#Mutual Funds Concepts

[julietsf1]

Strawberry Season - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: she was his plus-one, his accessory, his afterthought. but Lando Norris? he made her laugh before her boyfriend even noticed she’d stopped smiling (6.7k words)

content: sad/comfort, slow burn, he falls first, stuck in bad relationship (non-graphic), mutual pining, mention of fish!

AN: I was having a nostalgic day and suddenly I remembered Shawn Mendes exists. listened to Treat You Better and now boom this was made. big kiss to you all!! don't forget you deserve someone who makes you smile <3

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The Hôtel Hermitage had a way of dressing the evening in silk and scent—amber light dancing off champagne flutes, velvet murmurs weaving between notes of string quartets, the faint hush of the sea just beyond the terrace.

You arrived on your boyfriend's arm, perfectly polished, smelling faintly of oud and confidence. Your gown—a midnight blue silk with delicate beading at the shoulders—glistened like the reflection of stars on still water. He, in a tuxedo he hadn’t even ironed himself, gave you a cursory once-over, the kind usually reserved for window displays or weather forecasts.

"You clean up well. When you try," he remarked, the words soaked in backhanded charm and just enough volume to make the sommelier glance over with subtle disapproval. "Didn’t expect that dress to actually work on you."

Then he kissed your temple like one might stamp a document—detached, obligatory—and peeled off toward a group of men with hedge funds and zero personalities, tossing the comment like a grenade dipped in cologne. He chuckled at his own wit before they even reacted, already anticipating the hollow laughter of men who mistook cruelty for charisma.

You blinked once, twice, then turned on your heel and made for the bar.

"One strawberry martini, please," you said to the bartender, your voice calm and glossy, though your chest felt like it was holding its breath. The bartender gave a subtle nod and began working in quiet sympathy.

You leaned your elbow on the marble and exhaled. Your reflection in the mirrored back wall looked elegant and mildly amused. That, at least, you could live with.

"Your boyfriend’s tux looks like it’s been through customs, dry-cleaned with a rock, and ironed with a shoe."

You turned. The man beside you held a glass of something expensive and looked far too pleased with himself. He was, annoyingly, the kind of handsome that didn’t need to try. Hair—perfectly careless. Smile—dangerously self-aware. The overall vibe? Trouble, tailored in what I assume is Tom Ford.

You laughed, sharp and immediate. "Do you know I spent half the afternoon trying to convince him to iron that shirt? Offered him a steamer. He looked personally victimized by the concept of chores. Hopeless."

He looked delighted. "So this was a collaborative failure. Now I feel bad for mocking it. Sort of."

"Don’t. I made one polite suggestion and he acted like I’d insulted his entire lineage. I refuse to be held responsible for his fashion choices," you said, the corners of your mouth finally giving in to a smile. The knot in your chest loosened just a little—this was the most fun you’d had all evening.

"I can’t tie my own ties," he offered casually. "So really, who am I to talk?"

"What do you do, then? Just let your girlfriend do it for you?"

"No girlfriend, just clip-ons. Or my mate George. He’s so posh he probably learned to tie a bow tie before he could tie his own shoes."

You laughed again, lighter this time. The sound surprised you with how easy it felt.

"Well," you said, "I can't even walk in my So Kates for an hour, so I’m in no position to judge anyone tonight."

His eyebrows lifted like you'd said you walked here barefoot. "That’s borderline inhumane. Those are incredibly uncomfortable, right?"

"Horrible," you admitted, sipping your drink. "But the real perk is that I now have a perfectly valid excuse to leave this party in about thirty minutes."

He tapped his glass against yours. "To noble suffering."

"And men who can’t tie ties."

"Ouch. That was personal."

You grinned, the martini smoothing out something tight in your chest. The conversation rolled along like it had always been waiting for an excuse to begin.

"Lando," he said suddenly, extending a hand.

"Nice to meet you, Lando," you replied, taking it, your grip easy, your smile laced with light amusement.

You tilted your head slightly. "I think I recognise you—from the racing, right?"

His brow quirked, caught somewhere between pleased and intrigued. "Guilty."

You sipped your drink, eyes glinting. "Well, it’s easy to remember a face like that."

"In the positive way?"

You rolled your eyes at him. "Please."

His posture straightened just a touch. The smirk didn’t leave his face, but something about it softened at the edges.

"I’ll try not to let that go to my head," he said, a beat late, his voice just a little warmer, his eyes twinkling amused. 

"You already did."

"Unfair. That was disarming. You’re very good at this."

"At what?" you said, feigning innocence.

"Catching me off guard in a way that’s... annoyingly effective."

"I have a talent," you said, sipping your drink.

"You do," he replied, gaze lingering just a second too long before he added, "and you’re very distracting."

You arched a brow. "Good distracting or 'tripped-over-my-own-feet' distracting?"

"Bit of both. Still deciding."

You laughed, shaking your head, the edge of your smile refusing to leave.

And just like that, the night took on a different hue. The room still sparkled, but its edges softened. You talked about Monaco in winter, about awful hotel carpets, about how Lando once tried to cook pasta in a kettle. There were no pauses, no polite silences. It was ridiculous and lovely and utterly unserious.

At some point, your boyfriend reappeared in the distance, laughing too loudly with someone whose blazer had dragons embroidered on the sleeves.

Lando clocked it instantly. "Should I spill something on him? Not on purpose, obviously. But also maybe very much on purpose."

"Tempting," you said.

He set his glass down. "But we’re too elegant for that."

"Allegedly."

The music swelled, a slow turn from something glittering into something that signaled the end of the night.

You sighed and glanced at the crowd. "I should go find him."

Lando leaned against the bar with a smirk. "Are you sure? He gives off strong 'brings up his net worth in casual conversation' energy."

You smirked. "You’re terrible."

"But right."

"No comment."

As you walked away, he called after you, "Next time, I’m bringing backup shoes for you."

You didn’t turn. But your smile stayed with you, long after the violins began their last swell.

…

The paddock terrace buzzed with the sort of energy only Monaco could host—where money didn’t whisper, it practically shouted through linen suits and Hermès bags, and everything smelled faintly of jet fuel and overpriced champagne.

You arrived on your boyfriend’s arm, your heels clicking softly on the polished concrete, your dress catching the breeze in a way that had drawn more than a few glances already. The adrenaline in the air was contagious. You couldn’t help it—you were excited. This was your home turf, after all. Monaco at its absolute peak.

You leaned over slightly, catching your first glimpse of the pit lane just below the terrace’s glass railing. The sound, the scent, the movement—it all made your heart flicker.

“This is amazing,” you said, more to yourself than to him. “I can actually feel the vibration of the engines from here.”

Your boyfriend barely glanced up from his phone. “Yeah it’s whatever,” he muttered. “Look—those guys in the corner, that’s who I need to speak to. Go entertain yourself, will you?”

You opened your mouth, but he was already off, striding toward a group of Loro Piana-clad finance types who looked like they’d never broken a sweat in their lives. One of them gave you a cursory glance before turning his attention back to whatever new tax loophole they were dissecting.

Left alone, you drifted toward the edge of the terrace, your fingers lightly brushing the glass. You looked in the distance, taking in the beautiful track. The air that smelled like tyre smoke. Somewhere, a commentator’s voice crackled through loudspeakers.

Then you heard it—cutting through the din like it was aimed just for you.

“Hey, Strawberry!”

You blinked, turned your head.

Down in the pit lane, Lando was looking directly at you, leaning casually against the garage barrier with his helmet tucked under one arm and a grin that bordered on criminal. “Good to see you again!” he called up, already looking far too pleased with himself.

Your smile widened despite yourself.

He pointed upward, voice still carrying. “What? You thought I’d forget your cocktail of choice? Strawberry martini, wasn’t it?”

You couldn’t help the small laugh that bubbled out of you. A few heads turned to see who he was yelling at. You gave a little wave, pretending not to enjoy the attention.

"Fancy seeing you here."

“You look bored up there!” he shouted, cupping a hand around his mouth for dramatic flair. “Wanna come down and see where the fun actually happens?”

You raised an eyebrow, half amused, half intrigued.

He motioned toward the stairs behind you. “Come on, Strawberry. I’ll even let you wear the team radio.”

You glanced back toward the terrace. Your boyfriend was still deep in conversation, probably pitching himself like a startup, laughing with one hand in his pocket and the other balancing a drink he hadn’t even offered you.

So, you turned back to Lando—who was now dramatically miming putting on headphones like he was in a music video—and tilted your head like you were still considering it.

"Alright then," you called down. "But if I trip in these heels, I’m blaming you."

"I'll catch you," he yelled back, utterly unfazed. “Or I’ll sue the FIA for putting stairs in a paddock. Either way—worth it.”

You made your way down the metal staircase, the heels clicking like castanets, and by the time you reached the bottom, Lando was already holding out a pair of headphones and an access bracelet with a kind of smug reverence.

“For you, madame,” he said, bowing slightly. “Your official ticket to the chaos.”

You put on the bracelet with a smile, already feeling a little lighter.

“For the record,” he said, holding out the headset, “I don’t offer these to just anyone.”

You took them. “Oh, so I’m special.”

“Undoubtedly.”

You slipped the headphones on as he stepped back, hands in the pockets of his race suit, clearly satisfied.

“Let me guess,” you said, voice a little louder now with the headset in place, “you do this for all the guests who look mildly unimpressed by the view upstairs?”

“No,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Just the ones I secretly hope stick around.”

You gave him a look—curious, not skeptical—and he added quickly, “Because you’ve got good race-watching energy. Very calm. Slightly elegant. Makes the garage look better.”

“Right,” you said, clearly amused. “You just want me to make you look cool.”

“Impossible task,” he admitted with a grin. “But I admire your optimism.”

The garage buzzed around you—technicians moving with purpose, radios crackling, tyres getting shuffled like oversized poker chips. And yet, somehow, everything in your little corner felt... light.

“Not gonna lie,” he murmured, lowering his voice, “I like stealing a few quiet minutes when I can.”

You nodded. “Yeah. It’s a lot during weekends like this I can imagine.”

He glanced at you, thoughtful for a moment, like he wanted to ask something but decided against it. Then his expression shifted back to its usual mischief.

“Want to see something fun?”

You blinked. “Fun in a normal person way, or in a ‘you drive 300km/h for fun’ way?”

“Both,” he said, tilting his head toward the car in the middle of the garage—sleek, low, and absolutely radiating menace. “Come on. Get in. You’ve earned it.”

You blinked. “Earned it how?”

“For surviving the upstairs crowd without launching yourself off the terrace,” he said, already grinning. “Also, I feel like you'd suit it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You just want to see me try to climb into that thing in a dress.”

“Maybe,” he shrugged, unapologetic. “But I’ll make it look like I’m being a gentleman helping you in. Good for my PR.”

You laughed but still let him offer his hand. His grip was steady, warm, guiding you in with an ease that made the whole moment feel weirdly... natural.

Inside, the cockpit felt surreal—like slipping into another universe. Tight, sharp, oddly comfortable in a way that made you sit up straighter.

You looked up at him. “I feel like I need clearance from air traffic control.”

Lando smirked. “You look good in it.”

You raised a brow. “Is this part of your usual garage tour?” He grinned. “Only the deluxe version. Very limited availability.” 

“Mm-hmm.”

He crouched beside the car, arms resting on the edge, expression suddenly playful. “Alright—race start. Lights out. Whole world watching. What’s your move?”

You pretended to think. “Adjust my lip gloss. Then floor it.”

He burst out laughing. “Unreal. No notes.”

You smiled, settling back slightly in the seat, the hum of the garage around you fading into a softer kind of focus. His eyes lingered on you just a second longer than necessary, making you feel a bit warmer than you would’ve liked to admit. 

“Okay,” you said eventually. “I like your version of fun.”

“Told you.”

Just then, you heard your name.

Lando glanced up behind you, his smile dimming just slightly.

You followed his gaze.

There, at the top of the stairs, your boyfriend had finally noticed. Arms folded. Sunglasses pushed down just enough to show a flicker of something more than irritation. 

You shifted slightly in the seat, your back instinctively straightening, your smile thinning.

“I should probably head back,” you murmured, glancing up again. “Before that turns into a thing.”

Lando’s eyes were still on you.

“I don’t know,” he said, voice low and smooth. “I kind of like that I get under his skin.”

You gave him a warning look, but your smile gave you away.

“He’s... not great with this sort of thing.”

Lando leaned one arm casually against the car, just close enough that his shoulder brushed the edge of yours. “What sort of thing? Someone actually talking to you? Enjoying you?”

You swallowed. “He’s just protective.”

“He didn’t look all that interested twenty minutes ago.”

You didn’t respond.

Lando straightened up slightly, his grin flickering into something more assured, less teasing. “You don’t have to explain it. But I’m not sorry for this.”

You looked at him—really looked at him—and for a second, you forgot the tension humming above the pit lane.

You laughed softly. “You’re dangerous.”

“I’ve been called worse,” he said, grinning.

You climbed out carefully—again with his help, though he tried very hard not to smirk when your heel caught slightly on the floor.

“Thanks for inviting me down,” you said, adjusting your dress.

He nodded. “Anytime. Next time you should stay for the race.”

You paused at that, surprised, amused, and... something else. Then you turned, stepping away, the noise of the pit building back around you.

“Bye, Strawberry!” he called after you, voice light and full of sunshine. “Try not to break hearts on your way up!”

…

The lunch reservation was for 13:00. The cancellation came at 12:52.

“Something came up. Just a quick game at the club. Have to raincheck.”

You stared at the message like it might change if you blinked hard enough. It didn’t. The text sat there on your screen, casual and infuriating, like a shrug in Helvetica.

The maître d’ at the café had already asked if you’d like to be seated twice. You smiled politely, murmured a no thank you, and slipped out before you started feeling more humiliated than hungry.

The sky was unfairly pretty for a bad day—clear and soft, with sunbeams brushing the cobblestones as if Monaco itself had no idea someone had just bailed on you for nine holes and overpriced cigars.

You didn’t want to go home. You weren’t angry, not quite. Just tired in a way that lingered behind your ribs. So, instead, you wandered a few streets over—past a bookstore, a gelato stand, and finally, a small flower shop with wide windows and hydrangeas stacked like frosting.

You paused. Then pushed the door open.

The scent hit you first—green, sweet, almost cold from the water buckets lining the floor. Peonies, roses, lavender, tulips. All in quiet conversation. The florist gave you a gentle bonjour from behind a counter cluttered with ribbon and stems.

You wandered aimlessly. No plan. No occasion. You just needed to feel like something soft could still be held in your hands.

You reached toward a bouquet of pale pink peonies—petals feathered and ruffled, like they were mid-sigh.

“I was hoping you’d go for those.”

You turned—half startled, half already smiling.

Lando was standing in the doorway, sunglasses pushed up into his curls, a grin threatening the corner of his mouth. He was wearing a zip-up and trainers, casually gorgeous in the way some people just are when they’re not trying.

“I was going to say,” he added, stepping further inside, “you look like someone who could use a bouquet.”

“You following me now?”

He shrugged. “Just happened to be across the street. Monaco’s small and you have a way of catching my eye.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you.

Lando stepped past you and plucked the peonies from the bucket like he’d been sent here by divine instruction.

“Don’t,” you started, watching as he pulled out his card.

“I insist,” he said smoothly, not even looking back. “They look like you.”

That made you pause. “Soft and overpriced?”

He smirked. “Chic, delicate, vaguely intimidating… but in a very classy way.”

You huffed a laugh and shook your head as he paid, thanked the florist with a grin that probably earned him three free carnations, and handed the bouquet to you like it was an Olympic medal.

“You really didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.”

You looked down at the flowers, then back at him. “I was just trying to walk off a lunch that didn’t happen.”

“Rough day?”

You nodded once.

He hesitated. Then: “Come on. Let me walk you home. Or somewhere. I’m excellent at distracting people.”

You blinked. “Aren’t you busy?”

“Not even a little.”

You stepped outside together, the late sun catching the edge of your bouquet. He fell into step beside you like it was instinct.

“So,” he said, as you turned the corner, “what car would you never be caught dead in?”

You squinted. “Like… ever?”

“Yes. Immediate judgment. Go.”

You thought. “Anything that looks like it was designed by someone who hates joy. Or a Fiat Multipla.”

“Very specific. I respect it.” He nodded solemnly. “For me, it’s the ones with faces. Like, cartoon villain faces. Headlights that judge you.”

You burst out laughing. “What kind of car trauma are you working through?”

“Deep and unresolved,” he said gravely. “I once had a rental that made me feel like it wanted to eat me. Never again.”

The conversation spiraled from there—into ugly rims, hideous spoilers, the tragedy of beige leather interiors. Every few steps, Lando pointed out a car and gave it a nickname. 

"That one’s definitely a Greg. Greg works in insurance and never tips."

You laughed. Actually laughed. The kind that catches you off guard and warms your ribs a little.

And then—your phone buzzed in your bag.

You glanced down. His name lit up the screen.

Lando noticed the pause.

You looked at the call. Then pressed the side button, letting it disappear. You didn’t say anything about it, and he didn’t ask.

But he smiled. Just slightly.

It was the quietest rebellion you’d made in a while. And it felt... right.

A few minutes later, as you reached your street, you slowed.

“This is me.”

He nodded, eyes flicking up toward the front of your building like he was memorising it for later. Or just being nosy. Hard to say.

“Thanks for—well, for all of that,” you said, lifting the peonies slightly.

“Anytime,” he replied, and you believed him.

You turned to go.

“Oh, and hey,” he called, stepping backwards down the street, that familiar grin slipping into place. “If you ever need help judging more terrible cars…”

You raised an eyebrow, amused.

He pulled something from his pocket and tossed it lightly in your direction. You caught it—his number, scribbled on a business card with Lando (flower expert) scrawled beneath in messy handwriting.

“…now you know where to find me,” he finished.

You looked down at the card, then back up.

“I do now,” you said, smiling—soft, amused, and something else you didn’t want to name yet.

And you didn’t look back until your door had closed behind you—and the peonies were already in water. 

…

Your birthday started with a buzz—literally, from your phone. Noon. A text.

Happy bday x

No call. No emoji. No punctuation enthusiasm. Just lowercase indifference and a kiss like a formality. Like he'd done his civic duty and could now go about his day in peace.

By the time your boyfriend actually arrived at the party—a whopping two hours late, no explanation—you were already knee-deep in hugs, flowers, Aperol spritzes, and the cake was nearly finished.

The rooftop was busy. Sun-drenched. Monaco glittered in the background like it knew it was part of the aesthetic. Friends mingled, music hummed, someone had started making mimosas in a blender for reasons no one could quite explain.

And then there was Lando.

He’d arrived on time, casually cool in a linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of sunglasses perched in his curls.

You hadn’t expected him to come, not really. But you’d invited him anyway—half as a joke, half because he was one of the only people lately who made things feel lighter. Since the flower shop, you’d been texting—mostly memes, random complaints about ugly cars, and his very intense opinions on croissants. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you’d started looking forward to his name lighting up your screen more than you should’ve.

So when he appeared with a cheeky smile and a gift bag in tow, you nearly forgot to keep pretending you weren’t waiting for him.

“Hey, birthday girl,” he said, putting the bag on the gift table. “No refunds or returns.”

You grinned. “Perfect. I was just saying how I wanted to make my own life harder today.”

“Glad to contribute.”

Your boyfriend showed up five minutes later.

No apology, no excuse. Just sunglasses, a glance around, and a distracted kiss on the cheek before he handed you an envelope.

Inside was a gift card. For skincare.

“I figured you’d appreciate this,” he said, loud enough for the people around you to hear. “Don’t want an old lady by my side, yeah?”

Someone laughed awkwardly. You didn’t.

You smiled. Thinly. The kind that feels more like a paper cut than anything resembling joy.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, folding the card and tucking it into your bag.

Lando had seen it. The whole thing. He didn’t say anything at first—just sipped his drink, eyes glinting behind his sunglasses.

A few minutes later, he drifted close, nudged your elbow lightly, and said, “Mind if I borrow the birthday girl for a sec?”

You blinked. “Sure?”

He led you away from the crowd and toward the quieter corner of the terrace, near the railing. The music faded behind you. The breeze picked up, cool against your neck.

“I really wanted to personally give this before I have to leave.”

He pulled something small from his little gift bag.

A Cartier box.

You looked at him, suddenly cautious. “Lando, what—”

“Relax,” he said, grinning. “I didn’t mortgage a yacht or anything.”

He flipped the box open with a little dramatic flair.

Inside: a sleek, elegant watch—timeless and perfectly understated, the metal catching the sunlight just enough to glow. When you looked closer, you spotted it—on the back of the face, engraved in the corner, a tiny strawberry.

You looked back up at him.

He shrugged, hands in his pockets now. “So you know when it’s time to leave,” he said lightly, then winked. “Or when it’s time to stay.”

You laughed, a real one this time, head tipped back just slightly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I should be offended,” he murmured, carefully fastening the clasp around your wrist. “But you are right.”

“Don’t say anything yet,” he said quickly, holding up a hand. “I have a speech.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” He stepped a little closer, enough that you had to tilt your chin just slightly to keep looking at him. “Won’t say it’s well prepared, though.”

You glanced up. “No?”

He shrugged, then looked at you—not performative, just sincere with a glint of trouble behind it. “I figured you already knew. That you’re kind. And bright. And that you maybe make half of Monaco feel slightly boring in comparison.”

Your eyes caught his, something warm pooling between the humour and whatever was quietly rising beneath it.

“But also,” he added, tone shifting back to the familiar grin, “you’ve tolerated me for weeks, so I figured you deserved a prize.”

“Ah,” you said. “So it’s a pity watch.”

“It’s a prestigious pity watch,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”

“It’s perfect,” you said, fingers brushing over the charm. “Truly.”

A few friends called your name in the distance, but you didn’t move yet.

When you finally hugged him goodbye, it lingered. A second too long. Not enough to make it obvious—but enough that you both noticed.

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, his hand pressed lightly against your back, and neither of you made a joke this time.

And that’s when it hit you. That soft, uncomfortable, quiet truth slowly creeping up on you.

You didn’t want to go back to the party.

You didn’t want to go back to him.

You just wanted to stay in that warm, safe, ridiculous moment a little longer.

…

It had been one of those dinners where the wine flowed more freely than the conversation, where the seating was all wrong, and the playlist too curated to feel spontaneous. You’d arrived on time, makeup set, dress clinging just right, genuinely hoping the night might turn things around.

He had promised he’d come.

You’d waited. You made polite conversation with strangers. You checked your phone under the table every ten minutes. At 10:14pm, a message finally came.

Running late. Take a cab? x

You stared at it. The ‘x’ annoyed you most—like it could soften the blow. Like it meant anything at this point.

You slipped out quietly, offering the host a graceful excuse. No one really noticed. You walked down the hill alone, heels clicking against wet stone. The rain started halfway to the road—first soft, then persistent, warm but unrelenting.

By the time you reached the corner, you were soaked. Your jacket was thin and decorative. Your hair clung to your cheeks. A cab passed. You raised your hand too late. Another didn’t even slow.

Then headlights curved around the bend.

A sleek black car eased up to the curb, quiet and smug.

The window rolled down.

“Need a ride, Cinderella?”

Lando.

You blinked at him through the rain.

He was in a hoodie, hair damp, wearing Nike slides like he’d rolled straight out of a student flat. His smile was all teeth and trouble, curls damp at the edges, and yet he looked exactly like what you didn’t know you needed.

You exhaled through a laugh. “What are you even doing here?”

“Padel,” he said simply, “with the boys. Charles insisted we needed some cardio. Alex brought protein shakes. It was big.”

You didn’t move.

He nudged the door open from the inside. “Get in. You look like a drenched sad poodle.”

You slid into the passenger seat, wet fabric against warm leather. The door thunked shut, muting the storm instantly.

The cabin smelled faintly of eucalyptus and sweat and jasmine air freshener. It was... comforting.

Lando glanced over. “You alright?”

You nodded, even though the answer was somewhere closer to no.

“Why were you walking?” he asked.

You stared out the window. “My ride bailed on me.”

He didn’t reply right away. Just gripped the wheel a little tighter.

Then, quieter: “Right.”

You could feel the temperature drop half a degree in the silence that followed.

He turned onto a quieter road, headlights sweeping over puddles, rain tapping steadily on the roof.

Then he cleared his throat. “Padel really roughed us all up today.”

You blinked. “Aren’t you professional athletes?”

“Oh, yeah. You’d think we’re all coordinated and elite and whatever,” he waved vaguely with one hand, “but I’ve never seen grown men lose their dignity faster than when we play anything outside of racing.”

You laughed softly. “You’re telling me Charles Leclerc isn’t good at everything?”

“God, no,” Lando said, perking up. “Charles is awful at most sports. He insists though he could’ve been a pro footballer. Brings it up every time he can.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Wait, seriously?”

“Dead serious,” Lando grinned. “He once missed three serves in a row at padel, slammed the racket down, and said, ‘It’s because my reflexes are trained for football.’”

You snorted. “He did not.”

“And then there’s George,” Lando said. “Who, by the way, calls padel ‘cheap tennis for the common folks’ but still never declines an invitation.”

You laughed. “I assume this is the same George that helps you tie your bows?”

“Absolutely.” Lando continued, “And then there is Alex who has the coordination of a baby giraffe. He runs like he’s buffering.”

You were laughing now, fully, warmth curling in your chest.

“So what about you?” you asked, glancing sideways. “How much do you suck?”

“I’d like to think I’m one of the better ones in the group,” he said confidently.

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s definitely not true.”

“I’m amazing at everything, especially other sports.”

“Oh?”

“I’m a god at golf,” he added, eyes twinkling. “Elite. Practically unbeatable. Some say Tiger Woods retired just to avoid me.”

“Some say?”

“Me. Just me. But I say it with conviction.”

You grinned, resting your head against the seat, the storm outside softening under the steady purr of the engine.

“You’re good at this,” you said after a pause.

“At what?”

“Distractions.”

He smiled, but didn’t answer.

A few minutes passed like that—quiet, easy, the kind of silence that felt earned. The kind you didn’t want to break.

Then Lando turned off the main road.

You lifted your head. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” he said, flashing you a quick glance. “Don’t worry, I’m not kidnapping you. Yet.”

“That’s reassuring.”

Two turns later, he parked in front of a small café tucked between shuttered boutiques. Soft orange light glowed from the windows. The sign above the door read Clémentine in fading script.

“I need hot chocolate,” he said. “And you, tragically, look like you do too.”

You laughed. “This your secret spot?”

He grinned. “Sort of. George’s girlfriend loves this place. Alex’s girl says it feels like a Wes Anderson film. Charles’s thinks they do the best croissants in Europe—which is wrong, but she’s charming so we let it slide.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Ah. So this is… an exclusive tier”

He gave a small, lopsided grin. “Yeah. You’d fit right in.”

You blinked, heat creeping up the back of your neck.

He looked over the roof of the car and winked. “Let’s go, Strawberry.”

…

Inside, the café was quiet and warm, the kind of place that smells like something’s always in the oven. The barista gave Lando a knowing nod.

“Deux chocolats chauds, extra cream, and an extra cookie, please,” he said as you slid into a corner table.

Your dress was still damp at the edges, and your heels had started to pinch, but the chair was soft and the lighting was kind. 

You watched him as he pulled off his hoodie—without a word—he held it out to you across the table.

“You’re shivering,” he said simply.

You hesitated, then slipped it on. It was warm, oversized, and smelled faintly like him—cologne, laundry detergent, and something like orange peel. It pooled around your wrists like it belonged there.

He dropped into the seat across from you, in a plain white t-shirt slightly creased and still damp at the collar. He looked maddeningly effortless. 

When the drinks arrived, he handed yours over carefully, fingers brushing yours as he passed the mug.

“I think you forget how extraordinary you are sometimes,” he said.

No grin. No teasing glint in his eye. Just sincerity, like it had been sitting quietly on his tongue for a while, waiting for the right moment.

You looked at him.

And for a heartbeat too long, the world went still.

Then, gently, you lowered your gaze, your hands tightening around the warmth of the mug. You didn’t reply. You didn’t need to.

Something softened in your chest. Something that hadn’t for weeks.

…

The invitation had come via text, in true Lando fashion.

Hiya there’s this art auction Friday. Charles’s girlfriend’s hosting. Could be fun. Come with? Low pressure, high snacks.

You hadn’t even known Lando liked art, let alone attended charity auctions hosted by the Monaco elite, but the message made you smile. You’d read it twice. Maybe three times.

He followed up, minutes later:

Bring your boyfriend, if he won’t spontaneously combust in a room without talking about stocks.

That was how you ended up on the guest list for a night you weren’t supposed to remember as the one where everything finally snapped.

You didn’t know Alexandra—not really. You’d seen her tagged in posts with Charles, always in Dior or vintage Alaïa, always looking like she’d been drawn rather than born. But the invite felt personal in a way you couldn’t explain. Like Lando had meant for you to have something nice.

You showed up with your boyfriend.

He was already half-distracted before you arrived, scrolling his phone as the car pulled up outside the villa, barely glancing at the curated sculpture garden or the warm lighting glowing out from the glass facade.

“Art shows, what a waste of time and money,” he said, adjusting his watch, not even pretending to be excited about going with you. “Hope I can do some decent networking, make something of my night at least.”

As expected, he made a beeline for the restroom the moment you stepped inside. You hated how much relief washed over you—but deep down, you just didn’t want his sulking to cloud your first impression.

But then—you spotted Lando.

He was standing near the champagne tower, wearing a charcoal jacket with the sleeves half-rolled and a grin like he’d been waiting for you.

He caught your eye and made a show of pretending to squint. “Strawberry?” he said dramatically as you approached. “Wow. Look at you, pretending not to know me in front of the important people.”

You rolled your eyes. “I was hoping you’d stay over there a little longer.”

“That’s fair,” he nodded solemnly. “But then I wouldn’t get to tell you how unreasonably hot you look.”

You gave him a dry smile. “You’re terrible at compliments.”

“And yet, somehow, you keep showing up.”

Just then, a lilting voice cut in—velvety, amused.

“Is this the infamous Strawberry?”

You turned.

She was every bit the Monaco fantasy: Alexandra, in vintage Saint Laurent, hair pinned like a Vogue spread, a glass of champagne in one hand and the quiet confidence of someone who knew every art dealer in the room—and their secrets. And yet, the way she looked at you felt nothing but warm.

“I’ve heard things,” she said, leaning in for a kiss on each cheek. “Mostly from this one, who dramatically insists he doesn’t talk about you, and then does. A lot.”

You laughed, surprised. “Doesn’t sound like him at all.”

Lando raised his eyebrows in mock betrayal. “Unbelievable slander in my own presence.”

Alexandra gave you an approving once-over, eyes twinkling. “You look incredible, by the way. Please tell me you’re staying for the cocktails after. We have a pianist who’ll play Taylor Swift if you bribe him with compliments or €20.”

“That might be the most compelling reason I’ve ever been given to stay at a party,” you said, grinning.

Alexandra gave you a grin from ear to ear, amused. “I’m really so happy to finally meet you! I can already tell we are going to be great friends! You should meet my dog.”

You smiled. “Oh my god! I would love to!”

“Already regretting introducing you two,” Lando said. “Feels like I’m third wheeling.”

“That’s your own fault, Norris,” Alexandra said, sipping her champagne. “You have been hyping her up for weeks, of course I’m excited.”

You looked at him. “Oh really?”

Lando didn’t even blink. “All good things. Mostly.”

Alexandra raised her eyebrows at you. “He actually tried to be subtle about it. It was cute.”

You bit back a smile. “I can imagine.”

“I’ll come find you later,” Alexandra added, brushing your arm. “Got to make sure Charles hasn’t lost Leo yet. So nice to meet you, lovely!”

She slipped off into the crowd with the grace of someone born to host art auctions and mild chaos.

“She’s my new favourite person,” you said.

“I’m going to pretend that doesn’t hurt,” Lando said. “But only because you look stupidly good tonight.”

He sipped his champagne, eyes back on the crowd like he hadn’t just said something that made your pulse tick strangely in your wrist.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t think of anything clever fast enough.

But the flush in your cheeks said enough.

You gave him a side glance.

…

Laughter drifted lightly through the space, more polite than genuine, the kind of sound bred in auction houses and villas with good acoustics. You let yourself drift for a while, away from the main crush of guests and the low buzz of clinking flutes and unsolicited business pitches.

Lando had disappeared into a conversation across the room—arms folded, half-listening, already looking for an escape route. You wandered along the perimeter, letting your eyes pass over sculpture and canvas, nothing really sticking—until something did.

A Monet.

Not loud. Not the centrepiece of the evening. Just tucked off to the side, quietly luminous. The colour was soft, the light dreamlike, and it hit you all at once—how rare it was to stand still in front of something that didn’t need to impress anyone to be worth something.

You didn’t smile, but you didn’t move either.

And then, out of nowhere, a voice landed at your side.

“You’re not seriously getting emotional over that, are you?”

You blinked once.

Your boyfriend had materialised beside you, the corner of his mouth turned up in that smug, half-bored way he always wore at events that weren’t about him.

“It’s just some smudged garden scene,” he added, barely sparing it a glance. “Looks like the guy couldn’t be bothered to finish it.”

You said nothing.

He chuckled, nudging your elbow like he was letting you in on a joke. “Honestly, my niece brought home something just like this last week—finger paints, but same idea.”

You turned toward him.

And for once, your voice didn’t waiver. “Do you ever get tired?”

He raised a brow. “Of what?”

“Of being so obnoxious.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “I was joking—”

“I know you were not. You just have to be an asshole all the time,” you said, stepping back. “I’m so done with this.”

You handed him your untouched champagne without looking at him again.

And then you walked.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just… forward. Certain.

Across the room, Lando caught sight of you. He paused mid-sentence, head tilting ever so slightly, eyes following the clean line of your exit. He didn’t know what had happened. But he knew enough.

And he didn’t see the man behind you calling your name, confusion creeping into frustration, his voice rising in your wake.

…

The days following the gala blurred into a haze of solitude. You hadn't anticipated the weight of ending a relationship that had, for too long, been a source of discomfort rather than joy. Even though it felt like a relief to be free, the fresh perspective you had now gained made looking back on the relationship seemingly harder, being disappointed in yourself for sticking around so long.The walls of your apartment seemed to close in, each corner echoing with memories you'd rather forget.

Then, an unexpected message illuminated your phone screen. It was from Alexandra.

Hii! I know we've only met once, Charles is hosting a yacht party this weekend. I'd love for you to come. It'll be fun, and I think you could use a night out. What do you say?

A smile tugged at the corners of your lips. Alexandra's warmth was palpable, even through text. The idea of attending a lavish yacht party was daunting, especially solo, but the prospect of genuine company was tempting. Before you could overthink it, you quickly responded you’d be there.

…

The evening of the party arrived with a golden sunset casting its glow over Monaco's harbor. As you approached the yacht, its grandeur was undeniable. Laughter and the clinking of glasses floated through the air, mingling with the soft strains of music. Taking a deep breath, you stepped aboard, the gentle sway beneath your feet reminding you of the fluidity of the moment.

You hadn’t arrived with a dramatic entrance, but you may as well have. There was something in the way you carried yourself—unhurried, unbothered, glowing without trying—that turned heads. The white sundress moved like water around your legs. Your hair was soft, undone. You looked like summer had chosen you personally.

"Hey! You made it!" Alexandra's voice rang out, genuine delight evident as she approached, her embrace warm and reassuring.

She beamed the moment she saw you. “You look like revenge dressed in satin. Come ruin someone's night—in a good way.”

"Thank you! I’m so excited!" you replied, grateful for her presence.

She linked her arm with yours, guiding you through the throng. "Come on, let's get you a drink and introduce you to some people."

So you mingled.

You laughed. You listened. You accepted compliments with a smile that didn’t flicker with doubt this time. The isolation of the past few days had left you sharper, oddly steadier. You hadn’t expected to feel so… grounded. You were alone, technically. But not lonely.

And then—across the deck—you felt it.

Someone watching.

You didn’t need to look to know who it was.

But you did anyway.

Lando stood near the upper rail, half-leaning into conversation with Charles and George, drink in hand, curls damp like he’d only recently dried off. His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to be suggestive without meaning to be, and he was laughing at something George was saying—until he saw you.

Then he stopped laughing.

His eyes softened. Lit up. Like you’d just stepped out of a dream he wasn’t finished having.

He didn't move immediately. Just watched. And when you finally gave him a smile—small, knowing—he excused himself, barely disguising it.

You turned back to your conversation, heart thudding quietly.

When he reached you, it was casual. Or it would’ve been, if not for the very specific way he looked at you. As if seeing you tonight had knocked the wind out of him slightly.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, voice easy, but with that familiar edge of amusement.

You tilted your head. “Trying my best. Alexandra told me to come ruin someone’s night tonight.”

Lando’s gaze swept over you, amused. “I’ve got a pretty good candidate.”

You met his look head-on. “You volunteering?”

“I’m begging.”

You took a step closer, just enough. “Careful. I take those kinds of requests seriously.”

His voice dipped. “I was hoping you would.”

You laughed.

He smiled, pleased.

“I was wondering if you’d come,” he said, a little quieter now. “I didn’t want to push.”

“I needed a few days,” you replied honestly. “To unpick a few things.”

Lando nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching like he wanted to say something more, something gentler, but didn’t want to risk it here.

“Want to see the good part of the boat?” he offered instead, gesturing subtly toward the back. “It’s less busy, better view of the sea.”

“Are you offering a tour or an escape plan?”

“Both,” he said. “But this is not my boat so don’t blame me if we get lost mid-tour.”

You smiled, setting your glass down. “Alright. Lead the way.”

He offered his hand this time. Not his arm. His hand. Like it was only natural you’d take it.

And you did.

…

The further you got from the music and noise, the more the sea became the soundtrack. The laughter and clinking glasses behind you faded into something muted and unimportant. Lando walked beside you—not rushing, not talking. His thumb brushed against yours every few steps, like a quiet question he didn’t need answered yet.

At the stern, it opened up—a wide, quiet deck, low to the water, with just enough light to see but not enough to distract from the stars. The sea lapped gently around the hull. It smelled like salt and sun.

You leaned against the railing, feeling the breeze touch your skin. Lando stood beside you, but not too close.

“Nice out here,” you murmured, looking up.

He glanced over at you. “You suit starlight. That’s unfair.”

You gave him a look. “You’re laying it on thick.”

“Absolutely,” he said, eyes warm. “I’ve been holding back for weeks.”

You laughed, quiet and real. He grinned, pleased.

But then, after a second, he sobered. His gaze drifted down, toward the water, and when he spoke again, his voice had shifted.

“You look happy,” Lando said lightly, almost teasing. “I almost didn’t recognise you without the polite ‘I’m-fine’ smile.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Wow. Go ahead and expose me.”

“I’m serious,” he said, this time softer. “It’s good to see you like this.”

You glanced at him, and for a moment, he didn’t try to dodge the feeling in the air. He looked out at the sea and back again.

“I hated seeing you pretend,” he said finally. “These past few months… at the garage, the brunch, the auction—you were always there, but it felt like part of you was somewhere else. You still smiled, still made jokes, still looked beautiful, but…”

He trailed off. Not because he didn’t know what to say. Just because he meant all of it.

You didn’t speak right away.

“You wanted to throw him in the harbour, didn’t you.”

A beat.

“Every single time,” Lando said, with no apology.

That made you laugh again, but quieter this time. Almost sad.

You looked down at the rail, fingers brushing the edge. “I wasn’t really fooling anyone, was I.”

“You fooled plenty,” he said. “Just not me.”

You looked away for a beat. Then quietly, “I haven���t been unhappy around you, though.”

Lando froze.

When you turned your head back, he was watching you like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard.

“Say that again,” he said, almost joking. Almost.

You smiled, small and real. “You’ve been the exception, Lando. You’ve always felt like... a relief. Like I could let out a breath I never knew I was holding.”

His expression cracked open at the edges—something flickering across it, equal parts surprise and affection.

“I’ve been trying not to say something,” he said eventually, his voice lower now. “But it’s getting... impossible.”

You arched a brow. “To me or to you?”

He looked at you deeply, green eyes soft but with a sparkle. “Me. Definitely me.”

There was a beat of silence, hanging between you like a held breath.

“You just keep making it harder,” he added, almost laughing at himself. “Showing up looking like this. Laughing at my stupid jokes.”

You stared at him. He raised his hands, just slightly.

“I know I joke around a lot,” he said, his voice quieter now. “It’s easy to hide behind that. But I’m not playing with this. I’m not here to push or expect anything you’re not ready for.” He paused, letting the words settle. “I just… I need you to know. I’ve been falling for you since the gala.”

The words didn’t feel rehearsed or dramatic—just honest. And they landed like something you’d been waiting to hear without realising.

You stayed still, listening.

“Since the dress,” he went on, his smile tugging softly at the corner of his mouth. “Since the strawberry drink. Since you made fun of my bow tie.”

You laughed—quiet and barely there. But it was real.

“Since you made me want to stick around,” he added, “even when you were barely looking at me.”

His eyes met yours fully now. “You’re magnetic,” he said, simple as anything. “Warm. Sharp. And really hot even when you look like a drenched puppy.” He exhaled lightly. “And I just… I didn’t want summer to end without you knowing.”

You stepped closer.

Close enough to feel the change in the air, the shift in his breathing.

You placed your hand on his chest, light but certain.

“Lando.”

He didn’t move.

“If I kiss you, is it going to be a problem?”

His answer was immediate, and sure. “No.”

Then, softer. “But only if you want to.”

You looked at him for a long, quiet second.

“I do.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding it since May. Maybe longer.

And then you kissed him.

Slow, at first. Curious. The kind of kiss that asks before it takes. His hand hovered near your waist, the other brushing your jaw with the gentlest touch—as if he still couldn’t believe he was allowed.

But the second your fingers curled into his shirt and your lips parted slightly, that control cracked.

His arm wrapped fully around you then, the kiss deepening with a sudden warmth that made your stomach twist. He kissed you like he’d wanted to for weeks. Like he'd held every grin, every brush of your arm, every stolen look in his chest—and finally let them out all at once.

You felt it in the way his hand slid up your back, in the way his mouth moved with yours like he already knew the rhythm.

When you finally pulled apart, your breath hitched.

His forehead leaned against yours. Neither of you spoke for a moment.

Then you smiled, just a little. “So… did I ruin your night after all?”

Lando let out a low, breathless laugh. “You can ruin my life, for all I care.”

He leaned in again, this time without hesitation.

And then he kissed you—like he had nothing left to hold back. Like the wait had been worth it. Like it had always been leading to this.

…

It was the kind of Sunday that felt like a soft breeze. The kind where you woke up to Lando already beside you, hair a mess, voice rough with sleep as he offered to make pancakes—and then promptly convinced you to go out for groceries instead. A domestic detour. A small adventure disguised as an errand. Like you had so many of these past weeks with him.

You hadn’t argued. Not really.

Now, somewhere between the mangoes and the melons in your favourite Carrefour, you were watching Lando shake a pineapple like it had personally offended him.

“That’s not how you check if it’s ripe,” you said, barely holding in a laugh.

He looked genuinely betrayed. “It’s not? Then why did that woman on YouTube tell me to do it?”

“You watched a pineapple tutorial?”

“Research is key,” he said, placing it carefully into the cart. “Anyway, I came prepared.”

“You’re such a dork.” You rolled your eyes, smiling. “You pick the snacks, I’ll handle dinner?”

He winked. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” Then promptly wandered off to the crisps aisle like a man on a mission.

You lingered in the herb section, still debating parsley versus basil, when a voice behind you slid into your spine like cold water.

“Well. You look good.”

You turned.

He looked the same—your ex. A little too polished, sunglasses indoors, holding a bottle of overpriced green juice that screamed aesthetic punishment.

“Thanks,” you said simply. “I’ve been feeling better.”

It wasn’t petty. Just honest.

He blinked, clearly not expecting honesty.

You were just about to step away when—

“Oh, no. No no no,” Lando groaned from the next aisle, appearing with a look of theatrical dismay. “There’s a full seafood crime scene back there. Half the ocean’s laid out. I’ve never seen so much salmon.”

He stopped short when he saw you. And him.

His entire posture shifted.

He stepped up beside you, one hand sliding effortlessly around your waist, grounding and easy. He didn’t force it. Just filled the space.

“Hi,” Lando said, his tone calm, eyes flicking to the man in front of you. “I’m Lando.”

Your ex gave a tight nod, straightening slightly. “We’ve met.”

Lando’s gaze dipped to the man’s basket—almond milk, snack bars, and two tubs of something suspiciously protein-packed and aggressively vanilla.

“Solid haul,” Lando said, casual. Then, after the smallest pause, “Though I’d go easy on the sugar. Causes hair loss, you know. Wouldn’t want to risk it, considering your current situation.”

He didn’t smile. Just winked. Cheeky enough to pass for humour. Sharp enough to land exactly where it needed to.

Your ex blinked again. Offered no reply. Just turned back toward the juice aisle with the grace of someone trying not to trip over his own ego.

“Lovely to see you,” Lando called politely, already nudging the cart forward—his hand still warm around your waist.

You let him guide you down the aisle, heart flickering with quiet satisfaction.

“Hair loss?” you asked, giggling, once you were out of earshot.

He shrugged, eyes forward, lips twitching. “What? It was observational science.”

“You’re awful.”

“Mm,” he hummed, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then your temple. “But I’m yours.”

You laughed, soft and real, tucking into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.

[stayinlimbo]

We Become We

pairing: husband!lee minho x reader genre/warnings: friends to lovers, marriage of convenience, fluff, poor attempts at me trying to be funny, mc's gender is not specified word count: 1.02k note:  i am not dead yay. i tried my best since i haven't had time to write for almost a month so please take this as a peace offering ♡

Marriage. It’s an interesting concept, isn’t it? 

You’ve always thought so, at least. Two people agreeing to sign a legal document and tethering their lives to each other for whatever reason, be it love, societal expectations, familial pressure, financial security, etc. 

Yours happens to be a man named Lee Minho. The same man you’ve been friends with for as long as you can remember. The same man who asked you to marry him for a reason you didn’t get to learn until he was already down on one knee. 

(“I’m sorry, you want me to WHAT?” “Marry me. Please, I need health insurance.”

“Okay, yes, sure, whatever; now please get off the floor. People are staring.”)

Lee Minho, who, after dragging you to the courthouse and legally becoming your husband, finally elaborated on how his job would pay him more and cover both of your health insurances if he was married. So really, in his words, he was “doing you a huge favor” by marrying you. 

And, in all honesty, he really was. No, you didn’t have a ring to show off your new husband’s weird skill at finding loopholes in company policy, and you’re like thirty-five percent sure the two of you are committing some kind of marriage fraud, but does it really matter when you can finally start using the hot water in your dingy apartment without worrying if you’ll have enough money to fund your crippling caffeine addiction? The government will have to drag you kicking and screaming before you resort back to mankind’s cruelest form of torture: cold showers. 

Not to mention that marriage didn’t even change your relationship with Minho. And why would it? You’re still you, and he’s still him. He gets on your nerves just the same, maybe even a little bit more after he decided to frame your marriage certificate in his living room and send a photo to all your mutual friends. You’ll never forgive Minho for laughing at your helplessly panicked state when the group chat wouldn’t stop exploding with messages and incessant calls. 

You’re still his best friend that resides in his apartment four out of seven days of the week while he inhabits yours for the other three. Maybe that’s why, two weeks after your “wedding,” when it was time to renew your lease, Minho suggested with a simple shrug of his shoulders that you move in with him since “you’re here all the time anyway.” 

You’ve really got to learn how to say no to him because now you wake up next to your best friend/roommate/husband in his one bedroom, one bathroom apartment at the crack of dawn with a light pressure on your chest and fur in your face when his cats decide you need to wake up right now to feed them. 

Not to say you don’t like the new arrangement! No, that would be the furthest from the truth. 

Sure, you didn’t appreciate your skin care routine being interrupted by the unexpectedly high-pitched scream Minho let out when he saw you in a face mask for the first time, and what kind of person still has their phone’s brightness turned up all the way before bed? But who else would willingly tolerate your deliriousness before your morning coffee or indulge in your pleas to cook your favorite food three days in a row? 

Living with Minho has only made the purely platonic feelings you harbor for him grow stronger.

That’s what the fluttering in your chest means every time you see him, right? The reason for the smile that grows on your face when you hear the distinct jingling of keys at the front door?

Yeah, that must be why heat spread across your cheeks when he handed you his phone to text one of his friends back, because since when did the heart emoji make an appearance next to your pinned contact name?

You just care about each other, that’s all. It’s normal to want to make sure he arrived at work safely and ask how his day is going during your lunch breaks. It’s normal to start receiving back hugs before bed—a comforting weight as Minho’s chin rests on your shoulder while you apply the rest of the products to your face. 

It’s natural to have doubts about the nature of your relationship during an evening walk, acutely aware of his fingers lightly brushing against yours as you silently study his features illuminated by the soft glow of the scattered streetlights. What if he meets someone else and falls in love with them and wants a divorce and– oh. 

Has he always looked at you like that? With his gaze softening as it locks with yours? With the corners of lips lifting into the gentlest smile you’ve ever seen? With all the stars shining above you finding a second home in his eyes? A look so loving that it takes your breath away and you can’t tell if you’re about to laugh or cry in relief. 

And when you return home to get ready for bed, the familiar feeling of hands wrapping around your waist and a careful pressure resting by the crook of your neck quells the remnants of your worries.

It’s you and Minho. Minho and you, just as it always has been. Just as it’s always meant to be.

The distance between your bodies on the bed becomes nonexistent when you curl yourself into his side, laying your head on his shoulder and intertwining your legs with his as he immediately, unhesitantly, adjusts his arm, his fingertips finding purchase on exposed skin and roaming across the span of your back. A kiss to the top of your head is the last thing you feel before the gentle lull of breathing and the rise and fall of his chest begin to soothe you to sleep. 

…

Ah, marriage—what an interesting concept. Two people agreeing to sign a legal document and tethering their lives to each other for whatever reason, be it love, societal expectations, familial pressure, financial security, etc. 

You love your husband, and you’re beginning to think he loves you too. 

liked this work? want to let me know how i did? please like, comment, and/or reblog; they are greatly appreciated my asks are always open ♡

taglist: @linospuddin @linocz @spicyhyunn

[reasonsforhope]

"When Francois Beyers first pitched the concept of 3D ocean farming to the Welsh regulators, he had to sketch it on napkins. 

Today the seafood farm is much more than a drawing, but if you walked along the Welsh coastal path near St David’s, all you’d see is a line of buoys. As Beyers puts it: “It’s what’s below that’s important.”

Thick tussles of lustrous seaweed suspend from the buoys, mussels cling to its furry connective ropes and dangling Chinese lantern-esque nets are filled with oysters and scallops. 

“It’s like an underwater garden,” says Beyers, co-founder of the community-owned regenerative ocean farm, Câr-y-Môr. The 3-hectare site is part of a fledgling sector, one of 12 farms in the UK, which key players believe could boost ocean biodiversity, produce sustainable agricultural fertiliser and provide year-round employment in areas that have traditionally been dependent on tourism. 

Created in 2020 by Beyers and six family members, including his father-in-law – an ex-shellfish farmer – the motivation is apparent in the name, which is Welsh for “for the love of the sea”. ...

Pictured: Drone shot of Câr-y-Môr, which is on the site of abandoned mussel farms. Image: Scott Chalmers

Ocean farming comes from the technical term ‘integrated multi-trophic aquaculture’, which means a mixture of different seaweed and shellfish species growing together to mutually benefit each other. But it’s not just a way of growing food with little human input, it also creates ocean habitat. 

“You’re creating a breeding ground for marine animals,” explains Beyers who adds that the site has seen more gannets diving, porpoises and seals – to name a few – since before the farm was established.

Ocean farms like Câr-y-Môr, notes Ross Brown – environmental research fellow at the University of Exeter – have substantial conservation benefits.

“Setting up a seaweed farm creates an exclusion zone so fishermen can’t trawl it,” explains Brown, who has been conducting experiments on the impacts of seaweed and shellfish farms across the UK. 

Brown believes a thriving ocean farming industry could provide solutions to the UK’s fish stock, which is in “a deeply troubling state” according to a report that found half of the key populations to be overfished. “It would create stepping stones where we have safe havens for fish and other organisms,” he adds. 

But UK regulators have adopted a cautious approach, note Brown and Beyers, making it difficult for businesses like Câr-y-Môr to obtain licenses. “It’s been a tough old slog,” says Beyers, whose aim is to change the legislation to make it easier for others to start ocean farms. 

Despite navigating uncharted territories, the business now has 14 full-time employees, and 300 community members, of which nearly 100 have invested in the community-benefit society. For member and funding manager Tracey Gilbert-Falconer, the model brings expertise but most importantly, buy-in from the tight-knit local community. 

“You need to work with the community than forcing yourself in,” she observes. 

And Câr-y-Môr is poised to double its workforce in 2024 thanks to a Defra grant of £1.1 million to promote and develop the Welsh seafood industry as part of the UK Seafood Fund Infrastructure Scheme. This will go towards building a processing hub, set to be operational in April, to produce agricultural fertiliser from seaweed. 

Full of mineral nutrients and phosphorous from the ocean, seaweed use in farming is nothing new, as Gilbert-Falconer notes: “Farmers in Pembrokeshire talk about their grandad going down to the sea and throwing [seaweed] on their farms.” 

But as the war in Ukraine has caused the price of chemical fertiliser to soar, and the sector tries to reduce its environmental impact – of which synthetic fertiliser contributes 5% of total UK emissions – farmers and government are increasingly looking to seaweed. 

The new hub will have capacity to make 65,000 litres of sustainable fertiliser annually with the potential to cover 13,000 acres of farmland. 

But to feed the processing hub, generate profit and reduce their dependency on grants, the co-op needs to increase the ocean farm size from three to 13 hectares. If they obtain licences, Beyers says they should break even in 18 months. 

For now, Beyers reflects on a “humbling” three years but revels in the potential uses of seaweed, from construction material to clothing.  

“I haven’t seen the limit yet,” he smiles."

-via Positive.News, February 19, 2024

[argyrocratie]

"How will people get healthcare?

(...)

During the Spanish Civil War, Barcelona’s Medical Syndicate, organized largely by anarchists, managed 18 hospitals (6 of which it had created), 17 sanatoria, 22 clinics, 6 psychiatric establishments, 3 nurseries, and one maternity hospital. Outpatient departments were set up in all the principal localities in Catalunya. Upon receiving a request, the Syndicate sent doctors to places in need. The doctor would have to give good reason for refusing the post, “for it was considered that medicine was at the service of the community, and not the other way round.”[40] Funds for outpatient clinics came from contributions from local municipalities. The anarchist Health Workers’ Union included 8,000 health workers, 1,020 of them doctors, and also 3,206 nurses, 133 dentists, 330 midwives, and 153 herbalists. The Union operated 36 health centers distributed throughout Catalunya to provide healthcare to everyone in the entire region. There was a central syndicate in each of nine zones, and in Barcelona a Control Committee composed of one delegate from each section met once a week to deal with common problems and implement a common plan. Every department was autonomous in its own sphere, but not isolated, as they supported one another. Beyond Catalunya, healthcare was provided for free in agrarian collectives throughout Aragon and the Levant.

Even in the nascent anarchist movement in the US today, anarchists are taking steps to learn about and provide healthcare. In some communities anarchists are learning alternative medicine and providing it for their communities. And at major protests, given the likelihood of police violence, anarchists organize networks of volunteer medics who set up first aid stations and organize roving medics to provide first aid for thousands of demonstrators. These medics, often self-trained, treat injuries from pepper spray, tear gas, clubs, tasers, rubber bullets, police horses, and more, as well as shock and trauma. The Boston Area Liberation Medic Squad (BALM Squad) is an example of a medic group that organizes on a permanent basis. Formed in 2001, they travel to major protests in other cities as well, and hold trainings for emergency first aid. They run a website, share information, and link to other initiatives, such as the Common Ground clinic described below. They are non-hierarchical and use consensus decision-making, as does the Bay Area Radical Health Collective, a similar group on the West Coast.

Between protests, a number of radical feminist groups throughout the US and Canada have formed Women’s Health Collectives, to address the needs of women. Some of these collectives teach female anatomy in empowering, positive ways, showing women how to give themselves gynecological exams, how to experience menstruation comfortably, and how to practice safe methods of birth control. The patriarchal Western medical establishment is generally ignorant of women’s health to the point of being degrading and harmful. An anti-establishment, do-it-yourself approach allows marginalized people to subvert a neglectful system by organizing to meet their own needs.

After Hurricane Katrina devastated New Orleans, activist street medics joined a former Black Panther in setting up the Common Ground clinic in one of the neediest neighborhoods. They were soon assisted by hundreds of anarchists and other volunteers from across the country, mostly without experience. Funded by donations and run by volunteers, the Common Ground clinic provided treatment to tens of thousands of people.

The failure of the government’s “Emergency Management” experts during the crisis is widely recognized. But Common Ground was so well organized it also out-performed the Red Cross, despite the latter having a great deal more experience and resources.[41] In the process, they popularized the concept of mutual aid and made plain the failure of the government. At the time of this writing Common Ground has 40 full-time organizers and is pursuing health in a much broader sense, also making community gardens and fighting for housing rights so that those evicted by the storm will not be prevented from coming home by the gentrification plans of the government. They have helped gut and rebuild many houses in the poorest neighborhoods, which authorities wanted to bulldoze in order to win more living space for rich white people."

-Peter Gelderloos, "Anarchy Works" (2010)

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

Hey, Is this accurate?

The dirty secret about Invictus is that it's a military charity started by the UK's ministry of defence, which is why UK's Allies send their wounded military to participate, as the MoD of each country work together. It remains under the governance of the UK's MoD, and that's why UK and other countries conjure up the millions required to put up the games.For inexplicable reasons, Harold's faux military record is used as the perfect PR front for it.I suspect it's one of Cabinet office's great ideas whereby they know regular govt/ department funding will be questioned by parliament and subject to all kinds of prohibitive laws, but using the money for charity allows them to roll out all sorts of programmes under the guise of Invictus....same MO as USAID.

Before he tied himself to Markle, Harold once said that he would head up Invictus for afew years because it was going to be wound up.

Somewhere before or during Megxit, a decision was made to make Invictus independent of the Royal family's PR efforts to present it as a foundation in it's own right. MoD reorganised it and cut off or enfolded other dependant charities eg Help for Heroes and Endeavour Fund.

Perhaps as a result of being cut off from all his other posts, plus ELF being on the board of Trustees, Harold saw the advantage of staying with the new Invictus after all.

A mutual benefit.

The day MoD decides to cut Harold off, it will be a unilaterally decision at MoD and having any mates on the board won't help him

We saw this in action with Help for Heroes whose board was filled with Harold cronies and yes men. Once MoD cut them off, nought Harold could do. And he is such a disloyal person that he didn't plead for them to be kept on by the MoD

This is the LSA post being discussed.

Honestly, without being able to see the source myself to dig into the user history to determine their legitimacy or accuracy, I can’t tell. I can verify that some of this info is correct:

Invictus Games is backed by the Ministry of Defense and British government leadership.

Harry is the face of it. Both his PR and the Royal Foundation were used to launch the organization.

The Royal Foundation pulled their support after William booted the Sussexes and Invictus Games was spun off into its own charitable foundation at that point, predominantly backed by the military and the MOD more than the BRF.

I’m not sure about anything else and like I said, without knowing the source, there isn’t much I can do.

From where I sit, the dirty secret isn’t that the MOD is propping Invictus up, though, because that’s very well known and it really is only due to the alliances that there’s as much international participation as there is - but that’s not unique to IG. That’s typical of all war games; it's allies getting together and training together. The only thing different about IG from all the other war games allied countries do is that it also includes veterans, not just active duty military service members.

To me, the dirty secret is that the UK - whether it’s the MOD or ELF or the BRF or Harry, it doesn’t really matter - stole the concept from the US. It's literally a copypasta of the DOD's Warrior Games. The only tweak is that they made it international with multiple countries participating because the UK's military is far too small (specifically compared to the US's) to have that kind of diverse friendly competition. And they papered over the copypasta by blasting us with Hero Harry PR.

I don't know enough about the Help for Heroes organization to be able to comment on that piece, either. What I do know is that Help for Heroes got hit hard by COVID, they struggled to bounce back, and the Royal British Legion got the tap instead. Did they struggle because the MOD pulled their support? Was it because they didn't have Harry as patron or sponsor anymore? Was it the lack of a royal affiliation? I don't know and again, not knowing this source or being able to do my own fact-checking into this, it's not something I'd trust as accurate.

Lastly, I'm very skeptical that "as a result of being cut off from all his other posts, plus ELF being on the board of Trustees, Harry saw the advantage of staying with the new Invictus after all." That would imply Harry has a) a brain and b) smarts. Which we know he has neither because of the mess he's currently in: most of his money lost on lawsuits, a wife who's cheapened his reputation, ostracized by the UK, and cast out by his family.

Harry stuck with Invictus through all this time because they let him walk all over them. They let Harry use them as a personal PR tool. And not just Harry - Meghan too, despite the public criticism.

Which is also a flaw, or a hole in the LSA anon's report - if Invictus is truly backed and operated by the MOD, and they're using Harry or Harry's PR as a front...then why aren't they controlling the Sussex shenanigans? Because the more the Sussexes act out, the more the Games become about Meghan, the more people that walk away from Invictus, the more criticism there is. And the less people there are, the less cover there behind the scenes, so the MOD's involvement - especially to the extent that the anon posits - is bound to come out.

But that said, we all know that Harry is absolutely failing as the IG patron. I suspect the MOD fills in where he can't, and that's why all the host countries have been very close allies - US, Canada, Germany, the Hague. And I suspect that's why Birmingham ended up getting the 2027 bid; IG had to fall back on their government/MOD connections and optics for that much government intervention usually goes down better when it's on home soil.

Either way, we'll find out. Invictus really doesn't have much longer - the Games always run way over budget, which doesn't bode well for international partnerships. Then factor in that Birmingham too is having their own financial problems and it's really looking like Birmingham 2027 is probably the end of Invictus Games, unless there's a huge injection of new attention, new donors, and fresh PR, and what better, easier way to get all that than from the patron's successful reconciliation with his father, The King?

I mean, it's either that or the MOD fully takes over and absorbs Invictus into their apparatus as DOD has Warrior Games.

I don't mean to be totally pessimistic about it, but...just something to think about. Why else would Charles or BP be talking about Birmingham 2027? It's two years away.

[endlessnightlock]

Regencylark! Part one of maybe three?

Based on the prompt, Evening, submitted by @mollywog

Under the weary gaze of Plutarch Heavensbee, Esq., Peeta Mellark completed his perusal of Uncle Haymitch's last will and testament and, thoroughly shocked by its contents, cast the document aside. "Can he actually do this?"

Heavensbee shrugged. "I'm sorry to tell you, my boy, he most certainly can. While you shall retain the title, either way, the money was not entailed with the estate. No matter how eccentric Haymitch may have been, he was in his right mind until the end."

Steepling his fingertips beneath his chin, Mellark frowned. "Well, this is a bit of a shit."

Heavensbee, sensing the beginning of a lengthy conversation on the tale end of a journey already fraught with disasters at every turn that resulted in him only arriving two days before the deadline set forth by the will (god rest his soul, though Heavensbee would have some choice words for the man if they were to meet in the afterlife), made himself comfortable in the ancient wingback chair next to the fire. He took a sip of the brandy Mellark's man poured out for them, forcing himself not to shudder. The drink was not of a good quality.

The situation was certainly a bit of a shit. It was apparent to anyone with eyes that Mellark was in no way prepared to take over the estate without additional funds to aid in its upkeep. If Heavensbee were to guess, the young man barely kept up the expenses of this house.

Heavensbee coughed several times, an indication that they had no time to dilly-dally. Mellark finally looked up. "Have you no lady of a particular acquaintance who is wife material?"

The younger man frowned. "One would think so. Unfortunately, one would be wrong. My whole life, I have made an effort to avoid society." He shuddered as if the idea of balls and theater gatherings and garden parties made him ill. "I assumed when the time came that I must take a wife, it would be after I had possession of Lord Abernathy's title and funds."

"How about, er, a special friend? Someone you keep company with regularly?"

"I have no mistress."

Heavensbee was beginning to sweat. This was going poorer than he'd anticipated. Mellark made it sound as though he were a hermit or a monk. "No local woman? A pretty village widow?"

Mr. Mellark stared back at him as if a woman were an alien concept.

"Anyone? Christ man, a scullery maid?"

There was a polite-sounding knock on the drawing-room door. It was Mellark's man again. The future Lord (perhaps penniless Lord?) made no effort to hide his relief at the interruption in conversation. Heavensbee sighed.

"My apologies for the interruptions, Sir, but you requested I let you know when Ms. Everdeen arrived."

Mellark's face lit up in what seemed genuine delight. "Oh, wonderful. Heavensbee, do you mind a short interruption in our conversation? It is not necessary to dismiss yourself. Simply a small matter to take care of."

No, Heavensbee certainly did not mind the appearance of an unmarried woman at the present time. "By all means," he said. Once Mellark's man was dismissed and the two were once again alone in the drawing room, he began his inquiry with delicacy. "Ms. Everdeen?"

"The local gamekeeper," Peeta explained, rising to his feet. Heavensbee followed. "It is a bit untoward having a young woman in the position, but her father before was renowned for his skill."

"Does Ms. Everdeen have a good reputation?"

"Oh, the best as far as I know. She is well-loved in the community. Highly respected. Not given to drink or men. She is quite an attractive woman," Mellark admitted, chewing the corner of his lip in contemplation.

Hope simmered in Heavensbee's belly at the younger man's admiration for any woman, romantic or not. A lot of good marriages began out of mutual admiration. Love was free to blossom in such situations.

"Tell me if you would then. This Ms. Everdeen---she is unattached?"

"I'm not subject to village gossip, Heavensbee. I do not know Ms. Everdeen well, except that she has a mother and sister in her care."

Heavensbee had to restrain himself from smacking Mellark in the back of his head. Simply in the interest of knocking some smarts into the young man. "So Ms. Everdeen is a young, attractive woman, most likely unattached, with an unmatched reputation."

"What are you getting at?" Mellark asked, setting his drink aside.

"My boy, do you not see? When one is in a pinch, such as you are, the deadline for your nuptials is tomorrow evening, and Ms. Everdeen sounds like your best option for a wife. If she is willing."

[canisvesperus]

DRoP is such a fantastic example of how a massive fandom can fade into obscurity due to censorship and creator hostility towards the fandom. A lot of the young people on this website do not know how big Pern was. It was huge, about as old as Star Trek, and yet everyone knows Star Trek and its influence but few even recognize the name Pern anymore. I’m not going to write a whole essay here, there are tons of great articles on Fanlore about it, plus all of this was a little before my time too. But I am mutuals with one of the most prolific figures in the Pern fandom during the 90s and early 2000s who was threatened with a six figure lawsuit for using some of her OC art to advertise commissions. Any fan who created fanworks that so much as depicted a character/setting/time period from canon, NSFW content, broke the in-universe rules of canon including rules regarding gender and sexuality, depicted lesbian or bisexual OCs, displayed your work outside of author-approved communities, or sold art that so much as resembled Pern dragons (note: they’re just dragons, any dragon artist associating with the fandom could be a target). Literal children roleplaying online with their friends were being bullied by the author. This is the tip of the iceberg as it pertains to the issues of old fandom and I think a lot of you take for granted the freedom we have today. The Powers That Be is hardly even a relevant concept anymore. However, some people seem to have taken it upon themselves to fill this ecological niche. This is also why I’ve honestly been anxious about pushes for stronger copyright protections in light of the AI situation. I fear that TPTB would increasingly take advantage of what any new law entails and what it neglects to specify— with easy and vulnerable targets, human fanartists (and I’m looking at y’all who sell commissions, merch, organize funded projects outside of IP holder permissions), being affected the most. If anything it might be a new opportunity to crack down on infringement as a whole, especially if financial losses associated with derivative works created using AI becomes a wider issue than it currently is. I also hate to see modern fandom reverse engineering the same attitudes and atmosphere of the 20th century, eg. bullying on the basis of canon sanctity, except this time it’s a mob instead of lawyers. Learn your history people.

[c0smic-dawn]

꧁༺FLY HIGH༻꧂

-a Woozi Hogwarts!smau (+ written chapters)

Summary: (Y/n) is the pride of Gryffindor’s quidditch team, though that may come to an end if her grades keep dropping the way they are now. As a last hope of not being kicked before the new season starts, the Gryffindor starts her search for a tutor. Thus comes in the quiet grumpy Ravenclaw genius, Lee Jihoon. But why would he be willing to help someone he doesn’t know? Simple; to get the ever annoying and energetic (Y/n) off his back.

A/n: teehee, guess who is back with another smau??? ME HIIIIIIIII. I’m so excited to finally get back into this! By popular demand, we are staring fresh with a new group and concept! (Though I would still be down for the SELF-SABOTAGE Beomgyu spin off). Let’s go!

→ rating: 16+

→ release date: September 10th, 2023

→ ending date: n/a

→ status: ongoing (Semi-Hiatus)

→ pairing: Lee Jihoon x Fem!Reader, slight Kim Mingyu x reader???, maybe mention of members getting partners, and past relationships

→ content: Smau with written chapters, fluff, crack, possible angst at some point (bro idk), Hogwarts au, Strangers to friends to lovers, Spontaneous x serious, Semi-Sunshine x grumpy, Semi-love triangle (?? It’s kinda one sided), Gryffindor!(Y/n), Ravenclaw!Woozi, Tutor!Woozi, mutual pinning (at some point), possible slow burn???

→ Warnings: Lots of swearing, kys jokes, possibly suggestive parts and mentions of sex but no smut, possible long chapters, once again I didn’t pay attention to grade levels in relation to age so have a field day with that

→ Featuring: ALL of Seventeen and probably other idols in passing

DISCLAIMER: This is a piece of pure fiction and do not represent SVT artist or any other artist nor reflect their actual selves or morals. All in this fan fiction is 100% fake and not real at all

Profiles:

HorangHATERS

#SaveWonwoo

Chapters:

01. Utz party mix

02. Stfu ugly

03. Pookie Wookie Bear

04. Horanghae fund

05. Best of the best (written, 2.5k) unedited

06. D: (written, 1.8k + sns) unedited

07. Coming soon

IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT: Please read

[sunsuns-babie]

XO (Only If You Say Yes) | NON IDOL!K.SUNOO x F!IDOL READER

💬: Certified Sunoo Haters Club 👺

Description of characters below ⬇️

SUNOO - Self proclaimed #1 Y/n from CUPETTES fan and runs the biggest Y/n fan account on Twitter ‘Strawberry Cake Y/n’s Hubby’. He does genuinely love her and is a bit delulu but not enough to be completely unhinged. He does know his boundaries as a fan of Y/n. He’s currently a college student just trying to graduate and doesn’t really want the spotlight on him, unlike his friends who have put themselves out there as public figures of sorts. Honestly Sunoo just wants to be in love with Y/n in peace and graduate from college with his degree in teaching.

HEESEUNG - A self sufficient Indie artist who’s on the rise with a bright future ahead of him. He’s been writing and producing his own music and is self taught at it. He is quite popular but hasn’t really broken in to the mainstream market yet. He funds all his music videos and helps directs them with some help from his friends. He even has his friends star in them with him, also with his dancer friend Niki helping him come up with some new choreographies for his new more mainstream “Kpop” era.

JAY - Is a pretty well known but still small YouTuber who’s known for his angelic covers and phenomenal guitar skills. He’s also Heeseung’s main music video director and does all the editing for him when it comes to his music promotional videos; whether that be the mvs, album track sample visualizers, concept films, etc. He also has a passion for fashion so he styles Heeseung a lot. Despite this though he himself is quite passionate about music and has been working on his own music projects, secretly for a while now. Oh, Jay also hates the comparison between himself Jay Park to the other Jay Park. Especially after his “fans” tried to say he was copying the other Jay Park, starting a smear campaign against him back in 2020.

JAKE - In the grand scheme of things at YouTube you could consider him a “small” YouTuber with only 2M+ subscribers but he is a popular streamer and gamer on both Twitch and YouTube. He has a devoted following that has opened many doors for him, making him successful in his field. Usually he does solo plays but a good half of the time he does gameplays with his friends Heeseung, Sunghoon, and Jungwon. Every once in a while Jay and Niki join in, while very rarely Sunoo agrees to join in.

SUNGHOON - A famous and even Olympic champion figure skater who’s started breaking into the typical celebrity world by guest starring in a few dramas and sometimes being a substitute MC for a few music shows, let’s not even get started on his modeling career. He has a very loyal fan base and is one of the youngest and most successful people of the current generation, making a name for himself through his hard work, dedication, and passion. His talent is great and unlimited, truly there’s nothing he can’t do.

JUNGWON - Is a college student alongside Sunoo and his best-BEST-friend since childhood. Because of their mutual friend Jake and his gaming streams Jungwon grew to like playing games and recording himself (since Jake filmed face cams of his friends when they played together all except Sunoo who wants to maintain his privacy). So Jungwon created his own Twitch channel where he streams random games here and there when he’s not swamped with college work. He mainly plays Minecraft and Roblox Dress to Impress though. Did I mention he’s openly gay and has a crush on Jay that only Sunoo and Niki know about?

NI-KI (RIKI) - The VERY youngest choreographer in the game, he is known as a dance prodigy, and works with many Kpop groups sometimes working as a backup dancer. He now mainly works with the girl group CUPETTES being credited as the choreographer for pretty much all of their choreographies. Not that his friends know that because he’s chosen to keep that fact to himself, mostly because in general he doesn’t talk about the celebrities he works with. He’s pretty famous himself with his own fanbase after going viral for his visuals in a fan cam for SHINee’s Key when he was a dancer for him and his choreographer in 2020.

masterlist | profiles (2)

taglist open 🏷️: @starlit-rin @onlyhyunjin @sol3chu @sugariricookies

[bedardlover69]

Looking Glass Self: Connor Bedard

Connor is not sure why he’s so taken back by you, but in a way where he is comfortable and himself. He's not like this with just anybody; but with you. You're different. 

“So I got rice paper, avocados, carrots, lettuce, and tofu. What did you get?” 

“I got tortilla, lettuce too, corn, black beans, and cooked steak but it's not real steak if that makes sense.”

“So vegan?” You say.

“Yes!” 

“This is what we can do. We can use the rice paper and add steak, corn, lecture, and avocado!” 

“Yeah that sounds good! And the rest we can add that to the tortilla. I also have some sauces as well.”

“You just reminded me! I have a peanut sauce, but with no peanuts. It’s like a substitute, when I saw it I was like omg I have to get that.” 

“Im excited to try that!” He smiles.

You and Connor are standing in his kitchen, cooking up a storm and going back and forth on ingredients and conversation. It just flows, there is a quietness that is not awkward; you both speak your mind. You’re having fun while watching Connor cook, and he stares at you with such awe. He wants to figure you out so bad, but you are just you and I think thats why he was just left starstruck since day one.

“Im loving this asian fusion concept.” He says while wiping the alternative peanut sauce off his face. “I’m glad we thought about it.”

“Same, and also this steak is really good, but the tofu could have been better.” 

“Agreed.” He says.

“Thank you for this.” You say. 

“For what?” You have his attention he’s a bit confused now.

“For asking me to sleep over, and for cooking.” 

He chuckles “Anytime. Of Course.” 

You both sit and eat your meal next to each other, on the kitchen counter. He finishes first and starts loading up the dishwasher with everything that was used. You're sitting there watching him, while also looking around his apartment. 

“Do you like Chicago?” 

“It’s alright, it’s new for sure and cold. I don’t know if I’m use to it entirely or experienced much of it, but I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Maybe you can help.” He says flirtatiously with a quick eye brow raise.  

You laugh. “You’re funny. I’ll be down though, I know some spots!” You say in a cool way.

He laughs.

You get up from the chair and put your dish in the dishwasher, you cant stop staring at him. It doesn’t feel real; he doesn’t seem real. You’re comfortable, but that’s who you are. But he’s the first and you don’t know what to do. 

“So what do you do around here?” You ask him.

He closes the dishwasher and starts it. 

“Not much to be honest, I lay around watch tv and be on my phone, plus work and stuff.” 

You walk over to his window and look at his view. You cant get over the view. He is just watching you, wondering how the night is going to go. He hopes he’s a good host, and doesn’t bore you. He walks towards you and you’re both looking at the view now.

“What about you, what do you do?” 

“Same as you. I grew up here so I was always in and out of the city. I think I experienced part of it. I don’t work though, I am fortunately a trust fund kid. I don’t know how you feel about that, but yeah. I also just lay around my house and go on walks and stuff.”  

He smiles and nods. “Cool.” 

“Why do you look like that?” You push him playfully.

“That’s just really fun, is all.” He smirks. 

He's lucky he is attractive. You think to yourself. You start to feel sensations and hot. You point to the couch. 

“Wanna sit down on the couch?” You suggest.

“Okay.” 

He puts the tv on and ask if you want to watch anything on hulu. You say whatever show he is already watching or just anything on for background noise. He does. You get on your phone and so does he. He shows you some stuff and you do the same. You both feel mutual about things. 

"Also I bought ice cream. I didn’t know what you liked so I got Napoleon. What ice cream do you like?” 

He is looking at you with such love in his eyes. “Chocolate, you?”

You're smiling really hard. “I guess to keep the same answer as yours, vanilla.” 

You get up and get the ice cream with 2 spoons and bring it over. He is looking at you very stunned. 

“Is this okay?” You ask worried.

“Definitely, please.” He says.

You’re both eating ice cream out of the carton. leaving the strawberry on the side. 

“You know I would have pegged you for a stawberry kind of guy.” 

He laughs.

“You just give me that kind of vibe.” 

He laughs more. “What does that eeeeven meeean??"

You shrug. “Honestly, just that.” 

He leans in and kisses you.

“Your laugh.” You say as you kiss him back.

“What?” He says mid kiss.

“It's so fucking cute.” You kiss him harder.

Your both making out and its hot. He moves the carton and spoons away he leans more into you pushing you back into his couch.

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” As you're getting more situated under him. 

You can feel him getting hard so you open your legs a bit more. You’re so horny and he’s desperate. You’re both moaning and heavy breathing into each other’s mouth. You’’re both grinding into each other. He starts taking off your pants.

“Wait.” 

He stops. 

“Not like this. Not for our first time.” You say annoyed with yourself.

And he’s looking at you shocked, he laughs it off but you both get it. You kiss him. His lips are so soft and red, and so are yours. “Yeah?” “Yeah.” He says back.

You both adjust yourself and get back to the positions you were in on the couch. He reaches over to the ice cream carton.

“I cant believe you thought I was a strawberry kind of guy.” 

You laugh. 

He knows why he likes you.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

[knifegrrrllll]

Importance of Mutual Aid in Feminist Movement (my opinion)

"Mutual aid is an organizational model where voluntary, collaborative exchanges of resources and services for common benefit take place amongst community members to overcome social, economic, and political barriers to meeting common needs. This can include physical resources like food, clothing, or medicine, as well as services like breakfast programs or education. These groups are often built for the daily needs of their communities, but mutual aid groups are also found throughout relief efforts, such as in natural disasters or pandemics like the COVID-19 pandemic." -Wikipedia article on 'Mutual Aid'

Mutual aid is a concept popularized by anarchist philosopher Peter Kropotkin and he makes the argument in his books about mutual aid (which i havent read yet jsdhb) that human evolution is based on cooperation, rather than competition and individualism. Mutual aid is a major tenet (if u wanna call it that) in libertarian socialism(aka anarchism.) Mutual aid is already something many feminists practice without even realizing. Mutual aid allows us to directly tackle issues and barriers that capitalism, patriarchy, and colonialism impose on people.

Examples of Mutual Aid Action:

-Raising funds to help someone escape an abusive home

-Starting a Food Not Bombs chapter in your city to help feed various unhoused people and provide political literature to them as well (killing two birds with one stone really, providing education and meals for free)

-donating to mutual aid initiatives to help people going through genocide and colonialism (examples would be the mutual aid initiative to provide period care for women in sudan, relief funds, donating to help revive gaza's farm land etc etc)

-providing political education of feminist ideas to people for free (like strarting some sort of chapter and raise awareness/spread literature like zines books etc again i stress *for free*)

mutual aid initiatives typically fund themselves through donations which is part of the mutual aid inherently as well as people will provide donations to help support the cause.

Mutual Aid is NOT The Same as Charity Here's Why;

Charity: is always structured hierarchically, that means that majority of the funds go to the person at the top while the extra funds trickle down to the poor, the cause. This is what one might call a 'top down' model of organizing, for this reason charities also tend to pick and choose who is more deserving of care thus reinforcing the very systems the oppressed the poor in the first place. (whatever cause it is the charity is for this is typically the case)

Even if a charity is non-profit it is still reinforcing and maintaining oppression of the people the charity is meant for in the first place.

Mutual Aid: has no hierarchy, has what one would call a 'horizontal' model of organizing. Mutual Aid is based in solidarity and does not pick and choose who is more deserving of care, mutual aid provides care for everyone, and everyone depends on one another. The purpose of mutual aid is to build up a community and free it from oppression, rather than maintain said oppression.

The reason I took time out of my night to type all this out is because as well as the overall philosophy and ideas and educating eachother, we also at the same time should look at feminist action and what we can be doing to help lift up oppressed groups. Right now more than ever we have to stand in solidarity with those going through genocide and colonialism like Palestine, and Sudan.

This is an urgent feminist issue, settler colonies are built on violence, and the particular misogynistic violence against indigenous women. Particularly in Palestine for the entire existence of the israeli occupation, israeli forces have always been encouraged to rape, beat and murder or disappear women who are palestinian. This violence has a chain reaction on the larger part of palestinian society, palestinians are afraid of this violence happening to the women in their lives the women who are family, palestinian women themselves are afraid of this fate. In an attempt to protect their family, themselves, their children from violence, palestinians evacuate and leave their homeland, it makes room for the occupation to expand their colony further into palestinian land making room for their settlers to move in and replace the palestinians.

The truth is this is how all settler colonies are built, off of the rape, violence, and murder of indigenous women, as a tool for expansion of the settler state. Every settler colony, The united states, Canada, Israel, every single one in one way or another has used violence and rape to expand their territory. This is why feminists must stand in solidarity with colonized people, fight and resist against settler colonies, and mutual aid has never been more accessible to us.

To help in the fight against colonialist patriarchy may I politely suggest these mutual aid initiatives to support and promote:

Revive Gaza's Farmland and Resist against the expansion of so-called Israel: https://apnature.org/en/gaza (priority)

Sudan Solidarity Collective, donations help contribute to relief efforts, these people are on the frontlines of the ongoing genocide in sudan: https://www.paypal.com/donate/?hosted_button_id=C9GCHUJN37MCG

Help Provide Period Care to women in Sudan, infections during a genocide are all too common you can help prevent deaths this way: https://givebutter.com/WUKbDD

Help provide food, shelter and aid, programming and therapy for children in palestine in this international mutual aid fund: https://secure.everyaction.com/-73MDOq2iUetglwT5-jUMw2

[jetii]

OC x Canon Masterlist

I was starting to confuse myself, so I figured I would create an OC masterlist to keep track of all of my brain children. This will serve as a collection of art, fics, and anything else related to my Star Wars OCs.

Back to Main Masterlist | Join the Taglist | Request Guidelines | Ko-Fi

Event Horizon

Goldie and the 419th Brigade are characters in my ongoing Rex x Reader longfic, Event Horizon. While the fic is still being written in second person, Goldie has become a character of her own.

Soma "Goldie" Anathorn (jedi master, she/her) Soma is a Jedi Master, Investigator, General, and former Padawan of Master Yaddle. She is known for her temper and fierce fighting abilities, and she's dedicated to getting justice for her master's untimely death by any means necessary. During the Clone Wars, Soma is assigned command of the 419th Brigade, a legion created for the purpose of disrupting Separatist presence in the far-flung corners of the galaxy. Event Horizon Masterlist

Commander Booker (clone commander, he/him) Booker is a 2nd-generation clone commander and Soma's second-in-command. Booker is considered to be the “face” of the 419th, his charismatic and easy-going demeanor making him the obvious choice for any engagement with civilians and Republic command. He’s a skilled martial artist who’s quick to fight with his hands and just as fast to befriend anyone willing. Concept Art | Reference Sheet

Chief Medic Wise (clone medic, he/him) Wise's sour attitude puts even his general to shame, but he's a damn good medic. Originally created to serve as medical support on Kamino, never to leave the ocean planet, Wise jumped at the opportunity to join the 419th after the Second Battle of Kamino. He's been regretting it ever since. Wise Reference Sheet

Captain Snap (clone captain, he/him) Snap was promoted to captain of the 419th's Maelstrom Company shortly after his first battle. He's used to being the mediator among the men, and he has a soft spot for music and children. Snap Reference Sheet

Trooper Dash (clone trooper, he/him) Dash is everyone's baby brother, and no one lets him forget it. He's determined to prove he's capable of excelling at anything he puts his mind to, including becoming Maelstrom Company's dedicated pilot. Dash Reference Sheet

Trooper Screwball (clone trooper, he/him) No one really knows who, or what, Screwball was before he became a member of Maelstrom Company. All they know is that this reckless heavy infantry trooper isn't one to be messed with. But his hot-and-cold demeanor belies a heart of gold and a dedication to protecting his brothers, and his general, at any cost. Screwball Reference Sheet

ARF Lieutenant Price (clone lieutenant, he/him) After the death of his squad on Duro, Lieutenant Price elected to join the 419th's Maelstrom Company. Despite his apparent lack of work ethic, he's proven himself to be a capable researcher and scout. Price Reference Sheet

Infinite Possibilities of the Universe

Zeilla "Sarad" Pillian (jedi knight, she/her) Sarad is a former Jedi Researcher and plant enthusiast who served alongside Clone Force 99 during the Clone Wars. Her unique ability to read the thoughts of others made her a valuable addition to the team until Order 66 lead to her disappearance and assumed death. A year later, Sarad and Tech have reunited on Pabu and are building a life together. Tech x Sarad Masterlist

Mutually Beneficial Arrangement

Valeria "Vale" Ishani (senator, she/her) Senator Vale Ishani of the planet of Atrisia is a new member of the Galactic Senate and co-leader of the Senate Subcommittee on Planetary Funds. The daughter of a wealthy pharmaceutical magnate, Vale is no stranger to being in the public eye, though her affair with Commander Thorn of the Coruscant Guard is the one thing she’s determined to keep for herself. Thorn x Vale Masterlist

Good Graces

Esmerine Esmé Terel (handmaiden, she/her) Esmé has devoted her life in service of Padmé Amidala, wherever she may go. Plucked from the Naboo Special Forces Academy at a young age to become one of Queen Amidala's original handmaidens, Esmé is as much a soldier as she is a loyal friend. Good Graces Masterlist

[mariacallous]

Today, our information feeds and social media are largely governed by algorithms optimized to maximize engagement, often amplifying the most inflammatory content. With every view, like, and share analyzed to predict and steer our behaviors, we risk becoming subjects of surveillance and manipulation rather than active participants in civic discourse.

In 2025, we will start laying the groundwork for more empathetic and inclusive social networks, with the adoption of what I call “prosocial media.” This is media that doesn't just capture the attention of users but catalyzes mutual understanding between them. Media that empowers every voice, while fostering the capacity to listen across differences. Media that enables citizens to positively shape the digital public sphere.

One crucial aspect of prosocial media is the ability to allow people to collaboratively add context to potentially misleading information, thereby fostering a more informed discourse. Initiatives like Community Notes on X.com (formerly Twitter) and YouTube, for example, have successfully implemented this for public posts. A recent study, for instance, showed that Twitter Community Notes is an effective tool, reducing the number of retweets of potentially misleading posts by almost half and increasing the probability that a tweet is deleted by the user by 80 percent.

In Taiwan, Cofacts, a community-sourced fact-checking platform, is taking this concept further by empowering citizens to contextualize messages within private groups as well. Launched in 2017 by the civic technology community g0v, the platform was successfully adopted in Thailand in 2019. Research by Cornell University found that Cofacts managed to be quicker and as accurate in dealing with misinformation queries as professional fact-checking sites.

Prosocial media also addresses the centralization of social media platforms and the resulting unhealthy concentration of curation power in the hands of a few tech giants. It does this by using decentralized social networking protocols which enable content to flow seamlessly between different social media platforms. Last year, for instance, Meta’s Threads joined the Fediverse, a group of social media platforms that can communicate with one another, including Mastodon and Wordpress. This will eventually allow users on Threads to follow accounts and publish posts on other social networks. In February 2024, another decentralized platform, Bluesky (funded by Twitter founder Jack Dorsey) was also launched to the public.

Decentralization holds the promise of a more democratic internet, where people have greater control over their data and online experiences, leading to a proliferation of local communities, all interconnected through open protocols. This is increasingly valued by users. For instance, research at the University of Cincinnati found that users on decentralized social networks like Mastodon have joined primarily because they could control their information from data mining.

Breaking free of this attention economy will also require bold innovations in the very design of our digital platforms. In 2025, we will start doing that by using AI systems to help us prioritize content that promotes understanding and bridges divides, creating digital spaces that foster genuine dialogue rather than conflict. For instance, Stanford University and Jigsaw, the team created by Google to address global security problems and threats to open societies, have created AI tools that score social media posts and comments based on values like compassion, respect, and curiosity. In April 2024, they published research that demonstrated that ranking posts and comments based on such values significantly reduces reported animosity among users.

In 2025, a new wave of prosocial media platforms will finally start bridging the online divides, highlighting instead the common ground that unites us.

[tamamita]

hey sal what is wahhabism and how does it differ from the talibans?

Wahhabism is an ultra-orthodox and traditionalist interpretation of Sunni Islam that was initially introduced by the likes of Muhammad ibn abdul Wahab (son of Abdul Wahab). This movement was founded during backed be the house of Saud after ibn Abdul Wahab formed a pact with Muhammad bin Saud, providing the house of Saud with military backing, so that they could oust the Ottoman Turks. While the Saudi states failed during several occassions ever since, the British backed the House of Saud during the first world war for their oil and their mutual opposition to the Turks, leading to the creation of Modern Saudi Arabia with Wahhabism as its official religions.

Wahhabism follows a traditional interpretation of Sunni Islam and rejects the idea of metaphorical and rationalist traditional exegesis, this contrasts with earlier Islamic schools of theology, like the Asherites and Maturidis. Wahhabism is a reactionary/revivalist movement that sought to purify Islam from heresies. This would involve strict monotheistic interpretations, such as iconoclams, rejection of intercession, destruction of shrines, opposition to the idea of religious schools of thought (Madhabs) and the strict abandonment of religious innovations (Bid'ah). Due to this strict form of Sunni Islam, Shi'a Muslims and other Muslim minorities were particularly at odds with their interpretation and massacred as a result. Due to their opposition to Taqlid, the idea that one should conform to the teachings of past juridical opinions, Wahhabists emphasised the concept of Ijtihad, to derive Islamic laws through independent reasoning.

The Talibans are a movement that adhered to the Hanafi school of thought knowns as Deobandi, and ultimately follow the idea of Madhabs and Taqlid. They were originally part of the Mujahideen, a group of fighters during the Soviet intervention in Afghanistan and were funded by the US. Due to a power struggle within that group, a faction of the Mujahideen became known as the Taliban and imposed an Islamic theocracy. With that said, the Talibans and Wahhabis are in stark contrast with each other due to their interpretation of Islamic law and theology. Due to deriving their laws from the classic scholar, Abu Hanif, Wahhabists often condemn the Talibans for adhering to Taqlid, whereas the Talibans reject the idea of Ijtihad, condemning the Wahhabist for not adhering to one of the four Sunni Islamic schools of thought. The Talibans are known to adhere to Pasthuwali, which is a code of conduct generally practiced in the Pashtun belt (Eastern Afghanistan & Western Pakistan) known for its rather brutal rules.

[dameronswife]

can you tell us more about emilia?

my time has come...yes i can!

So, Emilia McKnight is my spidersona I created back in December 2022, I believe. At the time, I had every intention of her being solely a Spider-Verse self insert, so I went off the walls with my creation of her. Her alter ego is called Nephila, and of course, I made her my favorite color:

(the picrew I used for the first one unfortunately has been taken down; the second one is from a web warriors game. She is NOT that skinny, she is chubby)

When she's not running around in a mask, though, she approximately looks like this:

left art by @hermitmoss, right is from, apparently, another picrew that has tragically been taken down but was here.

However, around the same time I made Emilia, I was also struggling to make a self-insert for Moon Knight. Every concept I came up with didn't feel right, and I was getting increasingly frustrated, until @dameronalone suggested I just....use Emilia? And at that point, I had a little bit of a galaxy brain explosion: you know what Marc really needs in his life? An annoying Spider person. And who else to fill that void but my silly little oc?

Emilia's universe has basically been stuck in development hell for ages, though, and I've only recently hit a breakthrough with this fic and more recently with the realization that I don't need to write her like she's in the MCU, and that I can simply just make a new universe altogether that's a hodgepodge of all my favorite Marvel projects. But that doesn't answer the question of who is Emilia McKnight, either does it? Cue the "let's do this one more time"

Emilia is not a scientist, but her cousin, Francesca is, and works at Alchemex. While visiting her cousin at work, Emilia is bitten by a radioactive spider and gains the traditional superpowers, with some minor exceptions: her spider sense is a little more intense than most, and sometimes she has premonitions as a result. Also chronic migraines because of her spider sense. But much like Peter Parker before her, Emilia doesn't initially use these powers for the betterment of her city - instead, she ends up stuck in a position where she's forced to turn to theft in order to survive, where she hones a lot of her eventual skills as Nephila.

Around the same time Emilia goes through her transformation, Francesca's life at Alchemex is going splendidly: her project gets all the funding it needs which directly and negatively impacts Emilia's life, when it results in their mutual friend, Samantha Dillon, losing the funding on hers. The conflict and loss of her life's work results in Dillon doing the Impulsive Peak Supervillain Thing and goes through the experiment anyway, and becomes Aftershock. At the first opportunity she has, she attacks the Alchemex building with her new powers, and during the attack, Francesca is killed, and dies in Emilia's arms.

This loss, naturally, motivates Emilia to turn away from theft and becomes the vigilante known as Nephila. She meets plenty of other vigilantes along the way, and acquires an impressive rogues gallery, but her obsession is finding and putting Aftershock away, unaware that she's actually her old friend.

But y'know, it's a comic book verse, and when Emilia does find out, it's during a battle between Nephila and Aftershock. I'm unclear what happens exactly, but something goes extremely wrong during the fight, and they end up blowing up the (abandoned) building they're in, and Samantha does not survive the blast. Emilia does, barely, and is so horrified by her responsibility in her former friend's death, that she lets the authorities believe that Nephila perished in the fire with her, and hangs up her webs.

With New York too filled with ghosts, Emilia uses the rest of her funds to move to Brixton, London for a fresh start and becomes a bartender at the bar the Feather of Truth.

About a year after (approximately, in a version of those events that do not occur in the MCU, precisely) the events of Moon Knight, Marc has resumed his Moon Knighting duties and is on the hunt for an elusive vampire, and ends up going into Emilia's bar for a drink to decompress when he meets another dead end; which is how he and Emilia meet, and the two strike up a surprising (to both of them) friendship - which eventually snowballs into Emilia being attacked by said vampire, which pulls her out of retirement.

To say that I'm obsessed with Emilia and her universe would be an understatement. I have two reference boards to flesh out her earth/character, multiple timelines written out to keep everything straight, a playlist for a hypothetical television series, a mental trailer planned out, multiple aesthetic boards, and a WIP of a personal character playlist - not to mention my ship playlist for her and Marc.

I have a series of fanfiction for her already on Ao3, but I would be lying if I said I wouldn't eventually be interested in tightening those up and making a long multichapter fic about her and her universe, if I could ever summon up the motivation or proper arcs for her.

[techit-rp]

How Gen Z is Reshaping Personal Finance: Trends, Tools, and Investment Habits in 2025

Personal finance isn’t what it used to be—and that’s a good thing. In 2025, a new generation is rewriting the rules of money management, savings, and investing. Say hello to Gen Z: digitally native, socially conscious, and financially ambitious. This group isn’t just saving for the future; they’re actively building it—one investment decision at a time.

So, how exactly is Gen Z reshaping the personal finance landscape? Let’s break it down.

The Rise of Financial Consciousness

Unlike previous generations, Gen Z entered adulthood during uncertain times—think global pandemics, economic fluctuations, and the boom of digital finance. These experiences have cultivated a generation that’s more financially aware and keen on securing their futures.

According to a 2024 Deloitte study, over 70% of Gen Z individuals have started saving by the age of 21, and more than 40% have already made their first investment. These numbers signal a shift from financial passivity to proactive money management.

Digital-First Finance

Gen Z doesn’t walk into bank branches—they open finance apps. Digital wallets, budgeting tools, investment platforms, and crypto exchanges are their go-to financial companions.

Favorite Tools:

Splitwise and Mint for expense tracking and budgeting

Groww, Zerodha, and Upstox for investing in stocks and mutual funds

CoinSwitch and WazirX for dabbling in cryptocurrency

Cred and Slice for managing credit and smart payments

This generation doesn’t just use these apps—they expect seamless, user-friendly interfaces, real-time analytics, and transparency. Financial institutions are being forced to evolve and cater to this expectation or risk becoming irrelevant.

Investment Habits: Beyond Traditional Avenues

Gone are the days when a fixed deposit or a savings account was the pinnacle of financial planning. Gen Z is exploring a diversified portfolio from the get-go.

What They’re Investing In:

Stocks and Mutual Funds: Still popular, especially through SIPs and index funds.

Cryptocurrency: While volatile, it continues to attract risk-tolerant Gen Z investors.

Sustainable and ESG Funds: Gen Z cares about impact investing—where their money does good while generating returns.

Real Estate (Through REITs): New-age investors prefer liquidity, and Real Estate Investment Trusts offer just that.

There’s also growing interest in finance education to back these decisions. This is where structured learning programs—like an investment banking course in Mumbai—play a pivotal role in shaping future-ready finance professionals.

The Education Shift: Learning Finance the Smart Way

With so much financial information available online, it’s easy to feel overwhelmed. That’s why Gen Z is turning to certified courses and industry-aligned programs that offer practical, actionable knowledge.

One standout trend is the surge in enrollment for specialized programs like an investment banking course in Mumbai. These courses are popular among students who want to understand complex financial concepts, market dynamics, and investment strategies.

Institutes like the Boston Institute of Analytics in Mumbai are seeing a rise in demand from Gen Z learners who are eager to gain hands-on experience in financial modeling, mergers and acquisitions, portfolio management, and more. For a generation that wants to both save and grow wealth, this knowledge is power.

Social Media: The New Financial Advisor

Finance is no longer confined to boring textbooks or corporate cubicles. Gen Z follows finance creators on YouTube, Instagram, and LinkedIn to learn about everything from tax hacks to investment strategies.

Influencers like Ankur Warikoo, CA Rachana Ranade, and Pranjal Kamra have become household names in the Indian personal finance scene. Their bite-sized content and relatable advice are helping Gen Z decode complex financial concepts.

But there’s a flip side. With so much content out there, misinformation is a real risk. That’s another reason why formal financial education—such as a credible investment banking course in Mumbai—is more important than ever.

Financial Independence: The Ultimate Goal

One of the most defining traits of Gen Z is their desire for financial independence. They’re not just planning to retire early—they’re planning to live freely now. Whether it's freelancing, side hustles, or remote work, they want to earn on their terms and spend smartly.

This generation is not driven by materialism in the traditional sense. Instead, they value experiences, travel, and meaningful purchases—backed by conscious financial decisions.

Final Thoughts

Gen Z is a generation of financial trailblazers. With their tech-savviness, hunger for knowledge, and awareness of global trends, they’re changing how we perceive personal finance. From investing early to pursuing professional courses like an investment banking course in Mumbai, they’re laying the foundation for a financially literate and independent future.