#Double Top Strategy

[signode-blog]

Three Effective Trading Strategies Using M and W Patterns

Let us have look at how we use the M and W patterns (also referred to as Double Top & Double Bottom Patterns) in trading. Here are some Trading Strategies. 1. Double Top (M Pattern) Strategy Description: The Double Top, or M pattern, is a bearish reversal pattern that forms after an uptrend. It consists of two peaks at roughly the same level, with a trough in between. This pattern indicates…

[sanjida1]

AI HIGH TICKET COMMISSIONS

[profiteadeveloper]

Mastering the DOUBLE BOTTOM FOREX TRADING for Maximum Gain 2023

[ducksido]

Hallo ❤️

Can I request the all the housewarden (+ace and deuce) with yuu who is the definition of "trust me bro".

Like yuu is sharing the most ridiculous plan and ended up 100% successful. Every plan they do is flawlessly executed wkdkkekd.

It can be a plan to stop an overblot or something, you decide for the scenarios or just reactions kskdk

(content warning: malleus breakdances)

Riddle Rosehearts — “The Flamingo Stampede Strategy” Riddle: “Yuu, we’re going to be disqualified. This isn’t regulation—”

Yuu: “Trust me, bro.”

Riddle watched in horror as you lured Heartslabyul’s enchanted flamingos out of their pens and into the obstacle course race. The birds charged like a pastel cavalry, knocking over every other team’s contestants while Yuu rode one like a polo horse.

Yuu crosses the finish line victorious, absolutely unbothered. Riddle has an aneurysm on the spot… but also holds up the trophy anyway.

Riddle (internally): This is illegal. This is immoral. This is genius.

Leona Kingscholar — “The Sleepy Bluff” Leona: “This is a serious match, herbivore.”

Yuu: “Exactly. So let’s pretend I’m dead.”

Leona nearly walked off when Yuu laid motionless in the middle of the Spell Arena. The other team surrounded them, confused. Just then—WHAM! A surprise trap spell exploded under their feet, launching them out of bounds.

Yuu sat up with a yawn and dusted off their robe. “Told ya. Trust me, bro.”

Leona stared. “You’re insane. I like it.”

Azul Ashengrotto — “The Legal Loophole Heist” Azul: “There is no way we can beat that merchant’s prices—”

Yuu: “Unless we find a clause in his contract that voids the entire deal.”

Azul blinked. “...That might actually work?”

Ten minutes later, Yuu stood at the merchant’s stall, calmly citing ancient maritime trading law from a scroll they “borrowed” from the library. The merchant turned red, sputtered, and fled.

Azul looked at Yuu with reverent horror.

Azul: “Would you like a part-time position at the Lounge? I’ll pay double.”

Kalim Al-Asim — “Operation Elephant Drop” Kalim: “We need to get the fireworks to the roof fast, but the stairs are blocked!”

Yuu: “...Have you ever heard of rooftop pachyderm transport?”

Later, Kalim is screaming joyfully on top of a magic carpet… dragging a heavily enchanted elephant balloon full of fireworks, piloted by Yuu, who is directing it like a seasoned festival general.

The fireworks launch perfectly from the elephant’s trunk. The crowd cheers. Kalim hugs Yuu.

Kalim: “That was the coolest thing EVER! How did you even—?”

Yuu: “Trust me, bro.”

Vil Schoenheit — “Sabotage by Sparkle” Vil: “We’re competing in a runway show. Do not embarrass me.”

Yuu: “So I replaced our rival’s setting spray with glitter glue.”

Vil: “YOU WHAT.”

During the show, the rival model walks out—only to freeze mid-pose as their face sparkles uncontrollably under the lights. Their makeup clumps and flakes. The judges gasp.

Vil steps onto the runway next. Untouchable. Radiant. Victorious.

He glares at Yuu backstage.

Vil: “...I cannot condone this.”

Yuu: “But?”

Vil: “…You have terrifying instincts.”

Idia Shroud — “Tetris Takedown” Idia: “This raid boss has a 0.4% clear rate. We’ll never—”

Yuu: “I rearranged the dungeon tiles so it traps the boss AI in a loop.”

Idia: “That’s cheating!”

Yuu: “It’s creative problem solving.”

You and Idia watch the screen as the terrifying flame serpent glitches into the wall and starts spinning endlessly.

Idia wheezes, tears in his eyes.

Idia: “You’re terrifying. You’re amazing. Marry me. Wait—IGNORE THAT.”

Malleus Draconia — “Dragon Dance Deterrent” Malleus: “This mage’s duel is serious. Are you sure this will work?”

Yuu: “Malleus. Trust me, bro. Start dancing.”

You play a ridiculous beat on a speaker. Malleus, ancient and dignified, starts breakdancing in front of the challenger.

The opponent is so horrified and confused that they forfeit on the spot.

Malleus dusts himself off. “...I do not understand mortal tactics.”

Yuu, grinning: “But it worked, didn’t it?”

Ace Trappola — “Reverse Uno Bomb” Ace: “We’re not gonna win the card tourney like this.”

Yuu: “We play Uno cards in a poker tournament.”

Ace: “...You are the worst and best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

They slam down a Reverse and then a Draw 4 in the final hand. Their opponent short-circuits from confusion. The judges allow it, citing no rule against using enchanted Uno cards.

Ace cackles. “TRUST ME BROOOO!”

Yuu: “That’s my line.”

Deuce Spade — “Make it Explode” Deuce: “We need a distraction. Just a small one.”

Yuu: “I rigged the vending machine to explode Mentos and cola on command.”

Deuce: “...WHAT.”

They press a rune. The vending machine detonates in a sugar bomb. Everyone runs.

Deuce: “We’re gonna get expelled—”

Yuu: “But we got the key, didn’t we?”

Deuce: “…I fear you. But I trust you.”

[haikyu-mp4]

Double ace – Goshiki x reader wc 946 – f!reader, brother!Ushijima

“Have you seen my sister?” Ushijima’s voice boomed from right beside him. Goshiki screeched and jumped in fright, looking completely dumbfounded at the question.

“Yes.”

“What do you think of her?”

Goshiki gulped, glancing at Tendo, who was watching the interaction with curiosity. “She seems very nice. She’s good at… math?”

“You are right. She is quite capable.”

Goshiki let out an awkward chuckle and attempted to escape when Ushijima kept talking.

“And her looks. Would you say she’s your type?”

His jaw dropped. Goshiki could feel his legs were slightly shaky, wondering if this might be a trick question. “My… type?”

He thanked whoever was watching over him for Washijo ending their chatter there, yelling for them to get back to their training.

What has gotten into Ushijima?

Tendo was quite interested in this development. He kept glancing at his best friend as they left the locker rooms and headed back to their dorms for the night.

“How’s your sister doing, Toshi?” he asked, watching as Ushijima was brought back from whatever thoughts were plaguing him.

“She is doing very well. I’m certain the girl’s team will go to nationals with that new setter,” he informed the redhead. Tendo was happy to hear his friend’s sister was growing into a capable ace as well, but that wasn’t exactly what he meant.

“That’s good. I was wondering more along the lines of her love life.”

Ushijima’s eyebrows furrowed, and he stopped walking, reaching out so Tendo would stop too. “You must keep this between us, but I need your help in a serious matter.”

Tendo’s eyes widened, and he leaned forward as if shortening the distance that the secret would have to travel. “Oh?”

“Y/n has a crush on Goshiki.”

Tendo gasped as if that wasn’t his top theory already. “Young love! I’m invested.”

And so the two third years spent the rest of the evening plotting their strategy.

How did Wakatoshi find out about your huge crush on Goshiki Tsutomu, you might ask?

It was entirely his fault. You couldn’t have known he would be walking past your room at the exact moment you were on the phone with a friend, telling her about how good Goshiki looked in their latest game.

Your brother had stopped walking, glitching as if trying to decide to acknowledge it or forget he heard it. But you’re an amazing sister, and he wanted to help you win over his teammate.

Operation y/n x Tsutomu was afoot.

After recruiting Tendo to the operation, one could find the redhead and his best friend looking around the corner where you’re talking to Goshiki by the vending machine. Of course they orchestrated this, asking Goshiki to get them something at the same time they saw you walking over there, only to be awarded with the two of you trying not to make eye contact while your cheeks flushed red even though you barely talked.

They might need to reach for stronger measures.

Goshiki was wary around Ushijima lately, shoulders hunched the second he walked into the gym in case he would be chased with questions about you again. He forgot he should be wary of the other one, too.

“Tsutsu,” Tendo cooed, ruffling his hair from its perfect styling. “How do you feel about a bet for today’s practice?”

“A bet?”

“If you get more points than Toshi in the first practice game, you have to ask out his sister.”

The first-year tripped over his feet, saved only by Tendo’s quick reflexes. “A-ask her out?”

“You two should totally date; your kids would be double aces.” Goshiki squeaked in horror.

“Kids?!”

“Sorry, I got ahead of myself. But we’re on, right?”

And Goshiki shook his hand on it without even thinking too much because at least he would never win-

He was dumbfounded as Tendo stood completely still on the other side of the net, making no attempt at blocking Goshiki’s spike for the two-on-two. Additionally, Ushijima didn’t even try to receive it, simply pretending to look at the clock instead.

“First point! Good job, Tsutsu.”

He won. Tendo and Ushijima droned out all of Washijo’s yelling for them to cut it out and forced Goshiki into a win. Now he had to… ask you out?!

His hands were shaking as he rounded the corner, finding you talking to a friend by the lockers.

“Y/n,” he greeted, clearing his throat after his voice cracked. “I wanted to ask you something.”

In true teenage boy style, he glanced at your friend as if hinting for her to leave. You told her you’d talk at lunch and grabbed Goshiki’s arm, pulling him down the hall to find some privacy.

“Okay, what’s up?”

Now that he had you so close, he noticed how pretty your eyes were. How kind your smile was, like he wouldn’t have to exert himself to deserve your kindness. Ushijima knew about your crush. However, he didn’t know Goshiki had liked you for longer than that but never found the guts to talk to you before Operation y/n x Tsutomu.

“I would love to have lunch together. Sometime. Maybe this week even.” His hands were behind his back, and he did his best to put on a brave face.

“That sounds great! Is tomorrow too soon? I don’t usually do much for lunch.”

“Tomorrow! Yes!” Goshiki wasn’t sure how a conversation like this should end, but he was so happy that he just squeezed you into an awkward hug, loving the way your giggle felt against his chest.

Ushijima and Tendo shared a fist bump from their hiding spot (standing ominously behind objects that definitely weren’t hiding them).

masterlist

requested by @dira333 for my event, anything for you <3

[halorvic]

This #LongCovidAwarenessDay I’m reflecting on how many people have been let down by governments, public health & medical establishments How Covid has been downplayed, airborne spread ignored & vaxx and relax strategies pushed for the sake of capitalism How many have Long Covid because of this? 🧵 Those of us who were disabled before the pandemic could see this wave of chronic illness coming - and many of us have been screaming from the top of our lungs the last 5 years. Begging people not to take their health for granted & to wear a mask and protect themselves. /2 Warning them that there are no do-overs once you become chronically ill. Unfortunately very few people are listening - and many won’t understand the true devastation of #LongCovid until it directly impacts them. At which point it’ll be too late. /3 Despite seeing these waves of disability as an inevitable consequence of “let er rip” Covid strategy - one thing I did not see coming was how many people would willingly embrace not only ableism - but full on eugenics. /4 People in my own life who were previously kind & supportive have become cruel and angry. The masks have been ripped off. They don’t hesitate to tell me that they blame me for the restrictions placed on them in the early days of Covid. /5 That they will never again allow their freedoms to be infringed on in the name of protecting the vulnerable. One even went as far as to say “you’ve been sick for years - just die already.” /6 People who say these things don’t understand what disabled ppl understand all too well - your health is not a permanent state. Everyone will become disabled eventually - some earlier than others. Many who think they’re invulnerable are already vulnerable and don’t even know it /7 Yet rather than adapting behaviour and pushing for a new normal that makes the world safe for everyone - most temporarily abled people have instead doubled down on hateful eugenics talking points and want us to stay home forever (or worse - die). It needs to stop. /8 Covid is airborne and we all share the air. “You do you” individualism is quite literally killing people. We need to start caring about the air we share as this will lead to a healthier society for everyone. /9 Until then we need to mask up. It’s easy, incredibly effective & it might save someone’s life. At the very least you will know you didn’t contribute to another person’s suffering - and you will be drastically reducing your own odds of getting Long Covid. It’s worth it. /end

@broadwaybabyto.bsky.social

[deepspacedarling]

Monopoly Headcanons for the LADS Boys

Warnings: None, it's just silly

AN: Whoever wins the game gets to take MC out on a date.

Xavier, Zayne, Rafayel, Sylus, Caleb

Xavier 

Lands on income tax twice in the first four goes around the board.

Guns for the yellow properties. No strategy behind it. It's just the first property he lands on that no one owns already so that's his now.

Rolls the most doubles. Ends up in jail repeatedly because of it.

First one to go bankrupt. He'll then watch everyone else or take a nap until game night is over.

He's the iron piece.

Zayne 

He's the bank. He can not be bribed. He will not lose track of the money. He's also very good at math.

Rules lawyer extraordinaire over here. Don't think you can get something past him. He's brandishing the rules like a broadsword.

Actually knows how to play and is cutthroat about it. He'll bankrupt you so fast your head will spin. No one is his friend in Monopoly, you're just an ally he hasn't exploited yet.

Usually the winner or he's fighting neck and neck against Sylus.

He's the thimble piece. 

Rafayel

Pulls the best chance and community chest cards. Always pulls the Beauty Contest card.

Wants to stop playing after the first hour but he's too completive to actually give up.

Always manages to avoid landing on someone else's hotels. He's honestly the reason the game takes so long.

Always throws the dice too hard and they fly off the table.

He's the top hat piece.

Sylus

He'll make you an offer you can't refuse. Seriously, he'll twist your arm to get you to trade with him.

Keep track of the money, he's willing to cheat. If anyone else other than Zayne is banker, he's not above bribing them with actual money. He'll use every advantage he has to win.

Always ends up with all of the railroads. He's basically dominating the board by the 5th or 6th turn.

He's immediately attempting to get the orange spots on the board (They're the best spaces in monopoly fun fact!) The second someone (Xavier) gets out of jail, they owe him money.

He's the car piece.

Caleb

Would rather be playing something else like Uno.

Plays on his phone between his turns. He's paying attention, he promises.

Builds two hotels on our property set and everyone has to deal with that landmine for the rest of the game. He's putting it all in one place and he'll laugh if you land on it.

Prefers to play auction only because he wants to watch every scream at each other.

He's the shoe or the wheelbarrow.

[phantomcomet]

Au where Anakin keeps shamlessly flirting with Obi-Wan in front of anyone and everyone. It's embrassing as hell and Anakin is getting such a kick out of making Obi-Wan blush and look scandalized. Obi-Wan is experienced but dear force, this is Anakin offering to get on his knees in front of the jedi council. He makes a blowjob gesture in front of the troops, winks and does the come hither motion during a diplomatic meeting, skinny dips during an away mission, and on and on. This is over the top, no holds barred come ons.

Obi-Wan keeps telling himself that Anakin is fucking with him, pushing boundaries, being a little shit. He doesn't really mean it.

Meanwhile Anakin is shooting his shot hard enough to blow his own dick off. He's so serious that the Force is embrassed for him. Yoda facepalms during an meeting, Rex and Cody both try to convince him that his balls to the wall strategy isn't working, Ashoka is going to leave the order to avoid the secondhand embrassment.

Eventually Obi-Wan decides that if Anakin is going to sink this low, he's damn well going to meet him at rock bottom. During a live interview he slaps Anakin on the ass and goes, "good job, General," with a dead eyed stare at the camera. Anakin's expression of honry/scandalized/wtf becomes a meme on the holonet.

After that it's just War. Obi-Wan knows how to shut Anakin down- all he has to do is be more lewd, more scandalous, more over the top. That's easy. Anakin fumbles the first few times, because holy shit, Obi-Wan is flirting back, but he's probably just doing it to get even. So Anakin doubles down.

At no point do these idiots realize the other person A. means it and B. is down bad. This is a competition and they're going to Win.

Anyway it culminates to then flirting in front of Palpatine, who just breaks down and tries to murder them both, and the galaxy is saved through over the top sexual innuendos.

It probably ends with them embrassing themselves in front of the galaxy and making out sloppy style.

[no-144444]

persistent perstering- c.leclerc

Day 13 of fic-tober! fic-tober masterlist

summary: Ferrari drivers are persistent. You’re not looking for love. Too bad he is. 

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You liked your job. Ferrari was a good place to work. You’d befriended many of your colleagues, you enjoyed the travel, and though your work was challenging, you felt good. You were the assistant strategist who, granted, usually had better strategies than your boss, but you bite your tongue to keep his massive ego alive. If you could slap him in his dumb fucking face, you would. You liked being in the garage, well, you would if it weren’t for one thing. 

Charles LeClerc. 

Ferrari’s number one, Prince of Monaco, il Predestinato, King of Monza, the Ferrari driver. 

He was a pain in the ass. He followed you around like a love-sick puppy, he hung on every word you said, laughed too hard at all your jokes, talked too much, and he wasn’t exactly your type. 

Well, no one at that moment was. You’d imposed an iron-clad dating ban on yourself when your last relationship ended badly. You weren’t interested in the Monaco dating scene, and even if you were, you wouldn’t start up again with Charles LeClerc. 

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“Morning!” You called out to Carlos. The humid air made every piece of clothing you owned too warm, so you were in a vintage Ferrari cropped-tank. You loved your team, even before working there. Behind Carlos, was Charles, not that you knew that. Carlos smiled, coming over to you. 

“How are you doing?” He asked with a smile. 

“Fucking hot,” you chuckled. He nodded. “It's mad weather.”

“I know what you mean,” he nodded. “Charles’ here could barely stand getting out of bed.”

Charles stepped out from behind him with a bright smile. You smiled back politely, and somehow didn’t notice the way his jaw dropped when he saw you. 

“Ready for tonight?” you asked them both. 

“Ready,” Carlos nodded. “And hoping that you’re doing my strategy.” 

You chuckled and followed him into the paddock, Charles tagging behind you both. “Sadly no, but I will be on stand-by for drinks afterwards, first round on me if things go wrong?”

“First round on me if things go right,” Carlos nodded. 

“Well, good luck today,” you smiled. “Can’t wait for the sprint!”

“Thank you,” Carlos smiled and left to go to his side of the garage. 

“Feeling ready for today?” you asked Charles, trying to be polite. 

He nodded. “How bad can it be?”

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Very, very bad. Extremely bad. Awful. 

Sprint went like this; 

Lap 2: Charles Engine failure into the pits for a 20 second stop.

Lap 8: Carlos crashes with Norris 

Lap 16: Charles into the barriers. 

Double DNF with the feature race tomorrow and quali tonight? Yeah, you’d all be getting fined for staying late. 

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You sat at your desk, looking over the strategy for tomorrow, disheartened at your prospects. Quali had ended 2 hours ago and Charles and Carlos were starting at the bottom of the grid, and it was your job to get them back up into at least the top 10, if not the top 5. Finally, the ball was in your hands in terms of strategy and no matter what, they were going to listen to your calls. The team had all left 30 minutes ago, the cars were fixed with no upgrades and some understeer, but they were drivable. 

“Heading home soon?” Charles’ voice rang out through the empty garage. 

“Nope,” you sighed.

“You’ll work yourself to death,” he sighed. “What are you looking at?”

“Strategy is in my hands tomorrow,” you blurted out. “And I’m fucking freaking out,” You let out a sad chuckle as you felt all of the pressure on your shoulders get heavier and heavier. “I don’t know what to do now. Austin is always a fucking ordeal, and with teh Sprint and you tow trashing the cars we’re so fucked, and they’re finally giving me the chance I’ve been asking for and if I fuck it up they’ll never promote me, even though they know it’s less than ideal circumstances.” 

You took a deep breath as your eyes watered. He placed a hand on your shoulder. “It’s alright,” he whispered. “You can cry.”

You groaned, covering your face. “I don’t want to cry.”

He chuckled softly. “I think you might need to.”

You shook your head, taking deep breaths and wiping your eyes. “No, I-I’m alright.” 

Your breathing quickened. Your heart raced. Your mind clouded. Your ears rang. 

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. 

This couldn’t be happening, not in front of your colleague, not in your workplace not-

And then his lips were on yours? His hands in your hair as you sat there stoic and frozen with anxiety, he fucking kissed you. 

WHAT A CUNT. 

You hastily pushed him off and gathered your things, hoping he would just leave you alone. He rushed out apology after apology until you finally turned to him and screamed. “Leave me the fuck alone Charles! Not everyone is in love with you, alright? I’m Carlos’ friend, not yours! I tolerate you, because I fucking have to, because it’s my job, and because I’m a fucking professional! If you cannot extend those same respectful luxuries, don’t come near me Charles. Just leave me alone!” 

He stood there, shocked, as you stormed off to your hotel room. 

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You walked into the paddock the next morning with your head held high and a plan for the strategy. You knew what you were doing, and the only time you’d have to see Charles today would be on your screen in a car driving more than 300 kilometres an hour. Perfect.

When you got to your desk, there was a small note on it with a bouquet of your favourite flowers. 

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ

Dear Y/n,

I am so sorry about my behaviour last night, it was unacceptable. I panicked and I wasn’t sure what to do, but I know now that was not the way to go about it. I am so incredibly sorry, and I promise to leave you be from now on.  Sorry again, Charles. 

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A part of you felt bad, another didn’t. I mean, working with F1 drivers, you were used to tall egos on shorter men, with very little to back them up other than their money. You were sick of it, and to be honest, Charles just got the brunt of your anger because he was close to you, and he had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

And I mean, it was a pretty good kiss. But no, he’s a dickhead, right? 

You huffed at your own stupidity. No way you were letting a man get you this confused about what you wanted. You didn’t want…? You wanted…? Fuck, what did you want?

“Hi,” Charles’ sheepish voice came from beside you. You whipped your head around to meet his eyes. “I just wanted to apologise in person as well. I am truly very sorry about last night, I put my own feelings above yours and took advantage, and I am deeply ashamed. I promise-”

And then your lips were on his?

How the tables turn.

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navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

fic-tober masterlist

taglist: @anotherapollokid @theseerbetweenus @simbaaas-stuff @5sospenguinqueen @yootvi

[f1-mcmuffin]

First Wins, First Times

(Requested) Lando Norris x Reader (5th Member of BLACKPINK AU)

| Lando Norris Masterlist| Main Masterlist | Spotlight & Slipstream Masterlist |

SUNDAY – MIAMI GRAND PRIX – PADDOCK ENTRANCE

The morning sun burned high and bright, casting long shadows across the concrete as engines buzzed in the distance. The paddock was already a circus — cameras flashing, media zones full, heat rising like static off the tarmac.

The cameras were already waiting. It wasn’t a surprise anymore — not since Barcelona. They stepped through the gates together again

It was only their second time walking in officially like this — hand in hand. Yet somehow, it still felt surreal. The flash of cameras. The buzz in the air. Media attention swung toward them like a spotlight.

She held her head high. Her linen button-down was open over a tiny black tank top, paired with a Prada Natté mini skirt and vintage McLaren sneakers the team had sent her two days before. A VIP Paddock pass knotted on the handle of her orange Birkin. Last night’s eyeliner still lingered soft and smoky beneath her lashes, not quite slept-off, not quite intentional.

Lando looked relaxed beside her – crisp McLaren polo tucked into black slacks, sunglasses on, cap low, but she could feel the tension in his palm. Not from nerves. Focus. That quiet edge he always had before a race. And yet, even with the storm of competition brewing behind his eyes, he still made space for her — like he always did.

It was strange. The last time she was at a race, it had been a secret. Her name hadn’t been in a single headline. Now?

Now she’s  “Kpop Princess turned Paddock Queen.”

The walk toward McLaren’s hospitality unit was fast but punctuated — greetings, waves, a few shouted names. One Sky Sports interviewer did a not-so-subtle double take. Charles Leclerc called out a teasing, “Look who’s gone full team girlfriend!” from Ferrari’s side. Max Verstappen passed them with a grin and tossed Lando a thumbs-up.

She just smiled, tossed her hair back, and kept walking.

Lando nudged her playfully. “Still surviving?”

She glanced at him sideways. “Barely. You all do this every week?”

“You get used to it,” he shrugged. “Sort of like turbulence. Loud, disorienting, and no leg room.”

As they reached the McLaren hospitality suite, his manager and comms team were already waiting — friendly but slightly frazzled. She saw the moment coming, the way his posture shifted just a degree sharper, the way the team moved in like a pit crew with schedules and last-minute reminders.

But before they could pull him away completely, Lando tilted his head toward the second-floor balcony of the unit.

“Come on,” he said, and tugged her hand. “Five minutes. Just us.” 

They found a quiet spot with a view overlooking the paddock. Fans pressed against the fences below, media darting between teams, drone cams buzzing in the sky. But up here, it felt calm.

He leaned against the railing, and she slipped in beside him, arms brushing. For a moment, neither of them said anything. Just breathed.

“You sleep okay?” he asked, voice low.

“Sort of,” she said. “Your mattress was trying to assassinate my spine. You?”

“Dreamt they fucked up my pit strategy,” he muttered. “Woke up sweating.”

She smirked. “Sexy.”

“I do what I can.”

She laughed softly and tilted her face toward the sun. “It’s weird being back here. Like déjà vu.”

He turned toward her. “What do you mean?”

“Last year, I was watching you race on my phone halfway across the world . Now I’m walking in next to you and getting dissected by Sky Sports Twitter.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched her, thoughtful, then reached out to brush a piece of hair behind her ear.

“You’re handling it,” he said quietly. “Better than most. You make it look easy.”

 “It’s not.”

“I know.”

She leaned in then, kissed his cheek, lips lingering just a little longer than necessary. “You always make me feel safe, though.”

He smiled — that slow, crooked one reserved just for her.

“Good. Because after an hour of pretending to care about brake temps, I’ll need something real to look forward to. You in that skirt? That’s a start.”

She stepped closer, eyes flicking over his face. “Careful. You keep talking like that, I’ll be the distraction your engineers warned you about.” Her voice dipped lower, teasing. “Focus now. You can misbehave later. After you win.” He tilted his head, cocky. “But only if you promise not to ghost me afterward.”

“I always text you after the briefing.”

“Sometimes it’s just a thumbs-up emoji.”

“Still counts,” he grinned.

Below, someone called his name — sharp, clipped, urgent. Time was up.

He turned, pressed a quick kiss to the side of her head — then again, slower this time, lingering like he needed to draw from her, like she was his calm in the noise.

“I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

She squeezed his hand. “Go win,” she said softly. “I’ll be right here.”

He gave her one last look — a look that said you matter more than any podium ever could — and then he was gone, swallowed whole by orange polos, headsets, and the blur of the McLaren team.

She stayed a moment longer, watching until the last glimpse of him disappeared into the crowd. Then she straightened her sunglasses, smoothed the hem of her skirt, and turned back toward the paddock — chin high, heart steady.

The Red Bull setup was bigger, brasher. White umbrellas. Custom espresso bar. Giant screens looping highlight reels. Every part of it screamed we win, and we know it.

Lisa was already waiting in the shade, perched on a lounge chair like she owned the entire team. Her outfit was… questionable. Possibly ironic. Space buns, and sunglasses with mirrored lenses that reflected the paddock like a warzone.

When Lisa saw her bandmate, she stood immediately. “Took you long enough,” Lisa said bring her into a hug

She sank into the seat beside her with a sigh. “The walk through the paddock felt like Coachella with engines. People are trying to guess if I was carrying baby Lando already.”

Lisa snorted, pulling a can of Red Bull from a nearby cooler. “You should’ve told them you’re debuting your own team.”

“Team Pink Punk,” she murmured, accepting a drink of her own. “Powered by starting fandom wars and praying we’re planning a comeback.”

Lisa took a long look at her, then softened. Her smirk faded, just slightly. “I missed you, you know,” Lisa said quietly.

She turned her head toward her. Her voice was gentle. “I missed you too.”

The words were heavier than they seemed. Because she hadn’t just missed Lisa. She’d missed them. All of them. The late-night rehearsals that bled into dawn. The smell of studio candles. The off-key laughter on long-haul flights. The way Rosé used to hum into her hoodie sleeves. The way Jisoo always knew when She needed to be left alone, and when she absolutely didn’t. The way Jennie would invite her out to eat with her, they always end up fighting for the bill.

She hadn’t seen any of them in almost a year.

She remembers all five of them going their separate ways, no drama, no explosions — just a quiet scattering. She remembers crying on her solo flight to Monaco, forehead pressed against the window, unsure of when or if they’d make music together again. The silence between them had grown—not cold, just distant. Time zones and obligations and new lives.

“I don’t even know how to say it right,” she admitted, the words barely above the low hum of the crowd. “But it feels like something cracked a little when we stopped. Like… we had been orbiting the same sun, and then suddenly—”

“We were floating,” Lisa finished, her voice uncharacteristically serious. “I know.”

she looked down, twisting the ring on her finger. “I think I was scared to say it out loud.”

Lisa nudged her shoulder. “We all were.”She paused, then leaned back, exhaling slowly. “Rosé sent me a voice note last week. It was just her, playing guitar in her hotel bathroom. She didn’t say anything. Just… played. It felt like home and heartbreak at the same time.”

Her throat tightened. “Jisoo sent me a selfie of her and that same dog she said she wouldn’t adopt.”

Lisa laughed under her breath. “Of course she did.”

The two of them sat like that for a moment, drinks in hand, sunglasses hiding everything that their smiles didn’t.

“I’m glad our paths crossed today,” she said finally, her voice full of that weight she rarely let anyone see. “Even if it’s brief. It reminds me that we’re still us. No matter what.”

Lisa reached over, laced their fingers together for a beat. “We’ll find our way back. You know that, right?”

she nodded once, slowly. “Yeah. I know.”

The big screens flickered again — Lando’s qualifying replay. He looked fast. Focused. Electric. A spark of pride stirred in her chest.

Lisa caught her glance. “So,” she teased, tone shifting back. “Walking in with Lando. Very casual. Very low-key.”

she rolled her eyes. “We’re being casual. That’s not a crime.”

Lisa smirked. “Yet.”

They slipped into silence again, watching the pre-race shuffle build around them — pit crews rushing past, media swarming, camera operators sweating, influencers posing like it was fashion week. It was loud. Flashy. But strangely, not overwhelming. Not with someone like Lisa next to her.

“I’ll admit,” Lisa said after a beat, stretching her legs out, “I kind of like this. It’s different and loud and weird… but it suits you.”

She looked out at the garages, her gaze catching for a moment on the flash of papaya orange. Somewhere beyond the screen, beyond the fences, Lando was suiting up, calm and steady under pressure. Her fingers tapped lightly against the edge of her drink.

“I just want to keep showing up for him,” she said. “And maybe… get the world used to the idea that I’m not going anywhere.”

Lisa grinned. “God, you’re sooo romantic. I love it. It’s gross. But I love it.”

She smirked, brushing her hair out of her face. “Gross love is still love.”

Lisa held up her can for a toast. “To gross love. And band reunions. And possibly stealing a race car later.” They clinked cans, and the world didn’t feel quite so far apart anymore.

Heat shimmered off the tarmac like a warning. Engines were silent but coiled, ready. Photographers lined the edges. VIPs clustered in designer sunglasses and exclusive passes. And in the middle of it all, they walked side by side — sunglasses low and completely unbothered.

She adjusted her ear cuff and scanned the grid. “So… this is what walking through the grid feels like.”

Lisa flicked her hair back, eyeing a cameraman already panning toward them. “You mean walking through a trap.”

“Same thing,” She said, waving a hand. “It’s like the Met Gala had a baby with a Red Bull can.”

A Sky Sports mic appeared in front of them. “Quick question—what brings you to Miami this weekend?”

She smiled politely, but her eyes were already calculating. “The weather,” she said smoothly.

Lisa added, “And our mutual obsession with carbon fiber.”

The reporter laughed. “Any predictions for today’s race?”

She tapped her chin. “Fast cars, sweaty drivers, and… um, champagne.”

 Lisa threw in, “And maybe one of us fainting in the heat. Place your bets.”

They kept walking, the reporter falling behind as the grid swallowed him in tire blankets, cameras, and mechanics.

“God, it smells like testosterone,” Lisa muttered, fanning herself with her VIP pass.

She leaned in. “Probably the Ferrari fans.”

“Yup. Eau de delusion.”

They passed Oscar mid-grid, who gave them a polite nod. Then Daniel Ricciardo, who greeted them with a cheerful “Hey!” and looked two seconds from asking for a TikTok cameo.

Lisa mimed zipping her lips and winked at him. “Oi!” Daniel called back, laughing.

Then came the familiar hum of McLaren orange. Lando, already in his race suit, jogged up from the front row — grin wide.

Her heart lifted instinctively. “Look who’s all dressed up.”

“Look who’s trying to outshine the cars,” he shot back.

He leaned in, kissed her cheek quickly, and pulled back just as a dozen cameras snapped. “Behave,” he warned with mock sternness before jogging off toward the national anthem lineup.

Lisa watched him go. “Is it weird that I feel like we just witnessed the cover shoot for GQ: Fast Boyfriend Edition?”

She snorted. “Wait until he wins a race. He’s going full Vogue spread.”

A woman from F1’s grid protocol team approached, trying not to look like she was herding cats. “Ladies, we need to clear the area—”

She gave her a perfectly measured look. “We know.”

Lisa raised both hands like she was surrendering. “We’re moving, ma’am. No need for the FIA.”

They reached the side barriers near McLaren’s section just as Martin Brundle came within ten feet. He was deep into his grid walk, practically beelining for them — until an AlphaTauri engineer stepped in the way.

Lisa leaned close. “That man wants us.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “Well, he can’t have us.”

“Tell that to the internet,” Lisa muttered, spotting a boom mic floating just out of frame.

On the other side of the fence, fans shouted their names. Some held up Blackpink albums. One waved a hand-drawn poster that read:  “From Kpop Star to Pitlane Royalty 💙🧡”

She smiled and waved. Behind them, mechanics started rolling tire carts away. The anthem was coming. The energy shifted — tension curling through the grid like smoke.

Lisa adjusted her sunglasses. “Okay, but if I pass out during the anthem, I expect a dramatic montage and at least one Ferrari team radio reaction.”

She deadpanned, “Only if it’s Charles saying ‘Mon dieu, someone get her an iced latte.’”

“Honestly,” Lisa grinned

As the orchestra rose and attention swept toward the line of drivers, her eyes stayed fixed on the boy with the curls.

She slowed her pace as she and Lisa approached the Red Bull garage, the air humming with energy. The bass of a deep house track pulsed from hidden speakers, mingling with the rhythmic clang of pit gear and the scent of fresh rubber and sunscreen. 

Lisa adjusted her bucket hat and smirked like she’d just been handed VIP access to mischief. “You sure you don’t want to come in for just five minutes? There’s air conditioning.”

She gave her a knowing look. “If I go in there, I won’t come out until lap 42.”

Lisa laughed, then pulled her into a quick hug. “Tell him If he doesn’t win, I’m photoshopping him into Twilight posters or tweeting ‘he tried his best’ with a suspicious amount of sarcasm.”

“I’ll let him know,” She laughed. “Behave in there.”

“Obviously,” Lisa said, winking as she turned and disappeared into the Blue Zone like a girl on a mission.

She turned back toward the main walkway, already hearing a few camera shutters nearby, and that’s when she spotted Lily Z weaving through the crowd like she was floating. Iced coffee in one hand, her sundress catching the breeze, white sneakers looking criminally clean for a race day.

“Hey,” Lily called with a grin, lifting her drink in greeting. “You’re alive!” 11They hugged quickly, melting into each other’s energy with an ease.

“Barely,” she sighed dramatically. “I lost Lisa to Red Bull. Pray for her.”

“They’ll feed her Red Bulls and propaganda,” Lily said with a mock-serious nod. “She’s done for.”

They fell into step, heading toward McLaren’s hospitality tent with no urgency. Heads turned, phones came up, and a Sky Sports producer practically tripped trying to follow them discreetly. Neither flinched. It was the strangeness of the paddock — be seen, don’t be fazed.

“How are you really?” Lily asked after a beat, voice gentle.  “your travels, race weekends… dating a driver.”

She hesitated for half a second, then exhaled. “It’s… a lot. Amazing. But also… I feel like I’m living out of a suitcase and a WiFi signal. I don’t even know what city I’m waking up in half the time.”

Lily gave her a sympathetic side-eye. “Welcome to Formula 1. You’ll know you’ve fully adapted when you cry on a private jet while ordering a drink.”

“I don’t know how you do it,” she admitted, brushing a hand through her hair.

“Oh, I don’t,” Lily deadpanned. “I just pretend I’m not jet-lagged and sob into Oscar’s hoodie when no one’s looking. Yesterday I cried because I dropped my AirPods in the toilet. He thought I broke a nail.”

She laughed. “Relatable.”

“I mean, it looks good on the outside,” Lily continued, gesturing to everything around them. “But behind every good driver is a sleep-deprived girlfriend running purely on caffeine and repressed emotions.”

She nodded and smiled. “Last week I sent Lando a demo for a possible solo I was proud of and passed out before he even replied.”

Lily winced. “Oh no. Did he text back?”

“He sent back, and I quote, 3 fire emojis and “sounds pleasant.’ Which I think means he liked it.”

The noise of the paddock grew louder as the grid walk neared, but the moment between them was calm.

“Oh, that’s love. That’s modern-day Britain right there.”

The noise around them grew louder as the drivers were going to their positions on the grid

“Still,” Lily said, bumping her shoulder lightly, “You and Lando? You work. You soften him.”

She raised an eyebrow. “So he was feral before me?”

“Oh, absolutely. Still is. But now with slightly better time management.”

“Growth,” she said, mock-solemn. “We love to see it.”

They both cracked up, drawing a curious glance from someone in HAAS gear.

Lily sobered slightly, her tone softening. “I’m really glad you’re here. You belong here more than you think.”

Her throat tightened slightly at the sincerity. “Thanks. I think… I’m starting to feel that too.”

Ahead, McLaren’s garage shimmered in papaya orange like a safehouse in the middle of mayhem. The metallic heat of the paddock gave way to the cooler hum of the garage, where the air smelled faintly of engine oil, burnt rubber, and the lingering traces of sunscreen and energy drinks. Engineers in papaya polos moved with quiet urgency, radios crackling softly, and monitors flickered with telemetry data.

They stepped in together, their footsteps slowing instinctively as they crossed into McLaren territory. Someone handed them branded headphones with their initials and lanyards without a word—everyone was locked in. Focused. This was where it all happened.

A staff member guided them to a pair of seats just behind the main row of engineers. The chairs weren’t glamorous—more folding than plush—but the view was unmatched. A massive screen dominated the wall in front of them, already showing the pre-race feed: onboards, pit lane shots, the occasional dramatic camera sweep across the starting grid.

She slipped the headphones over her ears, the world going quiet except for the calm voice of the race engineer and the low murmur of comms. It was oddly grounding, like slipping below the surface of a storm into something steady.

Lily leaned closer, already fiddling with her mic toggle. “This is my favorite part,” she said softly, grinning. “The quiet before the chaos.”

She nodded, her eyes scanning the garage. Lando’s name blinked softly on a data screen nearby. She caught sight of his helmet in the car— neon green with black blobs. It made her heart stutter just a little.

Then the signal came through the radio: cars rolling out onto the formation lap.

The rumble from the track outside vibrated through the concrete floor beneath their feet.

Seated in the McLaren garage, headphones on, She watched the race unfold on the big screen. The atmosphere was electric, the tension palpable. She cheered as Lando climbed positions, her heart pounding with every overtake.

Starting from P5, Lando felt the familiar adrenaline surge as the lights went out. The initial laps were intense, with Max Verstappen leading the pack. Lando maintained his position, conserving his tyres and waiting for the right moment.

On Lap 29, a collision between Kevin Magnussen and Logan Sargeant brought out the Safety Car. Seizing the opportunity, Lando pitted and emerged in the lead, ahead of Verstappen. At the restart on Lap 33, he defended his position fiercely, then began to pull away as Verstappen struggled with tyre grip.

When the Safety Car emerged and Lando took the lead, she gripped her seat, barely breathing during the restart. Each lap felt like an eternity, but as the gap to Verstappen increased, hope blossomed. Tears welled up as Lando crossed the finish line, victorious. She whispered, “You did it,” her voice choked with emotion.

Each lap, Lando pushed the car to its limits, the McLaren responding beautifully. The gap widened, and with each sector, victory edged closer. The moment the checkered flag waved, Lando crossed the line, the world turned gold.

Her hand flew to her mouth as she stared at the timing screen. P1. Her knees buckled slightly, and beside her, Lisa grabbed her elbow, steadying her.

“Holy shit,” Lisa, who left the red bull garage after Max dropped to second, said. “Your man just won a Grand Prix.” She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t blink.

The garage exploded into cheers. Zak was hugging everyone in sight.  Mechanics vaulted over the pit wall. Papaya-clad arms reached for each other, some slapping backs, others wiping their eyes. The buzz of engines faded beneath the deafening roar of the crowd. The team erupted in celebration as Lando secured his maiden F1 victory. Lisa turned toward her, eyes wide, but she was already moving.

His voice cracked as he screamed into the radio—words slurred by joy, adrenaline, disbelief. “We did it! We actually fucking did it!” His engineer’s voice, half-choked with tears, came through the headset, but the rest was a blur. Mechanics flooded the pit wall. His team—his family—waited for him.

He parked the car, hands trembling as he ripped off his gloves. Helmet tossed aside, he broke into a sprint. Straight into the waiting arms of his crew.

They engulfed him. Cheers and swears and tears. Everyone yelling over each other. One arm around Zak Brown, another around his race engineer, and still—he kept searching the crowd, breath short, heart already pulling toward her.

There she was.

Still in her team pass and headset, standing frozen just beyond the barrier, one hand pressed hard to her chest like she was trying to hold her heart in place.

Their eyes met.

Everything else—mechanics, cameras, microphones—melted away.

He broke from the huddle without a word. Ducking under the barrier, cleaving through the crowd with a singular focus.

She ran too.

They collided with a force that knocked the air from her lungs more than singing ever could. His arms wrapped around her waist and lifted her completely off the ground, her feet dangling as she let out a laugh that quickly turned into a sob, ​​tucking her face into his neck.

“Jesus, Lando…” she whispered, overwhelmed. “You actually did it.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he breathed, his voice rough. “You’ve been with me through everything.”

Her hands curled into his hair, into the collar of his suit. “I’m so proud of you. So—so proud.”

He tightened his grip, held her as though letting go might wake him up. “You kept me steady. Every bad race. Every near-miss. Every stupid doubt I had about myself. You were there.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were red-rimmed, face flushed with the sun and something far deeper. He looked at her like she was the only real thing in the world.

And when he kissed her, it wasn’t shy or careful. It was months of holding back. Late nights in hotel rooms. Phone calls cut short. Dinners interrupted by strategy meetings. Every quiet sacrifice finally paid off in one, spine-tingling kiss. Some girl somewhere around the world fell to her knees at the sight.

Lisa, crouched a few feet away, phone in one hand, proper DSLR in the other, grinned like a cat. The media also caught it all. 

The cameras clicked like fireworks. The feed jumped from garage celebrations to the shot of Lando holding her like she was oxygen. Every commentator fell quiet for a moment, letting the image speak for itself.

@/f1girlythings: SHE JUMPED INTO HIS ARMS I'M SOBBING 😭💔 @/wagscentral: her in the McLaren garage, her in parc fermé, Y/n in my heart 🧡 @/raceweekromance: This is their world. We’re just living in it. @/formulalovee: LANDO JUST KISSED HER IN PARC FERMÉ?????? MY HEART @/motorsportromantics: the way he ran to her. like a man possessed. @/Landoandynsupremacy: I am not fine. I am sobbing in papaya-colored tears. @/gridgirlchronicles: no matter where you stood on the grid today, love won. 🧡

He finally lowered her to the ground, slowly, reluctantly.

Her hands were still resting on his chest. His thumb brushed a tear from her cheek.

“I love you,” he said it so softly, as if the world might steal it away.

she blinked, then smiled like it physically hurt to hold that much emotion. “I love you too.”

From behind them, someone called his name—FIA official, maybe. He glanced back once, then leaned in, resting his forehead against hers.

“You’ll be there at the podium?”

“Of course,” she said again. Her voice was steady now. Sure.

He kissed her once more—quick, reverent—then turned and jogged toward the cool-down room, team members slapping his back, laughter echoing around him.

Lisa slung an arm around her shoulder once he disappeared down the corridor. “That was the most disgustingly romantic thing I’ve ever seen.”

she wiped her eyes with a laugh. “Shut up.”

she stood where he left her, her arms still crossed over her chest like she could hold the moment in place. She smiled through fresh tears, cheeks aching, breath shallow. 

The steps to the podium felt like they went on forever.

Lando’s heart was hammering, not from adrenaline now — but disbelief. He was still drenched in sweat, curls damp under his cap, still breathing like he hadn’t taken a full breath since Lap 47, and his cheeks already hurt from grinning. He took the final step, squinting as the crowd exploded into cheers.

They roared his name.

LANDO LANDO LANDO

His name echoed from the grandstands to the marina. Papaya flags waved like fire. Phones pointed skyward. The McLaren crew punched the air.

He waved, a little dazed. Lando stood in the middle. For the first time. The middle. A little disoriented. It didn’t feel real until he looked down.

Wearing one of his team shirts, oversized and tied at the waist. Hair messy from the wind, makeup a little smudged from tears. Hands clutched to her chest. He’d never seen anyone look at him like that before. 

Pure pride. Pure love. Like he was the sun and she'd just watched him rise.

She blew him a kiss, her fingers trembling slightly. He grinned wide. 

The anthem started. Lando stood a little straighter as the British flag rose behind him, chest swelling. He bit his lip to keep it together.

All those years. All the near-misses. All the heartbreak. And now?

Gold confetti exploded into the air. Champagne time.

The cork launched skyward with a sharp pop, and the podium burst into a storm of white spray. Lando slams the bottle onto the floor making the spray shoot up. Max aimed straight for Lando, soaking him. Charles turned and doused Max back. Lando turned.

A wide arc of champagne sprayed across the barricade. She saw it coming a second too late. “No—no no no not again—Lando!”

 She gasped, hands flying up. She laughed. Loud and unfiltered, even as the champagne mist splattered across her shirt and shoulders.

He beamed, soaking in the sound. He spun around to spray Max in the back.

McLaren crew nearby whooped. A camera caught it all—the race winner turning away from the formal chaos of the podium, grinning like a man with nothing to lose, just to drench his girl in his victory.

@/F1LoveAffairs: Lando spraying his girlfriend AGAIN with champagne from the TOP STEP. I’m sobbing. This is cinematic romance. @/GridGossip: Forget the trophy. Lando just baptized his girlfriend in Moët. @/McLarenFanatic: So this is what winning and being in love looks like. I LOVE THEM SO MUCH.

As the ceremony wrapped, the drivers made their way off the stage, but Lando jogged down the last few steps, handing off his empty bottle. He didn’t care about the media. Didn’t care about protocol.

She met him halfway.

 “You aimed right for my face.”

“You loved it.” 

He leaned in and kissed her hard before she could argue, champagne and sunscreen clinging to both of them.

“Lando!” one of the press officers called from the side.

He pulled back slowly, reluctant, still buzzing. “I have to go lie about how calm I was. Wanna go to the club later”

She smoothed his soaked race suit. “Of course, let’s celebrate your first win”

He winked, turned, and jogged toward the media pen.

The door swung open, and they practically fell inside — Lando kicked it shut with his foot while she kicked her shoes in the middle of the floor like she’d been in boots for twelve hours.

She sighed dramatically. “You know what I need?”

“A second shower because you reek of champagne.”

She shot him a glare. “I was gonna say food.”

Lando laughed, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it onto a chair. “Room service it is, then.”

she flopped onto the bed face-first, muffled. “We’re going clubbing in two hours. I’m gonna die.”

“You can’t die. I just won my first Grand Prix. I need to show you off.”

“You already did. In front of the whole world,” she mumbled, still face-down.

He collapsed next to her and rolled her onto her back, grinning. “And I’m gonna keep doing it until they name a corner after you.”

She wheezed out a laugh and grabbed a pillow to swat him with. “You’re so annoying.”

“You love it.”

She grinned. “Unfortunately.”

They laid there for a minute, just breathing, just smiling. Then Lando turned onto his side and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “You looked really pretty today. In Parc Fermé. Even soaked in champagne and yelling at Lisa.”

She snorted. “You looked like a wet dog. I almost cried.”

“You did cry.”

She kissed him, quick and soft. “I couldn’t help myself.”

He kissed her again, longer this time, hand on her cheek. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Lando.”

“I mean it.”

She just held his gaze for a beat longer before whispering, “Let’s go be disgustingly hot and famous in a club now.”

Their hotel room turned into mild chaos.

She stood at the sink applying eyeliner over her sparkly eyeshadow, wearing his oversized McLaren t-shirt and blasting music from his big ass speaker. Lando walked past behind her, towel around his waist, still dripping water. He smacked her butt as he went by.

“Hey! I’m doing a wing!”

He peeked over her shoulder. “That’s not a wing. That’s a dagger.”

“Oh, perfect.”

In the mirror, she watched as he walked behind her again, now fully dressed in a black button-down he hadn't bothered to button properly and trousers that fit him entirely too well.

She blinked. “Okay, no, you can’t look that good.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve seen what I look like in a helmet.” she shook her head. 

When she finally emerged from the bathroom twenty minutes later — hair curled and full of volume, Dolce&Gabbana sequin embellishment mini dress on, Satin Versace Medusa Aevitas in hand — he just stood there in silence.

“What?” she asked, self-conscious for the first time all day.

“You’re gonna start fights tonight,” Lando muttered from where he leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes dragging over every inch of her. He couldn’t look away.

She turned just slightly, checking her profile in the mirror, her earring catching the light. “Good,” she said casually. “Let the weak fall.” 

He exhaled hard, raking a hand through his hair. “No, seriously, baby. You walk into that club and men are going to spontaneously combust. I might have to knock someone out tonight.”

She smirked. “Possessive much?”

“You wore that, knowing I’d lose my mind,” he said, pushing off the wall, walking over with zero self-control. His hands found her waist, his voice dropping. “And now I have to act like I’m not picturing getting you out of it every ten seconds.”

“Pretend all you want. I’ll still be the one going home with you and.” She tilted her head, eyes glinting, her heel dangled from her finger. “You’re stalling.”

He dropped to his knees with a half-laugh, half-growl. She arched a brow but perched on the edge of the bed, amused as he took the heel from her hand and carefully slid it onto her foot, his fingers brushing up her ankle to clasp the strap around, slow and reverent. 

“Is this your Cinderella fantasy?” she teased, letting her knee nudge his shoulder.

He kissed the inside of her calf. “No. In mine, the clock never runs out.”

The second heel followed, just as gentle, just as charged. When he looked up at her, still crouched between her knees, she saw it—full, aching devotion burning behind those blue eyes.

He rose to his feet, slow and magnetic, hands finding her waist again. Now with heels on she was just below his chin. She tilted her head up at him, her hands sliding over his broad shoulders to clasp together around his neck, the smirk softening into something gentler. “You've won your first Grand Prix and you’re still obsessed with me. How tragic.”

“Hopelessly,” He groaned, leaning in to kiss her, deep and lingering, like he needed it to anchor himself. When he pulled back, his thumb brushed her cheek. She kissed him again—harder this time, the kind of kiss that promised they were already late and about to make even worse decisions. When she pulled away, breathless, she tugged him toward the door.

“Let’s go,” she said. “Before we get too carried away” before grabbing his face and kissing him again, hard. 

“God, I love you.”

“I know,” she said, already pulling him toward the door, “Let’s go give Miami something to talk about.”

He reached for the door handle, pausing just long enough to say, “With you on my arm, they’ll never shut up.”

And with that, they disappeared into the electric Miami night — golden, glowing, and completely in love.

The McLaren pulled up to the curb like a comet, low and gleaming under the Miami moonlight, its papaya orange catching every flash of paparazzi and phone screen like it was made to be seen. The thrum of the engine faded into the background roar of the club’s bass, but the car itself kept every eye on it.

Behind the tinted windows, she reapplied a coat of gloss with the casual confidence of someone who knew the world was about to watch her walk through it. Her legs were crossed, heels glinting under the streetlights, and her expression unreadable—until Lando cut the engine and glanced over at her.

“You ready?” he asked, voice low, but there was something boyish in his tone—a quiet awe that hadn’t faded since the hotel.

She turned to him, one brow raised. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

He chuckled, running a hand down his face like he needed a second to collect himself. “You’re gonna be the end of me tonight.”

Lando stepped out of the car first, straightening the collar of his black button-down. The second he appeared, the crowd shifted, the velvet rope pressing tighter as people leaned in for a glimpse. Miami was already buzzing about his win, and now it would buzz about this.

He circled around the McLaren like it was muscle memory, not a performance, and opened her door with a practiced sweep. Cameras fired. Lights popped. And then she stepped out.

She moved like she had all the time in the world—shoulders back, chin lifted, her dress hugging and slipping in the right places. The city heat curled around her, but she was the one setting it ablaze. Her hand found Lando’s, fingers threading easily, and the grin he gave her was pure worship.

The bouncer clocked them instantly, stepped aside without a word, and unhooked the rope. A handful of people in line gasped—one even dropped their phone.

Lando leaned in as they walked past the crowd. “I think someone just fainted.”

She barely blinked. “They’ll survive.”

They entered the club like a movie scene. The moment the doors shut behind them, the bass swallowed the world whole—pulsing lights, shimmering walls, and VIP lounges carved out like altars of neon and champagne. Heads turned. Whispers bloomed.

Every eye found them as they moved through the haze: Lando, fresh off his first win, glowing with adrenaline and unfiltered joy—and her, dressed like a siren in heels he’d knelt to put on, walking like she had him on a leash. 

They were greeted at the VIP balcony with drinks already chilled and staff already grinning. Lando tugged her close with one hand on her lower back, whispered something in her ear that made her laugh, and the DJ dropped into a remix of something fast and electric—Miami’s unofficial welcome. And still, he couldn't stop looking at her.

She leaned into his chest, letting him hold her drink while she fixed her earring. He watched the curve of her jaw like it was divine geometry.

“Can I confess something?” he said into her ear.

“That you’re obsessed with me?”

“That’s not a confession, that’s common knowledge.” He grinned. “But I mean it. You—you’re all I’ve thought about since I crossed that finish line.”

She paused, her expression softening just slightly. “It was always going to be yours, Lando. The win. The moment.”

He shook his head, pulling her a fraction closer. “Nah. It was never just about the win. It was about getting off that podium and finding you.”

She blinked, then smiled slowly. “God, you’re getting sappy.”

“You love it.”

“Tragically,” she admitted, taking a sip from her glass. “Now shut up and dance with me.”

And just like that, Lando Norris—F1’s newest Grand Prix winner—followed her into the center of the dance floor like a man willingly lost.

The beat dropped into something heavier, a rhythmic thump that vibrated through the soles of their shoes as she led Lando into the glowing pulse of the VIP dance floor. Neon lights flickered off glass, ice buckets glinted, and smoke machines curled mist around everyone like magic.

Just ahead, Lisa spotted them first—perched on the edge of a velvet couch with a cocktail in one hand and her phone in the other. She wore a silver mesh top over a black bralette, her eyeliner sharp and a wicked smile. Lisa gives her a quick hug.

Just then, the rest of their circle appeared—Ethan and Morgan pushing through the crowd, both already a little flushed from drinking, followed by a couple of Lando’s McLaren crew and one of her backup dancers still in sequins from their last performance. Champagne was flowing like tap water. Someone handed Lando a bottle straight from the ice bucket, and someone else passed her a lemon drop shot.

“To Landos first Formua 1 win!” Max F. toasted, lifting his glass. The rest followed suit and cheering, downing whatever they had in their hands. All making faces at the strong drinks. They laughed—loud, open, unbothered.

Lando couldn’t stop smiling. He pulled her to his side again, arm draped around her waist like it belonged there. She glanced up at him, makeup flawless, eyes shining under the strobes. He leaned down just a little, brushing his mouth by her ear.

“I could stay like this forever.”

She tipped her head, amused. “Sweaty, tipsy, and surrounded by idiots?”

“I meant you next to me,” he murmured. “But yeah, that too.”

The camera clicked, catching her mid-laugh and Lando gazing at her like he’d already won more than any podium could offer.

The group exploded into another round of drinks and banter, she felt Lando’s hand slide down her back, fingers brushing the curve of her hip.

“Come dance with me,” he said, voice low and warm in her ear, already tugging her gently away from the booth.

The dance floor was a swirl of bodies and color, all bass and heat and pulsing light. Lando pulled her close the second they stepped into the crowd, hands finding her waist with zero hesitation. She turned toward him, arms slipping around his neck, the sound of the club fading into the electric buzz between them.

The rhythm slowed into something sultry, deep and rolling like thunder. SHe swayed against him, her body pressed fully to his now, hips moving in time with the beat—and with his.

Lando ducked his head, letting his forehead rest against hers for a breath. “You’re unreal,” he murmured, his voice nearly swallowed by the music. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

She tilted her chin up, brushing her lips just beneath his jaw. “I have a pretty good idea,” she teased, smirking when she felt his grip tighten on her hips.

His hands slid lower, hands grabbing her ass through the sparkly fabric of her dress, holding her close—possessively. One hand traced its way up the bare skin of her back, slow and deliberate, until he was cradling the base of her neck.

She gasped softly into his ear, the feeling of his touch sending sparks up her spine. “Lando…”

“Mm?” His lips ghosted across the corner of her mouth.

“You keep touching me like that, we’re going to get kicked out.”

“Let them,” he said, his voice rough now. “You’re the only thing I want to get in trouble for tonight.”

She laughed, breathless, half-dazed from the way he was looking at her—like she was the only thing in the room. The kind of look that could start fights. That could ruin him. That already had.

Their hips stayed in sync, moving to the deep, seductive rhythm of the music. She let her fingers tangle in the curls at the back of his neck, tugging lightly. He rewarded her with a soft groan, eyes fluttering shut.

She kissed him again, slower this time, deeper—right there under the lights, surrounded by strangers and stares. She didn’t care. Neither did he.

He pulled back just enough to say, “Let’s stay on this dance floor until your heels hurt and my hands stop knowing where to go.”

And for the next few songs, they didn’t speak. They didn’t have to. Everything they needed to say was in the way their bodies moved together, in the hands that didn’t want to let go, and the eyes that kept saying mine.

It was way past midnight, and the club had hit its fever pitch.

The air was thick with perfume and sweat, flashing lights casting electric shadows over the crowd. She was flushed, her skin glowing, hair wild from dancing, the hem of her dress hitched slightly higher with every spin Lando pulled her into. Her laugh was a melody layered over the beat—unbothered, untamed.

They’d barely left the floor. Drinks had been brought to them now—delivered like tribute by grinning friends who knew better than to break the spell between them.

Lisa reappeared at one point, sliding in with a drink and a devilish grin. “You two are putting on a show,” she teased,

Lando, behind her now, wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder, the crowd moving around them like waves breaking around a rock. He was still grinning—but it had softened into something darker, needier.

“You’re the hottest person in this entire building,” he murmured, breath warm against her neck.

She looked over her shoulder at him, coy. “Yeah?”

“Don’t ‘yeah’ me like you don’t know,” he growled, hands drifting down to her thighs again, thumbs brushing under the hem of her dress as the music pounded through them. “I’m two seconds from telling everyone we’re leaving.”

“You won today,” she said, leaning back into him. “Don’t you want to celebrate?”

“I am,” he said, pressing a slow kiss to the space behind her ear. “I’m just greedy. I want you all to myself.”

Her heart stuttered. That voice—rough, low, too intimate for a dance floor. She turned to face him again, their lips nearly brushing. “After this song,” she whispered.

He smirked. “You’re playing a dangerous game, baby.”

“And you’re losing it,” she said with a wink, just as the beat dropped again.

More friends joined them—Oscar and Lily showing up with neon drinks, a few others from the McLaren team, some familiar paddock faces now loosened by alcohol and glittering under strobe lights. A circle formed around Lando and her, the dancing growing more chaotic, more reckless.

At one point, she climbed onto a low platform with Lisa, both of them raising their glasses like queens of the night, dancing with eachother. Lando looked up at her, a dazed, reverent grin on his face like he couldn’t believe she was his.

When she jumped down, he caught her mid-air without hesitation, hands splayed on her thighs, lifting her easily before sliding her back down against him, slow and deliberate. Their eyes locked. Breath mingled.

“No more songs,” he said, voice like gravel.

She traced a finger down his chest. “Lead the way.” He didn’t even grab their things. Just her hand.

As they pushed through the crowd, She caught Lisa’s eye. Her best friend gave her a dramatic salute and mouthed ‘good luck’. She blew her a kiss.

They stepped out into the humid Miami night, bodies still humming from bass and touch, hands still tangled like they'd forgotten how to separate.

The McLaren waited at the curb—sleek and purring, engine soft as silk. Lando opened her door, gaze flicking down her legs as she climbed in.

“Tell me,” he said, eyes darkening as he got in on the other side, “how bad would it be if I made this the night you never forgot?”

She smiled, sliding closer until their legs were touching. “I was counting on it.”

The McLaren’s engine purred low as they pulled away from the club, the lights of Miami streaking past the tinted windows in blurred, electric ribbons. Inside, the air was quiet—except for the low thrum of Lando’s uneven breathing and the heavy beat of both their hearts filling the space between them.

She sat with her legs crossed, one hand resting on the armrest, the other dragging lightly along the hem of her dress like she could still feel the ghost of his hands there. Lando’s grip was tight on the wheel, knuckles pale, jaw locked. His eyes never left the road, but every inch of him was wired—buzzing, burning. Her voice was soft but sharp when she finally broke the silence. “You’re quiet.”

“I’m trying not to wreck the car,” he muttered, shifting gears like it might somehow calm him down. “Which is hard when you keep looking like that.”

She turned her head, feigning innocence. “Like what?”

“Like you want me to lose control.”

He glanced at her then—just a flash—but it was enough to see the way her lips curled into a smirk, legs uncrossing slow, deliberate. “You already did. On the dance floor.”

He let out a breath through his nose. “babe.”

“What?” she said, voice dripping with faux sweetness. “You said you wanted to celebrate.”

“I didn’t mean in public,” he snapped, eyes fixed ahead, but his hand drifted, unthinking, to her thigh, fingers pressing into the skin like he needed to ground himself.

She covered his hand with hers, holding it there. “Then you’d better drive faster.”

That was all the permission he needed.

The rest of the ride was a blur. Every red light was a curse. Every second not spent with his mouth on hers was unbearable. By the time they pulled up to the hotel, the valet barely had time to open her door before Lando was rounding the car, grabbing her hand, and pulling her through the lobby like a man on the edge.

The elevator ride was silent.

Not because they didn’t want to speak—but because one wrong word would’ve had them stopping the lift between floors. She leaned against the mirrored wall, watching him through heavy lashes. Lando stood in front of her, jaw clenched, fists in his pockets, doing everything he could not to turn around and press her into the glass. The doors slid open with a soft chime. They didn’t speak. Lando swiped the key card with shaky hands and shouldered open the door to their suite.

it all fell apart.

The moment the door clicked shut behind them, her heels were off, and Lando was on her—lifting her, kissing her, hands in her hair, down her back, gripping her like she was air and he’d been drowning all night.

Her legs wrapped around his waist. “You gonna pin me to the wall again?” she whispered, mouth grazing his ear.

He groaned, stumbling toward the bed with her still clinging to him. “I’m gonna ruin you.”

“Good,” she whispered, kissing him breathless. “Then we’ll be even.”

He laid her down gently, reverently, like she was breakable and burning all at once.

Lando kissed her like it was the only language he spoke. His hands cradled her face at first, gentle, like she might slip away if he wasn’t careful. But as her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt and pulled him closer, something shifted—urgency replacing restraint.

They moved together in a blur of whispered names and held breaths. She unbuttoned and peeled his shirt off, fingers grazing the warm skin of his chest like she was memorizing it again. He trailed kisses along her collarbone, each one softer than the last, until she tilted her head back and exhaled his name like a secret.

“Look at me,” he said against her skin, voice rough and low.

She did. And what she saw in his eyes wasn’t just desire—it was worship.

He took his time. Every touch was deliberate, slow, like he was proving a point: that no matter how wild the club had been, no matter how many eyes had been on her, she was his. Here, now, and only his.

They moved like they’d done this a hundred times—but still, it felt brand new. Deeper. Like the high of his win was still pulsing in their veins, but this was the real prize.

Her hands slipped into his curls, pulling gently as he kissed down her stomach, his voice rasping, “You drive me mad.”

She smiled, breathless. “You love it.”

“I love you,” he said, so fiercely it stole the air from her lungs.

When he finally laid over her again, chest pressed to hers, he kissed her like they had forever. Their bodies fit together in that way they always had—familiar, electric, sacred. Nothing else existed.

The world outside their suite—the press, the fans, the cameras—none of it mattered here.

There was only him. Only her. Only the quiet symphony of skin and breath and love blooming between them.

And when they finally stilled, limbs tangled, his forehead resting against hers, he whispered, “You’re it for me. Always have been.”

She brushed her fingers down his spine and smiled. “Took you long enough to say it.”

“I’ll say it again,” he breathed, kissing her nose, then her lips. “As many times as you’ll let me.”

The first thing she registered was the sunlight—bright, merciless, and filtering through the sheer curtains like it had a personal vendetta.

The second was her hangover. Sharp behind the eyes, a low throb at her temples, and a mouth as dry as the desert. Somewhere, the bass from last night still echoed faintly in her bones.

She groaned, hand coming up to rub her temples.

From beside her, a muffled voice replied, “Please tell me that wasn’t you dying.”

She cracked one eye open.

Lando was lying flat on his stomach, half his face buried in the pillow, hair a tousled mess, the bedsheets tangled around his waist. One arm hung off the bed, the other flopped across her stomach like he was still claiming his territory even in unconscious misery.

“You’re the one who challenged Max to tequila shots,” she croaked.

“You cheered me on.”

“I didn’t think you’d actually win.”

He let out a broken laugh, immediately wincing. “Mistakes were made.”

She reached over the side of the bed and grabbed a bottle of water from the floor that had gotten knocked over from last night's activities, holding it out to him like an offering. “here”

Lando dragged himself up on one elbow, looking at her like she was a divine entity. “God, I love you.”

“Don’t try to flirt with me while you look like roadkill.”

He grinned, raspy and unbothered, then took a sip and collapsed again. “I’m serious. Even roadkill has feelings.”

She let her hand rest on his bare back, trailing absent-minded circles along his spine. “Do you remember trying to convince Lisa to a dance-off?”

“Do you remember grinding on me in front of, like, half the grid?”

Her head dropped back onto the pillow with a groan. “Oh my God.”

“Best night of my life.”

“Our best night but your PR team’s worst nightmare”

He laughed again, nose scrunching. “Worth it.”

Their limbs slid together like muscle memory, her cheek resting against his chest, his hand brushing through her hair with lazy affection. They stayed like that for a long while—bodies aching, heads pounding, but hearts light.

Finally, he whispered, “Let’s never do that many shots again.”

She smiled against his skin. “Agreed.”

“But let’s always wake up like this.”

She looked up at him, eyes soft despite the headache. “Deal.”

And in the mess of sheets and champagne-soaked memories, they kissed—slow, hungover, and completely in love.

--------

Stay tuned for more hehe

[dostoyevsky-official]

Boris Spassky, who has died aged 88, was the gallant loser of the most famous match in chess history. The Russian champion conceded his world title to Bobby Fischer at Reykjavik in 1972, but gained a host of admirers for his sportsmanlike behaviour and dignity in defeat. When Fischer had failed to appear for the opening ceremony, Moscow wanted Spassky to claim victory by default and return home. But he had struck a bond of friendship with the American at their previous meetings, and agreed to a first game postponement that allowed the London financier Jim Slater to save the 24-game match by doubling the prize fund.

Spassky then won the first game after his opponent blundered, followed by the second when Fischer defaulted after a dispute over television cameras. The German arbiter Lothar Schmid arranged for game three to be played in a small backstage room, despite renewed opposition from Soviet officials. There was still a narrow escape at the start of the game when Fischer began to complain and Spassky headed for the door, so Schmid forcibly sat them at the board and demanded: “Play chess!”

Once he got into the match, Fischer proved in irresistible form and won five of the next eight games, effectively deciding the outcome. Spassky was stunned, but joined in the applause at the end of the impressive sixth game, and maintained his friendship with his rival when they analysed together at the final ceremony. He was also pragmatic, depositing his share of the prize money in a western bank in defiance of an edict that winnings should be handed to the USSR sports federation.

Spassky was born in Leningrad. Neither his father, Vasili, a construction engineer, nor his mother, Ekaterina Petrovna, a teacher, played chess, though his younger sister Irina became a USSR women’s draughts champion. Spassky first played chess at the age of five on a train during the evacuation of Leningrad to escape the German siege, but then forgot about the game until he returned home after the second world war. By then, his parents were divorced.

In the summer of 1946, Spassky began to visit a chess pavilion in the city’s Central Park and became obsessed with the game: “I used to go at 11am and return home at 11pm. When the pavilion closed in September it was like death, with no chess.” In 1947 he joined the Leningrad Palace of Pioneers (a youth centre for extracurricular activities), where the inspirational Vladimir Zak, who had coached several grandmasters, recognised his talent. At the age of 10, Spassky beat the world’s best player, Mikhail Botvinnik, in a simultaneous exhibition, and improved rapidly. By 15, he was the youngest ever Soviet master, with a positional and solid style.

[...] Spassky was cultured, handsome, calm and athletic. At college he was a high jumper and volleyball halfback, and after he lost the world title he became a keen tennis player. Sometimes he would arrive at chess games in tennis gear, put his racket beside the board, and agree a quick draw. His conversation was often ironic, and he was a mimic whose favourite targets were Lenin and Botvinnik. But he also had an introspective, modest and sometimes melancholy side to his character.

Spassky’s peak period in world chess was relatively short, and his rout by Fischer at Reykjavik was a career-defining moment, yet history is likely to regard him as a great champion. His harmonious and universal playing style combined grace with power, and his best games have the classic lucidity that can inspire amateurs. His forte was the middle game, where his imaginative yet sound and deeply planned strategy could erupt into decisive tactical attacks. His notable opening was the king’s gambit 1 e4 e5 2 f4, rarely seen at the top level, where his 16 wins and no losses included victories over Fischer and Karpov.

Spassky was unlucky in that he had to contend with Tal and Karpov at their peaks as well as with Fischer. As a personality, he was among the most articulate and likable of the world champions, a man who charmed ordinary fans while keeping the respect and admiration of his peers.

[bad-traffic-smp-ideas]

Double-life style damage sharing but players share different kinds of damage with different people. You share blast damage with one player, axe damage with a different player and so on. You need to work out what damage you share with who and try to make sure they don't die to that specifically. Top strategy would probably be to immediately lava trap whoever you share fall damage with. Would be an absolute nightmare the moment there's a large fight with multiple elements at play. And a nightmare to code I'd imagine.

Fans mapping out who shares what types of damage as they're revealed throughout the series

[hoe4hotchner]

Red to Blue | [A.H]

Pairing: F1 driver!Hotch x fem!reader | WC: 0.7k | CW: Sweat?

A/N: I’ll give you this in celebration of me finishing the Lego F1 cars I bought 🤭

The paddock buzzed with anticipation as the 2025 Formula 1 season was about to kick off under the bright Australian sun at the Albert Park Circuit in Melbourne.

The air was filled with the familiar scent of high-octane fuel and burnt rubber.

Amidst the grandeur of top teams like Ferrari and Red Bull, a renewed energy emanated from the Williams garage—a team historically rich in legacy, now attempting to reclaim its stature.

At the helm stood Aaron Hotchner, he was the newly appointed team principal of Williams. Years had passed since his celebrated tenure as a driver for Ferrari, where he had clinched multiple wins and a few world championships before an unexpected mid-season retirement.

His departure had been shrouded in speculation, but those close to him knew he sought a life beyond the circuits, a life with you.

Williams had approached him several times during his retirement, trying to reel him in, but only as you'd gotten a great job opportunity in the UK, had he agreed.

Now, with the same determination that had defined his driving career, Hotch was poised to steer Williams back to its former glory.

Beside him, you observed the meticulous dance of engineers and mechanics moving around the garage, their movements were a testament to the countless hours of preparation that the first race had foregone.

The team’s driver lineup had undergone a significant transformation: Carlos Sainz, formerly of Ferrari, brought a wealth of experience and a burning desire to prove himself even further.

It was an irony not lost on anyone—Carlos had been the one to take Hotch’s vacant Ferrari seat years ago. And Hotch had been the first to grab him for the team once made available.

Now, under Hotch’s leadership, their paths intertwined in an entirely different dynamic.

Alongside Carlos was Alex, whose resilience and adaptability had ensured him to continue in his seat at Williams. This pairing, although unusual, was a blend of seasoned expertise and tenacious spirit.

It had already begun to show promise in the early stages of the season.

As the cars lined up on the grid, the atmosphere was electric. The front row was dominated by the usual powerhouses, but Carlos had secured a P5 in qualifying, with Albon close behind in P7.

Hotch's gaze was fixed on the monitors, analyzing real-time data, his mind orchestrating potential strategies. His headset only covered one ear, as he stayed aware of his surroundings with the other.

"Nervous?" you teased, nudging him gently.

He offered a rare smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Always. But it's a good kind of nervous."

The formation lap commenced, engines roaring to life. Hotch’s voice, calm and authoritative, crackled over the team radio. "Stay focused. Remember our strategy. Trust the car, and trust yourselves."

As the lights went out, the race erupted into a blur of speed and tactical maneuvers. Carlos made an aggressive start, skillfully navigating through the pack to challenge for a podium position. Albon, displaying his characteristic finesse, defended his position while seeking opportunities to advance.

Hotch’s leadership was noticeable. He seamlessly coordinated with his engineers, making split-second decisions on tire strategies and pit stops. His transition from driver to team principal had endowed him with a unique perspective; he understood the car’s language and the driver’s psyche, allowing him to bridge the gap between the cockpit and the pit wall.

Mid-race, a sudden safety car deployment and added an element of unpredictability. Hotch’s experience shone through as he swiftly called for a double-stack pit stop, a bold decision that catapulted Carlos into P3. The Williams garage erupted in cautious optimism, the possibility of a podium finish within reach for the first time in years.

As the checkered flag loomed, Carlos defended his position against Lando, crossing the line to secure third place. Albon finished strong in P6, earning valuable points for the team. The Williams garage was a whirlwind of elation, the podium finish a testament to their collective effort and Hotch’s strategic insight.

Before entering the cooldown room, Carlos approached Hotch, his race suit drenched in sweat but his face alight with triumph. "Couldn’t have done it without your call."

Hotch clasped his shoulder, pride evident in his eyes. "It was all you out there. This is just the beginning."

As the national anthem played and the podium celebrations commenced, you stood amidst the team, Hotch's arm wrapped around your frame, pulling you close to him, your heart swelling with pride.

Hotch’s journey had come full circle—from a champion driver to a visionary leader, reigniting the spirit of a storied team. And through it all, you had been by his side, sharing in the highs, the lows, and now, the resurgence of a legacy.

[smutoperator]

Which position/act do you think of with each Twice member?

Nayeon: Twice's blowjob queen that makes everyone pop but also perfect for some upskirt standing fuck

Jeongyeon: her thicc body makes her perfect for some bed-breaking prone-bone, cuddling her while you top her at the same time

Momo: doggy is her position, DP is her act. Truly she's so strong and flexible you can do anything with her. But she loves getting double stuffed while one of the guys mounts on her

Sana: vaginal cowgirl no questions asked. The most insane ride in kpop her strategy deleted fancam says it all

Jihyo: the titfucking queen but also perfect for a hot missionary

Mina: easiest choice. Anyone who saw her twerk on stage know it's anal reverse cowgirl. And you can bet your life savings she's gonna twerk

Dahyun: another doggy girl but with a twist: she loves getting her pale skin spanked

Chaeyoung: Fast paced blowjob enthusiast but loves any position where her small body gets pinned

Tzuyu: mating press with a deep creampie. Always embracing the #CreampieTheManknae tag

[keksalot404]

Uh oh! Some BOZO decided to play UNDERTALE and UNDERTALE YELLOW at the same time (Both games FUN value was 66) and now the timeline is F*CKED (By about one year; It wasn't that long till Frisk came along)

This is the Guide to UNDERTALE ROM LEAK, mostly a frame of reference for me and you regarding this AU born from a doodle and a dream. Those who just want to see the art with no context, feel free to click the top pic and swipe down or something.

A Tale of 2.5 Souls

Seems like whatever the reason Frisk went to the mountain, they ended up tailing Clover, where the game begins. Control between the 2 fallen children is split, meaning that both Frisk and Clover are free to express their quirks and personalities more.

Adding to that, NarraChara is also here, being visible to Frisk, Clover, AND the player due to more determination in the area. Frisk still has higher DT than Clover, so they're in charge of LOADing and SAVEing as well as playing leader.

Prepare For Trouble, Make It Double!

Now obviously the timeline can't really be UT or UTY if all major events need to be dealt with. The universe's solution? Now every Major Character (and perhaps minor ones) are paired up with their cross game counterparts. While encounters for each monster can be seperate, eventually they will cross paths with eachother and the fallen humans.

With each section of the Underground now longer with even paired area newly connected (More on how that works later), it'd feel like even 2 player characters can't make it easy. Fortunately for a certain route, you may get some help...

Kanako

To fill a void for a Certain Short Scientist, seems fate pulled a few strings, and brought a new friend back from near-death! If you don't kill any monsters during RUINS, Kanako will sense your pure hearts and join the party, acting as the Ralsei to this Diet Fun Gang.

With healing and shield magic, she'll make your journey a lot more manageble, at the cost of not being able to kill any monsters all the way until Asgore (She will still allow you to spare monsters by lowering health but if she senses a chance to kill she will block the attack and scold you for it.)

Being a much more attentive protector than the Skeleton, she'll accompany Frisk and Clover through the emotional highs and lows of their journey, and perhaps maybe...

You'll find out the true reason she's helping you.

Stronger Monsters

For the characters of the 2 timelines being destined to meet, it is also true that destiny will point into blocking your path. For the Major Battles at least, you'll have to fight both of them at the end of each paired areas. An example being meeting North Star in Wild East only for Starlo's betrayal being calling Undyne to hunt you during Waterfall.

Expect combo attacks, fused soul modes, and complex strategies when facing the duel bosses. Some might even compromise Kanako from assisting. No fight has the same solution as the UT and UTY fights (except maybe Papyrus and Martlet), so be prepared and stay determined!

So have fun while you can, won't you? It's not likely you will get these games together again. You wouldn't waste this once-in-a-while experience just to do something you'll regret.

You wouldn't waste it just to see what happens...

...right?...

...

[mxstellatayte]

landoscar 4+1 kiss things.

alternate title: four times it's casual and the first time it isn't

this one is inspired by @prokrastinartiya's landoscar kissing meme! i saw it, fell in love, BOOM absolutely locked in for an idea :)) (before y'all start telling me it's normally 5+1 I KNOW shhhhhhh i prioritize quality over quantity)

contains: the 4 is mostly fluff but a lil bit of spice, the +1 is straight up smut tho, smut warnings: making out, sub lando, miami gp win, congratulatory sex, L bombs, lowkey a shitty ending bc i don't know how to write endings LOL, just two boys being really in love :)

find the original art post that inspired this here!

taglist: @vivi-81 @irishmanwhore @lucycowr @benstormy @anat33-blog1

@Xoscar03 @tremendousstarlighttragedy @nenamalenaa @champagneproblems17 @marknolee

@toby33b @theendofthematerialgworl @soloqualcosa @sassyinchident808

join my taglist here!

i: the establishing kiss.

contrary to popular belief, oscar's love language is physical touch. he doesn't let it show all that much, but when he feels safe with someone, he doesn't stop showing it.

take lando, for example.

the first time he kisses lando, they're in japan in 2023. the brit is initially confused and a little bit shocked, taken aback by the sudden change in oscar's demeanor, but quickly learns to reciprocate.

lando had been endlessly yapping about something or other, oscar hadn't really been paying attention, but when his engineer poked his head in to summon oscar for a quick check in about potential tyre strategies, oscar stood, pressed a kiss to lando's cheek, and was about to walk out of the room before he heard his teammate short circuit.

"shit, sorry. it was an automatic reflex. is it... was that okay?" oscar had backpedaled, completely ignorant to the flush that immediately flooded lando's summer-tanned skin.

"y- yeah, it's fine, i just... wasn't expecting it."

oscar takes that as permission to continue the goodbye kisses.

ii: on the forehead.

the second time, lando is clinging to oscar's arm in his sleep, the left side of his body plastered to oscar's right and his head resting on oscar's shoulder. they're heading back to the MTC on the team jet after qatar, and frankly, oscar understands lando's exhaustion. the heat that weekend was entirely unbearable to the point where multiple teams, including mclaren, were genuinely concerned for their drivers' and pit crews' safety, and most, if not all, of the drivers had reported feeling unwell in their cars. the fact that he and lando had somehow managed to scrape a double podium together despite the brutal conditions was astounding.

lando shifts a bit in his sleep, the crown of his head resting in the nook between oscar's jaw and his shoulder, and a protective impulse hits oscar like a freight train. he tilts his head just so, pressing his lips to lando's forehead gently enough so that he doesn't wake, instead sighing delicately in oscar's arms and shifting impossibly closer.

oscar lays his head on top of lando's and passes out within minutes, the comforting weight of lando's body on his lulling him into the deepest sleep he's gotten in weeks.

iii: on the cheek.

the next kiss occurs inside the MTC, and this time, it's lando's lips on oscar's skin.

immediately after being released from the team debrief meeting that stretches on, in lando's entirely correct opinion, for an unnecessarily long amount of time, he all but throws himself into oscar's arms, and oscar gladly accepts, wrapping his own arms around lando's waist and burying his face into the soft fabric of lando's hoodie. thankfully, lando had quickly caught on to the fact that reciprocating oscar's physical touch is not only acceptable but also welcomed and encouraged, so he'd begun initiating hugs and slotting himself underneath oscar's arm more frequently in the past weeks.

"hello to you, too," oscar murmurs into lando's hoodie, taking comfort in the feeling of lando's arms around his body.

"'m so happy you're okay," lando mumbles, his face tucked into the crook of oscar's neck between his jaw and his shoulder. "you... you are okay, right?" he pulls back briefly, looking up at oscar with concerned eyes that search oscar's own, scanning for any signs of discomfort or pain but finding none.

"i'm okay. are you?" lando's eyes slip shut with a nod, the most delicate of smiles tugging at his lips.

"yeah, i'm good."

"good." lando pulls back, much to oscar's disappointment, the stale, conditioned air of the conference room replacing the comforting warmth of lando's body almost immediately. sensing that the hug is now over, oscar lets his hands drop, settling awkwardly at his sides.

fuck it, oscar thinks. "you wanna get dinner?"

lando sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face. "i don't know, mate, i'm pretty beat. breakfast tomorrow?"

had lando not been focused on noticing how scuffed his trainers are, he would've seen the way oscar's lips fell into his signature pout. instead, he hears a quiet "oh, okay," before looking back up and smiling faintly. "i'll text you?"

oscar sounds like a kicked puppy.

"oh, come here, you muppet." lando's left arm wraps around oscar's shoulders and his right hand holds oscar's chin, his lips on oscar's cheek, and... yeah. that's exactly what oscar needed. "where do you wanna get dinner?"

iv: on the neck.

it's early february, and they're finally back in woking to film some teaser content before pre-season tests in bahrain.

"mm, i missed you," lando says, tilting his head back as oscar mouths at his neck, and oscar hums in response. of course, oscar takes that opportunity to graze his teeth across the delicate skin of lando's neck, which, in turn, makes lando whine.

when oscar pulls back to catch his breath, his mouth goes dry, a stark contrast to the spit-shiny side of lando's neck. the fact that the buttons of his team kit polo are all completely undone and the collar is shoved to the side only adds to it, but his disheveled curls and flushed face really tie it all together with a pretty bow made of the finest ribbon oscar could ever imagine. "fuck, you look beautiful."

"osc," lando whines, and the look in his eyes can only be described as downright pathetic. his eyes are glassy, his lips parted and red from how furiously oscar had kissed them just minutes before, and his chest heaves with the panting breaths he's taking. it's only then that oscar notices- lando's hard.

+i: on the lips.

oscar hasn't really fully processed it yet. lando just got his maiden formula 1 win. he heard it on the radio, the replay of lando's overwhelmed cheers, screaming to his engineer that they did it, they finally did it.

it's only when his lips find lando's long after the podium ceremony, the lingering taste of champagne, sweat, and tears filtering itself onto his tongue, that he realizes just how real it is, and he can't even find it in himself to be mad that he wasn't in the points. "'m so proud of you," oscar says between kisses. "so fucking proud of you." the soft duvet of the hotel room bed wrinkle as lando squirms in an attempt to release some of the pent-up energy from all the adrenaline coursing through his body.

"fuck, osc..." lando's brain short circuits when he feels oscar's hands reach underneath his shirt, calloused fingertips on sensitive skin. "thank you." lando keeps smiling stupidly into the kisses oscar's pressing to his lips, hands scrabbling to grasp at whatever they can. oscar feels like every single sense in his body is heightened, and he's noticing every single detail about every single kiss he feels. the scent of champagne and sweat and lando's skin, the taste of something so distinctly lando that oscar doesn't think he'll ever be able to describe in words, and, above all, the feeling of lando's skin on his. desperate hands grabbing everywhere on oscar's body they can reach, the toned muscle of his abdomen beneath oscar's palms, lando's legs tight around his waist, bringing oscar impossibly closer to the tender skin on the inside of his thighs-

fuck.

he's hard.

"oscar," lando whines, pulling away ever so slightly to catch his breath. "fuck me."

what?

what the fuck?

oscar swears he's hearing things. the roar of engines, wheel guns, and fans' screams have finally gotten to him and he's suffering from either hallucinations or straight up hearing loss.

"what?"

"fuck me, please. there's lube and condoms in the bottom of my suitcase." and... fuck. stronger men have been defeated by less, so there's no way in hell oscar will be able to resist that, especially with how desperate lando sounds.

"where you hoping this would happen?" oscar stands, immediately mourning the loss of lando's body heat, but hastily rummages through the suitcase placed at the foot of the bed, easily locating the bottle of lube and a condom from the bottom of lando's suitcase, exactly where he said they'd be. he doesn't miss the way lando's cheeks flush even more as he nods, hands desperately fumbling to get his shirt off, just to have something to do with them. oscar grins and clicks his tongue, dropping the lube and condom next to lando's hip. "let's get these jeans off, yeah?"

"please." lando's hands fly to his pants, popping the button open and shoving the fly down before shimmying his legs out of the denim. a shuddering sigh pushes past his lips at the release of pressure, and oscar shoves his own jeans down, kicking his and lando's pants off of the bed. there's a faint dark spot on the front of lando's boxers, his erection tenting the fabric, and oscar's sure he looks no different.

"are you sure about this?" there's a nagging in the back of oscar's mind, telling him it's all the adrenaline from lando's maiden win, that this isn't actually what lando wants, that he's going to regret it in the morning... the tone of oscar's voice brings lando out of his haze, clarity returning to the race winner's eyes alongside something else that oscar can't currently pinpoint at the moment.

"do you want to do this?" that's what it is. concern. lando's voice is clear, lacking any of the previous whiny twinge it'd held just moments prior, and his hands come up to gently hold the side of oscar's neck, his fingertips brushing the short bits of oscar's hair. "if you don't want to do this, we can go out and get drunk and forget this ever happened." his eyes search oscar's, his multicolored irises inspecting for any sign of discomfort, hesitation, or uneasiness.

leaving is the last thing oscar wants to do. he knows that much.

with a deep, steadying breath and a shift of his hips- oh, fuck, that was a mistake, because now his clothed dick is laying in the juncture of lando's hip and thigh, and, instead of the thought-out words he was going to say, the only thing that spills past his lips is a moan and a breathy "stay" on the tail end of it. the muscles in his arms give out and he collapses on top of lando, his face tucked into the crook of lando's neck, and when he inhales, lando's fingers already raking soothing rows along his scalp, he smells champagne, sweat, and lando's body wash.

"stay."

"okay, osc. i can do that."

oscar isn't sure how long they lay there, lando's left hand resting in the small of oscar's back and his right rubbing soothing lines into oscar's scalp, but by the time his heart rate slows and his brain stops running a mile a minute, the desperation and speed that he was ready to fuck lando with has sunk out of his body. there's only one problem- well, rather, two problems, but one stems from the other. one: oscar and lando are both still hard. two: neither of them have the energy required for prep, sex, and aftercare.

lando is able to solve both of those problems, though.

"osc?"

"hm?"

"do you want me to get you off?" oscar's face flushes, a whine falling from his lips in embarrassment, but he nods into lando's neck. "yeah?" oscar nods again. "okay, baby. i'm gonna need you to get these off for me, though." he thumbs at the elastic waistband of oscar's boxers, and oscar is barely able to muster enough strength to push himself up and off of lando's chest to pull his boxers off and toss them aside before falling back onto lando. "can you roll over for me, baby?" okay, scratch that. now he summons the last of his strength to roll off of lando, wincing slightly when the long-forgotten bottle of lube and condom dig into his ribs.

"hey." lando's voice has a tenderness to it that oscar's never heard before, used to the constant energy and bubbly laughs, and it makes something stir deep in oscar's chest. before he can prod into it and try to figure out what it might be, though, lando's rolling over and slotting his left leg between oscar's, leaning down, and kissing oscar with a certain softness that leaves every point of contact with lando's body fizzling with electricity. it's a unique and beautifully intimate moment, chests pressed together and bodies touching everywhere they possibly can as hands grasp for places to hold the other closer.

oscar moans into the kiss, high and pathetic, when lando takes both of their cocks into his hand, and even dry, he thinks he could cum just like that.

"oh, fuck, lando-" oscar's eyes are screwed shut, panting as lando continues licking into his mouth, running his tongue along oscar's lips before dipping down to oscar's neck, mimicking the same actions there. lando can't form a verbal response, so he simply hums relishing in the taste of oscar's skin. the aussie doesn't want to admit just how keyed up he is, doesn't want to admit the fact that, with a little bit of lube and a little bit of movement, he'd be cumming onto lando's hand.

thankfully, though, lando seems to be in the same boat, and he makes that very well known with a perfectly timed gentle thrust of his hips forward and a slight loosening of his hand, and the sound that it pulls from oscar's throat can only be described as unholy. "osc..."

"like this, lando, please."

"fuck, me too." oscar jumps slightly when the cold lube hits his cock, but with the slide it adds and the grip around lando's big hand has around them both and the fact that he's completely caged in and every single sense is flooded with lando, lando, lando, the temperature difference is rapidly forgotten in favor of white-hot pleasure. he can't stop himself- his hips are canting up into lando's hand, and it just feels so, so good. oscar's ears aren't processing the difference between his moans and lando's, so all he knows is that there's sounds of sex filling the hotel room, the wet slide of his cock along lando's, and it's so much at once.

when lando's hips start moving, too, fucking into his own fist, oscar throws his head back into the fluffy pillow and groans so loud that he gets a flickering sense of sympathy for whatever neighbors may share a wall with this hotel room, but it's immediately wiped from his brain as lando's lips meet his once more.

oscar isn't sure how much time passes, his lips and tongue gliding along lando's and their hips fucking into lando's hand, but his ears finally process that lando's moaning his name, desperately mouthing at his neck. "oscar, aah, fuck, i'm gonna cum, please, 'm gonna cum-" and, well. oscar didn't think he had a thing for begging, much less a thing for his teammate begging, yet here he is.

"yeah. yeah, go for it. cum for me, baby." before oscar finishes talking, his words breathy and faint, lando's cumming with a cry, his hips shuddering as his cum paints his hand and oscar's cock and stomach in a pearly white. oscar looks down, and the sight he's met with is absolutely filthy. past the mop of lando's curly hair and sweat-shiny skin, he sees the way lando's muscles tense with every thrust and the way his dick is painted white with cum and lube.

"fuck, fuck, fuck, osc, love you, love you so much." and that's what sends him over the edge, muscles in his torso tensing as he grasps desperately at lando's shoulders.

"aah, lan- love you. love you."