#Recovery Mode

[ovohanna24]

💪🏾💚

“I wanna see when it gets dark for me, and then I wanna see what’s beyond that darkness, I’m never scared of that.”

Aaron via IG

[mauvecardigans]

actually, you know what? my anxiety must be okay. sure, i jumped right to the "oh god oh jeez oh man" train of thought, but i'm not wigging out about it like i could be. like, i'm breathing normally and all. so that's -- something.

[lovesbiggerthanpride]

Going to attempt to write or make something in canva today. Wish me luck.

[nichmeddar]

oscar piastri 

Sub Oscar but he needs a break from aus and he relaxes by getting so many orgasms??? He deserves it tbh

♪ — 𝗥𝗘𝗖𝗢𝗩𝗘𝗥𝗬 𝗠𝗢𝗗𝗘 sub!oscar piastri  x  girlfriend!reader ( smut ) fic summary . . . after a tough home race, oscar piastre needs your help to get his mind of his race results (1.4k words)

( my master list | more of oscar piastri ) ( requests )

CONTENT WARNING — ( +18 MDNI, smut with a little plot, blow job (m receiving), overstim, sad oscar)

★ ☆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Oscar slumped into the plush couch of his driver’s room, his body heavy with the weight of disappointment. His face was still flushed from the race, and though the adrenaline had faded, the frustration lingered. He had started P2, full of hope, only to finish P9—far below where he felt he should have been. The spin, the lost positions to a Sauber, Stroll, Leclerc . . . It all weighed on him.

The door clicked softly behind you, and he didn’t need to look up to know it was you. The gentle sound of your footsteps on the floor told him you were coming over to him. You didn’t need to speak; you never did when it was like this. Oscar rested his head on your shoulder as you sat next to him, his arms naturally finding their way around you.

“I fucked up,” he muttered, his voice tinged with frustration. You wrapped you arms around him in return, stroking your fingers through his weat damp hair.

You let him vent, listening to every word, his self-blame unraveling in the form of a disjointed rant.

"I had it. I fucking had it," Oscar muttered, his voice tight with frustration. "P2. I started P2, Yn." He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head against your shoulder. "And then I just—what? I lose it like a fucking rookie? One mistake, and suddenly I’m in ninth, watching a Sauber fly past me like I don’t belong here."

His grip on you tightened, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. You just held him closer, rubbing his back in slow, steady circles.

"You do belong here, Os."

"Then why does it feel like I don’t?" He exhaled sharply, shifting slightly. "Lando's on the podium, Max is Max, and I’m here, talking about how I got overtaken by Stroll like an idiot." His voice cracked slightly on the last word, the frustration melting into something more fragile. "I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve defended better. But I panicked, and I—I let it slip away."

You cupped the back of his head, running your fingers through his hair, grounding him. "It wasn’t just you, Oscar. Strategy wasn’t perfect. Tires were shit. It’s not all on you."

"It feels like it is." His breath stuttered, his shoulders rising and falling unevenly. "I hate this. I hate feeling like I disappointed everyone. The team, the fans—myself."

"You didn’t disappoint me." Your voice was soft but firm, and he finally looked up, eyes searching yours, flickering with something vulnerable.

Oscar exhaled shakily, the tension still thick in the air. He leaned his forehead against yours for a brief moment before looking at you, his brown eyes wide, a mix of vulnerability and yearning behind them.

"I just . . . I want to forget today," he whispered the last part like a confession, barely audible over the sound of his own ragged breathing.

You blinked, the request catching you off guard. Your hands, which had been rubbing soothing circles into his back, stilled.

"Now?" you asked softly, searching his face.

He nodded, a little shy but resolute.

You hesitated. "Oscar . . ." Your fingers grazed his jaw as you tried to find the right words. "I don’t want you to just bury this. You had a bad race, but avoiding it like this—it won’t make it go away."

His lips parted slightly, a flicker of something unreadable flashing in his eyes. "I know that," he said, voice strained. "I know tomorrow I’ll still be thinking about it, I know I’ll go over every mistake a hundred times in my head—but right now, I just need—" He swallowed, voice dropping to something barely above a whisper. "You."

Your heart clenched at the way he said it, so raw, so desperate. Then he gave you this look—this quiet, pained, pleading look, like if you said no, the weight of today might just crush him entirely.

And just like that, your resistance melted.

You sighed softly, fingers tracing the curve of his cheek before pressing a slow, lingering kiss to his lips—a question, an invitation, and an answer all at once.

When you pulled back, his eyes searched yours, still uncertain, still a little lost.

You gave him a small, knowing smile, your voice gentle but firm. "Okay, Os. Let me take care of you."

He nodded shyly, not saying anything more, but you could feel the weight behind his request. Without saying anything else, you pressed a kiss to his lips—a gentle, lingering kiss that was both a question and an invitation. When you pulled back, you gave him a small, smile, and you could see the uncertainty in his eyes.

Slowly, you slid down to your knees in front of him, your hands resting on his thighs as you looked up at him, making sure he was comfortable with what was happening. Oscar’s breath caught in his throat, his hands shaking a little as he helped you unbuckle his race suit. You took your time, pulling it down carefully, ensuring he felt at ease with the situation.

When his pants finally came off, you reached up to gently touch his chest, calming him further. His eyes were closed now, his breathing shallow. You leaned in, your lips brushing over his skin, your fingers tracing the edges of his muscles, comforting him in ways that words couldn’t.

Oscar was no longer tense, his body slowly unraveling beneath your touch. The tightness in his shoulders, the stiffness in his jaw—all of it began to fade as you worked him over with slow, deliberate care. You kissed your way down his body, mapping each inch of his skin with reverence, pressing your lips to the places where tension lingered, coaxing him into relaxation with every deliberate movement.

His breath hitched as your mouth found its way lower, and you could feel the slightest tremor roll through him, his body caught between pleasure and relief. His fireproofs clung to his skin, the heat of the race still lingering on him, but none of that mattered now. His muscles, once tight with frustration, melted under your attention, each kiss, each touch dissolving the weight of the race he had carried with him.

Every time you drew another shudder from him, you noticed the way his body reacted—the way his fingers twitched at his sides before curling into the couch, the way his thighs tensed beneath your palms only to relax moments later. His breath grew uneven, small gasps slipping past his lips despite his attempts to hold them back. When you reached for his hand, intertwining your fingers with his, he squeezed back instantly, grounding himself in your touch.

The intimacy wasn’t lost on either of you.

You kept your movements steady, pulling him back from the downward spiral of self-doubt, replacing his frustration with something else entirely. This was about more than just pleasure—it was about comfort, about giving him an escape, a moment where nothing else existed but the warmth of your touch and the way you made him feel.

Oscar’s gasps grew heavier, his body trembling beneath you, each moment unraveling the last bit of tension he had been holding onto. He wasn’t thinking about the race anymore, wasn’t thinking about the positions lost, the mistakes made—there was only this, only you. His grip on your hand tightened as he gave in completely, his body shaking with the intensity of his release, the last remnants of frustration dissolving in the aftermath.

He was panting now, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven movements, his fingers still tangled with yours. His head lolled back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut, completely undone in the best way possible. You pressed one last kiss to his thigh before pulling yourself up beside him, running your fingers through his hair.

For the first time since he stepped out of the car, Oscar looked at peace.

You stayed close, keeping him grounded in the moment, ensuring he felt cared for, wanted, and supported. After everything, it was the only thing that mattered—being there for each other when the world felt a little too heavy.

Oscar leaned back, his eyes half-lidded, a small, content smile playing on his lips. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. You smiled softly, brushing your thumb over the back of his hand.

“You deserve to be taken care of,” you replied, your words soothing his lingering frustrations.

Voice notes 🔊 . . . ( i wrote this at midnight I don't know what I'm doing, sorry if it's not well written enough )

[teknowebadnanguney]

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[a-beneficial-union]

Uniform stuff take three!

The colour assignments extend to breaks and rest. Brown is willful, red-and-grey is enforced (through restrictions on access), and to pester either is a faux pas.

Then comes when everything else must pause because one's Omni (internal) or trix (external) needs assistance, this is a blue-on-blue. The simplest causes of a blue-on-blue would be a need for data labelling or to attend to external assets (which are biomechanical).

Sometimes it's not the Omnitrix that needs attention, but rather the host body. For the ill, tired, injured, hungry, or severely stressed, deep blue-and-purple is built to catch attention.

And when one's host refuses maintenance, an Omni (or someone who supersedes the host) can switch on ‘recovery mode’. Depending on circumstances, this can mean anything from making them drowsy with a diminished pain response or outright conked out. The colours for this one are intrusive, as it is best not to leave someone unattended while in recovery mode. (Modes are known to abuse this setting if they don’t want to deal with someone or as a power play).

[bloggertipstalk]

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[wandluung]

I slept over 10 hrs and Its still hard to keep my eyes open. Could probably sleep 10 more easily

[discountreactionimagewarehouse]

Dave Ruben's brain is in recovery mode. (no surprise.)

[makingsenseofwhathappened]

Some people won’t believe you until you break. Break anyway, if you need to. You don’t owe anyone your composure.

[saintobio]

megan fox mc 🫀

[thepeacefulgarden]

[tatiejosie]

normal thoughts about Decil

Scars can be worn as a badge of honor, as a token of survival, of resilience. Scars are storytellers. It's all in the back of Cecil's mind, even if Donald is continously given a new body. And when he looks at the bare, synthetic skin on the man's body, even if he doesn't see the dozens of lifetimes behind him, Cecil remembers.

if i can't have my character A lovingly trace character B's scars then I'm gonna fucking work around it

[enden-agolor]

i have nothing else to offer but this little doodle page 😔 i don't have much time to draw as of recently so i hope this pleases the gay minecraft man audience

[songofsaraneth]

my 8 year old macbook just crashed and wouldnt restart and if recovery move doesn’t fix things i think i really will crawl into a cave and sleep for 10000 years fuck me

[velvetwyrme]

if u have a stall at a con and dont have a business card im coming to ur doorstep and making one for u. the sheer amt of ppl who did not have one broke my heart like hello what if i want to. find you again </3