceful. She talks to me like a normal person. No hero-worship, no pressure. Just… calm.”

“You’re lying to her, essentially,” she said bluntly. “Not a good foundation for a relationship.”

He shot her a withering look. “Jesus. You’re worse than my dad.”

“I take that as a compliment. We have the same goal.”

“I know.”

She looked down at her notebook, flipping a page and skimming it for a second. “You think you can manage both? A relationship and a championship battle?”

He hesitated. “Is that selfish?”

“No,” she said, then looked back at him. “But it might be a bit stupid.”

Max chuckled dryly. “Thanks.”

“I’m not saying you can’t have both,” Amelia added. “I’m just saying that it probably won’t work.”

He frowned, nodded slowly, then said, “But you’re managing your relationship and my championship.”

“I’m not the one driving the car, Max.” She argued.

“Still,” he muttered. “You’re making it work. I could make it work.”

She shrugged. “Okay. Is she nice?”

Max nodded, “I almost ran her over.”

She blinked at him. “Oh. That’s… romantic?” She tried.

He laughed shortly. “She was in a rush, didn’t look properly. I apologised and gave her a ride to work. She— she, uh, thinks that I’m just some wealthy businessman’s son, or something.”

She chewed on her bottom lip, anxiety curling in the pit of her stomach. “You should stop lying to her. I would… I would not like it if I was in that situation and I found out that I was being lied to.”

Max sighed. Nodded.

Then he stood, grabbed both their jackets, and slung hers over the back of her chair. “Come on. Let’s get you to your boyfriend before he starts texting me again asking where you are.”

She gave him a flat look. “He has a GPS tracker on my phone.”

Max rolled his eyes. “Of course he does. Typical Norris.”

She shrugged. “It’s sweet. Sometimes I get lost and he has to come and find me.”

Max laughed, and for the first time all day, some of the tightness left his posture. “Yeah,” he said, holding the door open for her. “Probably good that he has it, then.”

—

The lights of Manama twinkled in the distance, warm and hazy against the desert night. From the balcony of their hotel suite, the city looked like it belonged to another world; quiet and golden and slow in a way the paddock never was. The hum of the air conditioning inside was replaced by the occasional distant honk of a car, or the hush of wind weaving through the palm trees below.

Amelia was seated cross-legged on one of the outdoor chairs, wrapped in a white robe, her hair still damp from her shower. Lando, in a t-shirt and joggers, was fiddling with a tiny bottle opener, attempting to open a bottle of some obscure sparkling drink he’d insisted was “romantic, okay baby? Trust me.”

Their room service tray sat between them on the small table. Grilled flatbreads, mezze, roasted lamb. Lando had ordered for them and he’d gotten everything right.

“I don’t know how you always remember this stuff,” she said, dipping a piece of bread into a tangy yogurt sauce.

Lando grinned, finally getting the bottle open with a victorious pop. “Because I listen when you talk. I know the face you make when you think something tastes bad or has a yucky texture. I have eyes. Shocking, I know.”

Amelia gave him a pointed look. “Last week, you kissed my eyeball because you were being lazy and tried to kiss me with your eyes closed.”

“Shut up.” He huffed.

She laughed quietly, curling into him, giving him a bit of the blanket. “I think Max might be in love,” she said suddenly.

Lando blinked. “Max? Verstappen?”

“Mm,” she nodded, chewing. “He told me today that he met someone over the winter. She doesn’t know who he is. Like, really doesn’t know. Thinks he’s just some rich guy named Max.”

Lando made a face. “That… feels impossible.”

“She’s apparently very disconnected. Doesn’t follow the sport. Max likes it.”

Lando nodded slowly. “Weird. But kind of sweet, I guess.”

She frowned at him. “I told him he shouldn’t be dating during a title fight.”

“Very romantic of you.” Lando teased.

She shrugged. “I never said I was romantic.”

“No,” he said. “But you are.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t disagree. Instead, she reached for his hand where it rested on the table, her fingers brushing over his lightly. “I hope you do very well this year, Lan.” She told him, earnest and hopeful. “You deserve it.”

Lando turned his hand over to lace their fingers together. “So do you. Deserve to do well, I mean. You’ve worked so hard this past year. You deserve to see it pay off.”

Amelia didn’t say anything right away. She just leaned over and kissed him; soft, sweet, clinging. It wasn’t meant to lead anywhere at first, just a thank you. But she didn’t pull away. And he didn’t let her go.

She ended up in his lap, her legs curled against his chest, her robe brushing his knees. His hands slid instinctively around her back, fingers splaying wide against the thin fabric, grounding her. Grounding himself.

They stayed like that for a long time. The balcony lights dimmed behind them. The city hummed faintly in the distance, the last remnants of dinner cooling on the table, the silence between them easy.

Then, gently, she climbed off of him and stood. Her bare feet whispered against the tile as she stepped forward, and she stopped just in front of where he sat, between his knees. Her eyes searched his face for a beat, then she reached for the hem of his t-shirt.

“Come inside with me?”

Lando’s breath caught slightly. He looked up at her, her expression steady, soft, open, and nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

Inside, the hotel room was cast in warm light, golden from a low bedside lamp. The curtains were drawn against the city, muffling the world outside. The bed was turned down, sheets crisp, pillows fluffed. A quiet kind of invitation.

She tugged him by the hand toward the bed, and he followed without a word, heart thudding in his chest.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t awkward.

There was a kind of reverence to the way they undressed, slow, curious. Amelia’s robe slipped from her shoulders, caught briefly on her elbows before pooling at her feet. Lando’s hands hovered just for a second before brushing up her arms, like he was making sure she wouldn’t vanish if he touched her too quickly.

Their kisses deepened, still hesitant but filled with intent, with the weight of everything they’d been building toward for over a year. Every laugh, every shared moment of delicate intimacy, every time they’d caught each other’s eyes across a garage or a hotel lobby, it all settled into the space between them.

Lando’s mouth trailed across her skin with an almost startled sort of wonder, like he was learning a language he’d been waiting to speak. Her fingers threaded through his curls, tugging gently when his lips brushed the hollow of her throat. They moved together with quiet urgency, limbs tangled, breath catching against skin.

At one point, Lando paused, hovering just above her, his eyes sweeping across her face, flushed, focused, real.

“You’re so... fuck,” he whispered, barely audible.

Amelia blinked, lips curling faintly. “Not sure that’s a compliment.”

He kissed the curve of her shoulder, then her collarbone. “It is,” he murmured. “It really is.”

And when they finally settled under the covers, tangled together with her head tucked beneath his chin, Lando let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

She didn’t say much, but her fingers curled into his shirt like she wasn’t planning on letting go anytime soon, and that was enough.

—

The sunlight was already creeping through the sliver of the curtains when Lando stirred, warmth pooling low in his stomach before he was even fully awake. For a moment, he didn’t move, just blinked up at the ceiling, trying to remember if he’d dreamt the night before, or if it had really happened.

Then she shifted against him.

Amelia was tucked beneath his arm, hair a little wild against his chest, one bare leg tangled over his. Her cheek was pressed just below his collarbone, lips slightly parted, her breath steady and warm against his skin.

Definitely not a dream.

He smiled, slow, stupid, unbelievably content.

She felt it too, maybe, his laugh or the way his fingers brushed along her back, because she mumbled something that sounded vaguely like a complaint and burrowed closer, clearly not ready to be awake yet.

Lando tilted his head, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Morning, baby.”

She made a noise that was more sigh than word. “Mm. No.”

“No what?”

“No talking,” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep. “Too early.”

He laughed quietly, the sound muffled by her hair. “It’s almost seven.”

“Too early for you to be this cheerful.” She grumbled.

Lando shifted just enough to look down at her, brushing a lock of hair away from her face. “I’m not cheerful.”

“You’re smiling.”

He smiled wider. “Can you blame me?”

She cracked an eye open, blinking up at him. Her face was still soft from sleep, a little puffy and makeup-free, but to him, she looked... ridiculously beautiful.

“What?” she asked, because he was staring.

“Nothing,” he said, brushing his thumb along her jaw. “I just really like waking up next to you.”

Her expression shifted slightly. And then, a second later, she exhaled and said quietly, “I like it, too.”

Lando kissed her, just a little one, lazy and warm.

They lay tangled in the sheets, the morning light spilling gently across the room. For a while, neither of them moved, perfectly content to exist in the quiet, wrapped up in warmth and each other.

Eventually, Amelia stirred, shifting just enough to reach over to the nightstand. She blinked blearily at her phone and then sighed and glanced across the room.

“Shit,” she muttered. “I forgot to charge my iPad.”

Lando, still half-asleep, pressed a slow kiss to her bare shoulder. “I plugged it in when I got up in the middle of the night to go for a piss.”

She turned to look at him, her expression soft, a little surprised. Her voice came quiet. “You did?”

He nodded, eyes still heavy with sleep. “Didn’t want you waking up to it dead.”

A pause. Then she gave him the smallest pout, sleepy and affectionate and so purely her. “I love you.”

He broke into a grin, one of those quiet, full-body smiles that lived in his eyes. “Yeah,” he murmured, brushing her hair back. “I love you too.”

—

The McLaren motorhome was buzzing with early morning energy, the consistent hum of coffee machines working overtime. Amelia slipped through the front doors with her badge swinging around her neck, hair still damp from a rushed shower, and Lando trailing behind her, half-yawning into a croissant.

Zak spotted them first, already seated at one of the corner tables with Daniel, who was halfway through a heaping plate of scrambled eggs and talking animatedly about something.

“There’s my girl,” Zak called, waving them over.

Amelia dropped into the seat beside her dad with a tired sigh. “Morning, dad.” She kissed his cheek.

“You sound tired,” he frowned at her, sipping his coffee.

Lando slid into the chair beside her, nudging her with his knee under the table. She handed him a napkin in response, gesturing for him to wipe the crumbs away from his face, and he smiled.

Daniel looked between them, eyebrows raised. “You must be Amelia. I’m Daniel. Can’t actually believe we’ve not met properly before now.”

“I know.” Amelia agreed, already reaching across the table for a muffin.

Daniel leaned in a little, grinning. “Lando talks about you all the damn time. In debriefs, pre-race meetings, on his radio—”

“Please stop talking,” Lando glared at his new teammate, clearly embarrassed.

“She’s worth talking about,” Zak laughed, patting Amelia on the shoulder with a fond smile.

Daniel smirked at Lando, thoroughly enjoying his discomfort. Lando just narrowed his eyes at him, his cheeks flushing slightly.

Amelia took another bite of her muffin, savouring her food. But before she could finish, her phone buzzed violently against the table. It was from Max.

iMessage — 7:33am

Max Verstappen Are you here, sister? I want to talk about my steering set-up

Amelia On my way to you now.

She shoved the rest of her muffin into her mouth and stood up in one swift motion. “Okay. I gotta go.”

Lando looked up, surprised. “Already?”

Amelia kissed him quickly on the cheek, her lips lingering for just a second longer than expected. She gave her dad a quick shoulder squeeze before smiling at Daniel, her usual bluntness softened by a bit of shyness she wasn’t used to showing in front of him. “Max wants my advice.”

Zak called after her with a grin. “Tell Jos I want my daughter back for lunch.”

“No promises,” she replied with a glance over her shoulder, already speed-walking toward the exit. Her hair bounced with each step, and her phone was pressed to her ear before she even made it out of the motorhome.

Daniel leaned toward Lando as she disappeared down the hallway. “You’re screwed, brother.”

Lando shot him a look, kicking him under the table. “Shut up.”

—

WhatsApp Groupchat — 2021 F1 Grid

Yuki T. I have Amelia’s iPad in AlphaTauri garage

Lewis H. Yeah, this has to be a new record.

Lando N. Lol she’s just been rly busy. Probably hasn’t noticed she hasn’t got it yet

Max V. She just noticed and started freaking out. @Yuki I’m on my way to get it.

Lando N. She okay @Max?

Max V. Yes mate, no need to worry.

Mick S. @Max Can I pop by your garage and say hi to her? It’s been years!

Lando N. @Max Say no. Max, say no. Max, say no.

Max V. @Mick No, she is too busy for friends.

Lando N. LMAO, REKT @Mick.

Mick S. Bro????? I really don’t want to steal your girlfriend 😭

Fernando A. You do not believe my Amelia is good enough for you, Schumacher?

Max V. What the fuck Mick

Charles L. Uh oh 😬😬

Pierre G. Bro that was NOT the right thing to say 😭

Max V. @Mick She wouldn’t even look your way.

Lando N. Wild angle, mate @Mick

George R. We are witnessing a man dig his own grave live in chat

Daniel R. *shovels faster* Keep going, Mick. Say you think she’s boring next.

Sebastian V. This feels like bullying.

Yuki T. I think it is

Carlos S. @Mick Just lie down. Accept it. The storm will pass.

Mick S. I DIDN’T MEAN IT LIKE THAT 😭😭😭 I literally just meant she’s your girlfriend and I respect that! @Lando

Lando N. Sure you did.

Fernando A. In my country we have a saying — "Schumacher has placed his own foot in his own mouth."

Lewis H. Pick your words better next time yeah? @Mick

Lance S. This is why rookies don’t get access to Amelia.

Esteban O. Wait does that mean I have access to Amelia?

Max V. No.

Fernando A. Absolutely not.

Lando N. You do not.

Valtteri B. I do not speak much in this chat but I just want to say: Mick, this is very funny.

Antonio G. +1

Nicholas L. same 😭

Sebastian V. Let it be a lesson to all of us. Never try to be polite in here. It will be weaponised.

Charles L. I miss when this chat was about tyre pressures and strategy.

George R. That’s adorable. It’s never been that.

NEXT CHAPTER

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