#keep fighting ... keep fighting with this app

[amirawrah]

⭐︎Before you go

with JUDE BELLINGHAM⭐︎

synopsis: After a fight, Jude realizes mid-flight he can’t stand being mad at you—and sends a text that says it all.

The suitcase zipped shut with finality, but the tension in the room had already settled long before that.

Jude stood by the door, jaw tight, eyes a little too sharp. You were across the room, arms crossed, a knot in your throat you refused to let spill over. The argument had been stupid. Pointless, really. Something about miscommunication, plans changing last-minute, and him not listening when you really needed him to.

“You’re making this a bigger deal than it needs to be,” he said, voice edged with frustration as he pulled on his coat.

Your chest stung. “No, Jude. I’m making it a big deal because it is one. I needed you here this week and you completely blew me off.”

“I didn’t blow you off. I had training—”

“It’s always training. Always football.”

“And this is my job—!”

“And I’m supposed to be your wife!” you snapped, voice cracking just a little.

Silence.

He looked at you then, eyes flickering with guilt, but it was too late. The damage was done. Your breathing was shallow, tears threatening the edges of your lashes, and Jude looked like he wanted to reach out—like maybe he wanted to drop everything and come to you—but pride had a tighter grip.

So instead, he grabbed his bag.

And walked out.

No goodbye. No kiss.

Just the sound of the door closing like a full stop.

You didn’t cry until an hour later.

You didn’t check your phone, didn’t reply to the “u good?” text from your best friend. You were just angry—at him, at yourself for caring so much, at how something so small could feel so deeply hurtful when it came from him.

Meanwhile, thousands of feet above the ground, Jude Bellingham sat in his seat, head against the window, hating himself.

He couldn’t focus. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t even pretend to listen to the music in his AirPods.

Because the second he walked out of that house, something started twisting in his chest. The sound of your voice—shaky, hurt—kept replaying in his mind like a loop.

His phone was on airplane mode, but his notes app was open.

And the words spilled out.

I hate this. I hate that we fought before I left. You were right. You needed me and I was selfish. I get tunnel vision sometimes, and that’s not fair to you. You always show up for me, and I didn’t show up for you when it mattered. I’m sorry, baby. I really am. The truth is, being away from you after that argument? Hurts like hell. I can’t breathe right. I keep thinking about your face and the way I walked away from you. I would never choose football over you. Not ever. I love the game, but you’re my home. I don’t care what time I land—I’m calling you. I need to hear your voice. Need to know you’re okay. I love you. I’ll keep saying it until you believe it again. J

The moment the plane hit the runway, your phone lit up.

Missed calls.

Then another. Then three more.

You stared at the screen, heart thudding. Then came the ping of the message. Long. Scrolling. Raw.

You read every word twice.

By the time the next call came through, you answered.

“Hi,” you whispered.

The line crackled. “Thank God,” Jude exhaled.

His voice was soft. Panicked. Tired. “I’ve been calling you nonstop. I—I didn’t sleep on the flight, I just kept thinking about you.”

You didn’t say anything at first.

Then finally: “You hurt me.”

“I know,” he said, instantly. “And I’m sorry. I swear I’ve never regretted anything more.”

There was a beat. And then, with less anger and more ache, you added, “You left. That’s what really hurt.”

He inhaled sharply. “I’ll never do that again.”

Your throat tightened. “Jude…”

“I love you,” he said, again and again, like a prayer. “And I’m coming home after this match. I don’t care what coach says. I’m coming home to you.”

A silence passed. But this time, it wasn’t cold—it was warm. Heavy with love still bruised, but healing.

“I love you too,” you finally said. “Just… come home safe, okay?”

“You’re all I’ll be thinking about,” he promised.

And you knew he meant it.

Later that night, as you lay in bed alone, your phone buzzed again.

Jude💍: I know you’re probably asleep, but just in case you’re not… I miss you. Still reading that text I wrote on the plane like it’s gonna fix anything. It won’t. I know that. I just want to hold you again. Make it better.

You stared at the message, the glow of your phone the only light in the room. A sigh escaped your lips. You weren't even mad anymore—just worn down, emotionally wrung out.

Still, your thumbs moved.

I'm not asleep. I miss you too. That message helped. But I need more than words when you come home, Jude. I need you to prove I’m still your priority.

You watched the three little dots pop up almost instantly.

Jude💍: You are. I swear on everything, love. You are. I already told coach I’m flying straight back to Madrid after the match. I’ll be home in two days. Can we start fresh when I get back? No anger. Just me and you.

You hesitated for a second.

If you bring my favorite pastries maybe.

Jude💍: Done. I’ll buy a whole damn bakery if that’s what it takes.

That finally made you smile. For the first time all day, the weight in your chest lifted—just a little.

Two days later...

You were in the kitchen, hair tied up, a hoodie swallowing you whole, scrolling your phone when you heard the familiar sound of keys in the door.

Your heart stuttered.

You didn’t even have time to react before you heard his voice.

“Baby?”

You turned.

And there he was—hood up, duffle bag slung over his shoulder, a small brown paper bag in one hand, his eyes locked right on you like he hadn’t seen daylight since he left.

Neither of you spoke at first.

Then, he dropped the bag and crossed the room in three long strides, wrapping you up in the tightest hug like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

His face buried in your neck. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, voice thick. “So, so sorry.”

You clutched the back of his hoodie, the lump in your throat returning—but this time, it wasn’t pain. It was relief.

“I know,” you breathed. “I know.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, thumb brushing your cheek. “You have no idea how much I missed you.”

“I think I do,” you whispered, leaning into his touch.

And then he kissed you.

Slow and deep—like a promise, like an apology, like a thousand words he couldn’t say fast enough.

When he finally pulled back, he grinned, eyes glassy.

“I got your pastries.”

You laughed, forehead pressed to his. “Then we’re good.”

Later that night, you both curled up on the couch, limbs tangled under a blanket, the TV playing but long forgotten.

He held your hand against his chest like he needed the reassurance you were still there. And you rested your head on his shoulder, silently grateful that love—real love—could bend, break a little… and still come back stronger.

And Jude?

He never missed another goodbye again.

[inkolnito]

Paddock Confidential - Chapter 11: Drive Fast, Don't Crash

Pairing:

Oliver "Ollie" Bearman x Lira Räikkönen (Original Female Character )

Minor background pairings reflecting the real-life F1 grid (e.g., Charles Leclerc/Alexandra Saint Mleux)

Summary:

Rising F1 star Ollie Bearman navigates the intense pressure of his rookie season with Haas, juggling demanding team expectations and his close ties to Ferrari under the watchful eye of Fred Vasseur. His biggest challenge lies off-track: guarding his relationship with the enigmatic and fiercely private Lira, whose surprising motorsport knowledge and aversion to the spotlight hint at a complex past connected to one of the sport's icons. As Ollie fights for his future, their secret world threatens to unravel amidst paddock gossip, rivalries, and the ever-present Drive to Survive cameras. When exposure becomes inevitable, they must confront the consequences and find a way to navigate the relentless glare of the F1 world together.

Warnings and Notes:

Warnings: Depictions of anxiety, stress related to high-pressure environments (F1), mentions of past trauma (related to privacy/media intrusion), media scrutiny/harassment, potential minor F1-typical language.

Notes:

This is a work of fiction using real people (F1 drivers, personnel) as characters; their portrayals, actions, and relationships are fictionalized for the story.

The brief, quiet interlude in the Cotswolds felt like a lifetime ago, a half-remembered dream snatched between the relentless demands of reality. Late 2024 bled into early 2025, marked not by changing seasons in the traditional sense, but by the escalating rhythm of Formula 1’s pre-season preparations. For Ollie Bearman, newly confirmed (though not yet publicly announced) Haas F1 driver, life transformed into an intense, demanding cycle of forging himself into the athlete and technician required to survive, let alone succeed, at the pinnacle of motorsport.

The Haas factory in Banbury lacked the mythical aura and historical weight of Maranello, or even the familiar, almost familial atmosphere of the Prema workshops. It was a more functional, pragmatic space – a modern industrial unit filled with the hum of machinery, the scent of carbon fibre dust and epoxy resin, and the focused energy of engineers hunched over CAD screens or assembling intricate car components. Yet, walking through its doors for the first time wearing provisional Haas team kit felt momentous, solidifying the transition from hopeful junior to fully-fledged F1 driver. This was his new home, his new team.

Ollie threw himself into the preparations with a ferocity born of ambition and a healthy dose of fear. The physical training regime ramped up to brutal levels. He found himself strapped into contraptions that looked like medieval torture devices, designed solely to strengthen the neck muscles needed to withstand the savage G-forces of an F1 car. Sweat dripped into his eyes, his muscles screamed under the strain as he fought against the resistance bands, his trainer, Eoin, calling out relentless encouragement. "Hold it, Ollie! Five more seconds! Feel the burn! That's what keeps your head on straight through Eau Rouge!"

Lira often sat quietly in the corner of the private gym during these sessions, tablet in hand, ostensibly reading but her eyes frequently flicking up to observe. She tracked his reps with the stopwatch app on her phone, her expression unreadable, but when Eoin finally called time on a particularly punishing set of neck extensions, Ollie caught her subtle, sharp nod of approval as he collapsed back against the bench, gasping. As Eoin moved away to adjust another machine, Lira would appear silently beside Ollie, handing him a precisely measured recovery shake she’d prepared earlier, the ingredients meticulously chosen based on nutritional research papers she’d been studying. "Drink," she'd murmur, her voice low, before retreating back to her corner. No fuss, no effusive praise, just quiet, practical support that felt more grounding than any cheerleading could. Her analytical mind had latched onto sports science, ensuring his nutrition precisely matched the extreme demands of the training.

Evenings often found Ollie sprawled face-down on his apartment sofa, every muscle fibre seemingly protesting, the sheer physical toll of the day rendering him almost immobile. The scent of deep heat rub often filled the air. Lira would move quietly around the room, sometimes bringing him a glass of water or simply sitting nearby, reading. On particularly brutal days, she'd wordlessly retrieve ice packs from the freezer, wrapping them in towels and placing them gently on his aching shoulders or strained neck muscles. Occasionally, if he groaned particularly loudly while trying to stretch out a cramp, she might put her book down and, with surprising strength in her slender fingers, begin kneading the tense, knotted muscles in his shoulders and upper back, her touch firm and methodical, working out the soreness without needing to be asked. Her quiet care was a silent acknowledgment of the physical price he was paying, a balm to his exhaustion. He knew, viscerally now, that F1 wasn't just about speed; it demanded relentless physical endurance.

Then there were the endless hours logged in the simulator. Haas’s sim setup was a sophisticated beast, a dark, womb-like room dominated by a carbon fibre monocoque surrounded by panoramic screens, capable of replicating the bumps, kerbs, and G-forces of every track on the calendar with startling fidelity. Strapped into the tight cockpit, facing the complex Haas steering wheel – different again from Ferrari’s, requiring new muscle memory for button placement and rotary functions – Ollie drove lap after virtual lap. Learning the nuances of the 2025 Haas car, understanding its theoretical handling characteristics, practicing fuel saving techniques, ERS deployment strategies, qualifying runs, race starts, pit stop procedures. He worked closely with his new race engineer, Mark, and the performance engineers, dissecting telemetry, overlaying his laps with data from the team’s existing drivers, searching for those elusive tenths of a second. It was mentally exhausting work, requiring intense concentration for hours on end, often leaving him feeling more drained than a real track session.

Factory visits became routine. Seat fittings involved multiple sessions, meticulously moulding the carbon fibre seat to his exact contours for optimal comfort, safety, and connection to the car. He spent hours in engineering meetings, trying to absorb the technical jargon, learning about the team’s development philosophy, understanding the intricate workings of the power unit, the suspension geometry, the aerodynamic concepts. He met his mechanics, the engineers who would be his trackside family, shaking hands, learning names, trying to build the rapport and trust essential for a successful working relationship. It was a steep learning curve, a constant influx of new information, new faces, new procedures.

Through it all, Lira was a quiet, constant presence in the background. She understood his need for absolute focus, the immense demands of this preparatory phase. She didn't accompany him on every factory visit – that would be too risky – but occasionally, when the purpose was less formal, perhaps a simulator debrief or a casual engineering discussion, she would come along, melting into the background with practiced ease. Dressed in her usual understated dark clothing, she’d find a quiet corner, ostensibly reading or working on her own research on a tablet, attracting minimal attention.

Yet, her presence wasn't merely passive support. Ollie quickly learned that her quiet observations often held surprising technical value.

During one particularly frustrating simulator session where Ollie was struggling to get the virtual Haas car to rotate cleanly through the slow corners of a simulated Bahrain circuit, complaining over the radio about persistent understeer on entry, Lira, who had been watching the telemetry feed over a performance engineer’s shoulder for half an hour, offered a quiet suggestion during a break while Ollie stretched beside the rig.

"The rear feels lazy on entry at Turn 5 sim, Ollie," she murmured, her voice low but clear in the relative quiet of the control room, pointing subtly at a specific data trace on the monitor displaying differential slip percentages. "Looks like it's under-rotating mid-corner, forcing you to wait too long to get back on throttle. Have you tried adjusting the differential ramp settings? Maybe less locking on entry could help the car turn in more sharply? The data trace here suggests the diff isn't allowing enough rotation early enough."

Ollie stared at her, momentarily frozen. Pride swelled in him at her sharp insight, but it was immediately swamped by a cold wave of panic.

Too specific. Too technical.

Mark, his experienced race engineer, looked up from his own screen, frowning slightly, not in disagreement, but in surprise. Dave, one of the younger performance engineers Lira had been standing near, visibly raised his eyebrows, leaning closer to the screen Lira had indicated, comparing it with Ollie's feedback notes.

"She's right, actually," Dave murmured, tracing the graph with his finger. "The entry diff lock does look quite high compared to the baseline setup we started with. We were focusing on the aero balance changes, didn't revisit the diff map after the last wing adjustment."

Mark nodded slowly, his gaze shifting from the screen to Lira, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. "It's a valid point. The understeer Ollie's feeling could well be exacerbated by the diff resisting rotation on turn-in, especially with the front wing change we made." He looked back at Lira, a hint of professional respect entering his tone. "Good spot… Lira, wasn't it?"

Ollie jumped in quickly, forcing a casual, slightly louder laugh, trying to diffuse the sudden focus on her. "Blimey, Li, you listening in? Must be all my moaning about the front end finally sinking in! Or maybe she's just got a secret knack for spotting dodgy diff settings." He clapped Mark on the shoulder, turning the engineer physically back towards the controls. "Anyway! So, reckon we try a sim run with a more aggressive diff setting on entry for the next stint? Less locking?" He deliberately steered the conversation back to the technical solution, away from the person who suggested it.

Mark nodded, already tapping adjustments into the simulator controls. "Yeah, let's try it. Easy change to make. Worth a shot." He shot another quick, thoughtful glance towards Lira, who had already retreated slightly, picking up her tablet again as if the conversation no longer involved her, her expression carefully neutral.

Lira simply gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug, her eyes already scanning whatever research was on her screen, leaving Ollie with a familiar, potent cocktail of emotions: immense pride in her brilliance, deep gratitude for her support, and a renewed, heart-thumping jolt of anxiety about how easily her unique knowledge, her ingrained understanding of racing dynamics, could betray her carefully constructed cover.

Her insight was invaluable, a secret weapon in his arsenal, but every time she deployed it, even subtly, it felt like playing with fire, a constant, nerve-wracking reminder of the tightrope they walked.

The slightly increased curiosity in the engineers' eyes lingered for the rest of the afternoon, a silent question mark hanging over the quiet, unassuming 'researcher' in the corner.

As the weeks turned into months, and the start of pre-season testing loomed closer, the conversation Ollie had been dreading, yet knew was essential, finally took place. They needed to establish the rules, the hard boundaries, for Lira’s presence – or mostly, her absence – during the actual F1 season.

They sat opposite each other at the small dining table in Ollie’s apartment, mugs of tea growing cold between them, the mood serious, pragmatic.

"Okay," Ollie began, taking a deep breath. "2025. Paddock access. We need to be absolutely clear."

Lira nodded, her expression composed, analytical. "Agreed. Minimal attendance is the baseline. Only races where it makes logistical sense, where my presence can be genuinely low-key."

"Guest passes only," Ollie confirmed. "Never team passes. And obtained through Julian or someone completely unconnected to Haas or Ferrari, maybe using one of your university contacts?"

"Yes. Untraceable back to you or the team," Lira agreed. "And absolutely zero presence in Haas hospitality or the garage during official sessions. Ever. That’s non-negotiable."

"Definitely," Ollie shuddered at the thought of the scrutiny within the team environment. "Maybe find a quiet spot in the Paddock Club if absolutely necessary, using a sponsor pass from a neutral company? Somewhere anonymous?"

"Possibly. But avoiding the main hospitality hotspots is crucial," Lira stressed. "No lingering near the Ferrari or Mercedes areas either, obviously. Too many people know faces there."

"No official team photos, no appearances in any team communications, social media, anything," Ollie added, ticking off points on his fingers. "If a camera crew approaches, you walk the other way. Immediately."

"Always have an exit strategy," Lira continued the grim checklist. "Know the quickest routes out of the paddock, the service roads, the discreet exits. Never get cornered."

"And if someone does recognize you? Someone from the past?" Ollie asked, the fear resurfacing.

Lira’s gaze was steady. "Polite, brief acknowledgment if unavoidable. Then move on. Feign poor memory if necessary. Create distance. Never engage in prolonged conversation."

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the restrictions, the sheer complexity of the deception required, settling heavily between them. It felt cold, clinical, stripping away any romance, reducing their relationship to a series of logistical challenges and risk assessments.

Ollie reached across the table, covering her hand with his. "Li, are you sure… are you sure you want this? Living like a ghost? It’s not fair."

Her fingers curled around his, her touch firm. "It's not about fairness, Ollie. It's about necessity. It's the price of… this." She gestured vaguely, encompassing his F1 career, their relationship, the whole complicated mess. "We knew the price. And yes," her voice softened slightly, her grey eyes meeting his with unwavering resolve, "I'm sure. I want this. With you. Whatever it takes."

Her certainty, her willingness to endure this hidden existence for him, for them, filled Ollie with a fierce mix of love and guilt. He squeezed her hand tightly, his own resolve hardening. He would make this work. He would protect her. He had to.

A few weeks before they were due to fly out for the official car launch and then pre-season testing in Bahrain, another unexpected communication arrived from the Räikkönen sphere. Lira was on a brief video call with her mother, Minttu, catching up, when Minttu casually mentioned Kimi was nearby and wanted a quick word with Ollie.

Ollie, hastily summoned to the laptop, felt a familiar jolt of nervous energy. Interactions with the Iceman were rare and always unpredictable. Kimi’s face appeared on screen, looking typically impassive, perhaps slightly bored, framed against what looked like a minimalist, very clean living room somewhere in Switzerland.

"Ollie," Kimi stated, his standard greeting.

"Hi Kimi," Ollie replied, trying to sound relaxed, maybe a bit too cheerful. "Good to see you! All good?"

"Bwoah," Kimi responded noncommittally. A beat of silence stretched, feeling cavernous through the laptop speakers.

Ollie felt the need to fill it instantly.

"So, yeah, just getting ready for Bahrain," Ollie rambled slightly, nerves making him talk faster than usual. "Lots of sim work, seat fitting went well, feeling pretty good actually, bit nervous obviously, big step up, but the team at Haas seem great, really welcoming, Mark's brilliant, loads to learn..." He trailed off, realizing he was babbling.

He cleared his throat. "Actually, Kimi, speaking of learning, I never properly thanked you for that advice you gave me years ago, back when I was karting? You probably don't even remember, it was ages ago at some random track, but you said something about feeling the grip through your backside? Honestly, it sounds daft, but it properly stuck with me! Made a real difference, understanding how the kart was reacting, you know? So, yeah, just wanted to say thanks for that, finally!" He finished in a rush, feeling slightly breathless.

Kimi blinked slowly, seemingly processing the torrent of words and the ancient memory. "Yeah," he finally conceded after another pause that felt long enough for Ollie to mentally replay his entire rambling speech. "Is important."

Another pause.

Ollie opened his mouth to fill it again, but Kimi spoke first.

"Formula 1. Drive fast." Pause. "Don't crash." Longer pause.

Ollie waited, heart pounding.

"Listen to engineers…" Kimi added, almost as an afterthought, "…sometimes."

Ollie managed a small, slightly shaky smile. Peak Kimi. Utterly terrifying and somehow brilliant. "Right. Good advice. Simple! Drive fast, don't crash. Got it. Thanks, Kimi."

Kimi’s gaze then flickered past Ollie, presumably spotting Lira hovering just out of shot. He gave a barely perceptible nod, a micro-movement almost lost on the screen. Then, turning his flat gaze back to Ollie, he asked, with no change in tone whatsoever,

"You feed her okay?"

Ollie blinked, completely blindsided by the bizarre, almost domestic question.

Feed her?

Was Kimi checking if I'm looking after Lira properly? In the most deadpan, Iceman way possible? "Uh… yes? Yes, Kimi! Absolutely! She eats well, promise! Three square meals a day, plenty of vegetables... well, mostly," Ollie stammered, utterly bewildered and slightly panicked by the question's implications.

"Good," Kimi stated flatly. Before Ollie could respond further, or dig himself into a deeper hole about Lira's eating habits, Kimi simply said, "Okay. Bye," and the screen went blank.

Ollie stared at the blank screen for a full ten seconds, processing the surreal exchange. He slowly turned to Lira, who had stepped back into view, a faint, unmistakable curve of amusement playing on her lips, her grey eyes sparkling with suppressed laughter.

"Did… did your dad just ask if I'm feeding you properly?" Ollie asked incredulously.

Lira’s rare smile widened fractionally. "I believe he did," she confirmed, her voice laced with dry amusement. "Consider it the Räikkönen version of a pre-season blessing. And possibly a subtle threat."

Ollie shook his head, a bewildered laugh escaping him. Kimi Räikkönen. An absolute enigma. Yet, somehow, that strange, blunt, almost paternal query felt oddly reassuring, a bizarre form of acknowledgment, perhaps even approval, filtered through the Iceman’s unique, impenetrable lens. It was another reminder of the extraordinary, complicated, hidden world he was now inextricably part of.

The final days before leaving for Bahrain dissolved into a controlled chaos of logistics and anticipation. Ollie’s apartment became ground zero, looking less like a living space and more like a staging area for a military operation.

Open suitcases gaped like hungry mouths on the floor, surrounded by daunting piles of pristine white and red Haas team kit – polos, jackets, fireproof underwear, travel gear. His race boots stood sentinel beside helmets gleaming under the harsh overhead light. Training gear spilled from another bag, alongside chargers, adapters, notebooks filled with hastily scribbled notes from engineering meetings. It was the physical manifestation of his F1 dream, overwhelming in its sheer volume.

Ollie buzzed around the room like a trapped wasp, fuelled by nervous energy and too much caffeine. He'd grab a stack of t-shirts, attempt to fold them, give up halfway through, and shove them haphazardly into a case. He'd check his passport for the tenth time, then immediately forget where he'd put it, patting his pockets frantically.

"Li, have you seen my... oh, wait, here it is." He’d hold up two nearly identical training jackets, frowning. "Which one do you think is better for Bahrain heat? This one's lighter, but this one has more pockets..."

Lira moved through the whirlwind with the serene calm of a seasoned logistics expert navigating a natural disaster. While Ollie created eddies of disorder, she brought quiet efficiency.

She picked up the shirts he’d abandoned, folding them into neat, compact squares before placing them precisely in the suitcase. She located the missing phone charger tucked under a pile of race gloves. Without a word, she held up the lighter of the two jackets Ollie was debating. "This one," she stated simply. "Pockets are overrated when it's forty degrees Celsius." She systematically worked through his packing list, ticking items off on her tablet, ensuring essentials like his specific electrolyte tablets or noise-cancelling headphones weren't forgotten amidst the branded merchandise.

Her calm presence was the only thing keeping the pre-departure frenzy from escalating into full-blown panic.

She wouldn't be travelling with him for the entirety of testing – the risk of exposure under the new Haas arrangement was deemed too high, too soon – but she would fly out independently for a few days towards the end, slipping into Bahrain under her carefully maintained 'private research' cover story, a brief intersection planned amidst the intense testing schedule.

On the last night, surrounded by the now mostly packed bags zipped shut like sleeping beasts, they stood by the window, looking out at the city lights glittering in the cold night air. A sense of profound transition hung between them. This was it. The end of the preparation, the beginning of the real thing. Ollie’s full-time Formula 1 career. The most intense, most public, most demanding phase yet of guarding their precarious secret.

Ollie felt a potent mix of raw excitement – the thrill of the unknown, the chance to prove himself on the biggest stage – and a deep, gnawing trepidation. Could he handle the pressure? Could he perform in the Haas? Could they maintain their secret under the relentless scrutiny of a full F1 season? He slipped an arm around Lira’s waist, pulling her close, resting his chin on the top of her head.

"Ready for this?" he murmured, the question directed as much at himself as at her.

Lira leaned back against him, her gaze fixed on the distant lights. "As ready as we can be," she replied softly, her voice steady.

"Helmet on, Ollie. Eyes forward. Focus on the first corner."

He smiled faintly, recognizing her adaptation of racing advice to their situation. She was right. All the worry, all the 'what ifs,' wouldn't change anything now. It was time to drive. Time to face the storm. Together. He tightened his grip around her, feeling the familiar anchor of her presence, and took a deep breath, bracing himself for the plunge into the exhilarating, terrifying unknown of the Formula 1 circus.

Bahrain, and the future, awaited.

Previous chapter | Next chapter

[glowettee]

your dream life is jealous of how much time you spend doomscrolling.

hey sweethearts!! mindy hereeeee, so i've realized something… like how we're all literally addicted to our phones?? and how our dream lives are sitting somewhere in the corner of our minds, pouting and wondering why we never hang out anymore??

i had this moment last week where i realized i'd spent THREE HOURS scrolling through videos of people organizing their fridges (which like… is satisfying but also?? what am i doing with my life). and then i had this thought that actually shook me: what if my future self could see how i'm spending my time right now? would she be proud or would she be like "girl… what are you DOING?"

the truth is that our phones are literally engineered to be more interesting than our real lives. they're designed by actual geniuses who understand our brain chemistry better than we do. it's not a fair fight!! and yet we blame ourselves for not having "enough willpower" which is honestly just mean??

✧ why we're all trapped in the doom-scroll cycle:

our phones deliver perfectly timed dopamine hits (the happy brain chemical!!) that make us feel momentarily good but leave us wanting more

the algorithm knows exactly what will keep us scrolling (it's literally studying us)

our brains are wired to seek novelty and our phones offer infinite novelty

real life has friction and requires effort; scrolling requires zero effort

we use our phones to escape uncomfortable emotions that actually need processing

the comparison trap makes us feel like we're "researching" our dream life rather than building it

i realized something that changed everything for me: the time i spend consuming other people's lives is time i'm not creating my own. and like… that's the whole game??

✧ how to break free (in ways that actually work):

identify your "scroll triggers" - for me it's when i feel anxious about my work, when i first wake up, and weirdly when i'm hungry?? once you know your triggers you can create little alternate pathways

create "phone-free zones" in your home - i have a little basket by my front door where my phone goes when i come home, and my bedroom is completely phone-free (i bought an actual alarm clock like it's 2005 and honestly?? life-changing)

practice the "dopamine pause" - when you feel the urge to reach for your phone, pause for 60 seconds. just sit with the discomfort. often the urge will pass, and if it doesn't, at least you're making a conscious choice

redesign your home screen to be boring af - delete all social apps from your home screen, make everything grayscale, turn off all notifications except calls/texts from actual humans who matter

schedule specific "input" and "output" times - block 30 minutes for consumption and 90 minutes for creation. your ratio should always favor creation over consumption

try "analog hour" before bed - read physical books, write with pen and paper, stare at the ceiling and let your mind wander (this is where all my best ideas come from tbh)

use the "future self" visualization - whenever you're about to fall into a scroll hole, close your eyes and visualize your future self. what would she want you to do with this precious hour of your life?

create ✧ focus-core ✧ routines - these are deeply satisfying rituals that give your brain the same dopamine hit as scrolling but actually build toward your dreams (for me it's making fancy coffee while listening to a specific playlist, then writing for 45 minutes)

practice "productive procrastination" - if you absolutely must avoid your main task, have a secondary important task ready (like if i don't want to write, i'll organize my study materials instead)

implement the "touch it once" rule - when you pick up your phone, have a specific purpose and do ONLY that thing, then put it down

the hardest truth i've had to accept is that there's no magic hack that makes this easy. creating a life that's more interesting than your phone requires actually building that life brick by brick, day by day. and the beginning is SO HARD because your brain is literally withdrawing from its favorite drug.

but i promise you something magical happens after about two weeks - you start to feel… different?? more present? more alive? and you realize that all along, the life you were searching for in your phone was waiting for you to look up.

your dream life is waiting for you to stop watching other people live theirs and start building your own. it's jealous of your phone, yes, but it's also patient. it knows that eventually, you'll come home to yourself.

xoxo, mindy 🤍

p.s. if you catch yourself scrolling after reading this, please don't feel bad!! just gently put your phone down, take a deep breath, and remember that you're breaking a literal addiction. be kind to yourself through the process, okay? tiny steps in the right direction are still steps. 💗

[theartofwoompwoomps]

Shigaraki x Reader headcanons

He’s just a silly guy >.<

Masterlist

———————————————————————————-

I can see him with quality time as one of his love languages, so when he asks to spend time with you, your heart just explodes.

I mean come on!

he probably would ask you infront of everyone, “hey do you want to hangout?”Like this boy is direct, calm, and genuine.

After some time he would probably have a schedule time for you both to be together. Like even the leagues knows about it. 

he would enjoy getting to know you in a deep sense. Knowing how you grew up, your culture, love life, favorite things, your morals, and etc.

he would remember all the little details cause he thinks they’re cute. “Let’s get the (favorite/color) spotted one cause (y/n) said spots reminds them of a dog that lived nearby when they were a kid.” 

can see him playing games with you. Considering he plays stimulating games there will be a lot a relaxing late game nights. 

definitely would have a minecraft world for you and him, one for the whole league, and the one where it was just you and him but someone in the league dabi twice toga decided to blow up your house just for fun. 

animal crossing will definitely be on the list of games you play together. Helping each other and decorating each other’s place. 

If you wear makeup i think he’d be intrigued by it, may try to put some on you. 

always has a blanket specifically for you in his room. He grew up never needing to share anything but he likes the idea of having something specially for you. 

with time he would have more of your stuff in his room. Like clothes, shoes, and your bag. Eventually you might as well call it your room. 

Don’t think he’d be too keen on pda infront of others, but when you’re alone you have him wrapped around your fingers. 

definitely would be a sucker for cuddles. Especially when he’s gaming and you’re sitting on him just resting in on the hug while he plays. 

or when you grab his hand and give it small kisses on the back, front, giving each finger some attention then telling him how happy you are with him.  Yeah he’s soo soft for you. 

I feel like he’d be a bit unfiltered when it comes to complimenting you. In the sense that it could be the worst timing ever, but he will be damned if he doesn’t say something about it. 

could be in middle of a fight and see you knock someone out. “your hair looks nice.” 

like it’s so out of context.  

will always have one of your favorite snacks with him. Even when they need to keep on the down low. He gets them from the gas station sometimes lol 

ofc he gets snacks for everyone as well, but he would make sure not to leave until he got yours. 

Has a bunch of pictures of you. Both printed and digital. Can definitely see him looking at them whenever he misses you. 

Uses apps like life360 and vibes so he can see where you are. Mainly to have an idea of how long until you’re back. 

if you had to be apart physically, lots of late night calls and messages. I think he always had trouble sleeping, and now that he is physically apart from you he needs to hear your voice if he wants to sleep. 

would get you matching jewelry: rings, necklaces, even earrings. 

Likes using your shampoo and body wash cause the scent reminds him of you. Ngl with time you’d both smell the same cause this guy won’t stop using your products. 

i mentioned that he has pictures of yours, but he would be so happy if you gave/send him one. Like you choose this one for him!? 

When the league was still beginning to grow, you guys would talk of the future you desire. At first he’d only think of killing allmight but now he likes the idea of having a home with you, a few pets, and with league by his side

[notedchampagne]

hi! ive followed you for your hs art/takes for years and youre my favorite artist! do you have any blog recs for tlt content? im just finishing nona for the first time!

this ask is so kind thank you... thanks for sticking round. ill start off with my partner in torment and eternal hater @thatneoncrisis who has an unstoppable read on the characters + draws them gaystyle and who is currently writing some of my favorite tlt fics alongside @jeejyboard and @griddlebait (i have linked their works here 1 / 2 / 3)

some good tlt artists: @iceboxhag , @catpotion , @tltadventures , @civetside , @cutetanuki-chan , @monakisss , @mirumeni , @pygmypouter , @fawntastic , @addamii , @crandairy-juice . oh i also followed @g1deonthefirst for good tlt posts. and now you have half my following list i hope u enjoy

[bom-bombon]

For @liverpool-enjoyer

Link to the fic

OMG FINALLY!!! I FINISHED THIS! ANYWAY THIS IS WHAT I HAVE BEEN WORKING ON FOR THE PAST TWO MONTHS-ISH but i think i had the idea for more like 4 months so like,, i think I'm drawing faster! (lies)

So, like, here's the context bc i love yapping, and y'all should know me by now.

A while back (some of the qblrsmp members may remember this), I was following football (soccer) content again because of the euros and Copa América (and my reactions are always the best, ask Jinx). Since tumbIr had that "based on your likes" feature and gives you posts from random ppl you don't follow, it showed me this post (or at least,, i think it was that one ._.), and I thought it was the funniest thing ever. I read that it was part of a fanfic, and omg, i had to read it.

Anyway, as yall can see, it literally changed my brain chemistry; i had to draw like a poster or smth!! I felt it in my heart. I was gonna simply send an ask but i got caught up in the details of the polaroids that it'd be too much for an ask (also idk if an ask lets me send like 10 images) so here i am, making a post!

The full drawings of the polaroids are below the "keep reading" with context and showing who's who

Anyway, here are the actual drawings that make up the poster!! Some of these are straight up from the chapters, so l'Il go over them first.

Messi as a tree for the school play [Link]

Lewy, Pedri, and Ansu Fati all posing together without Gavi bc they forgot about him in the gift shop lol [Link] (i was actually gonna draw them being at the place but at a certain point my eyes burned 😭)

Trent and Robbo dressed as mustards for a Halloween party with Virgil [Link] (honestly, my fav, it's just so goofy)

Now to the non-chapter drawings...

Sergio and Luka slightly based off of this one selfie that the actual dude posted

Lewy and Marco

Finally, Thomas being gifted the Messiest Bitch Award by his bestie Manu, also based off of that one picture taken of him. (i wanted to include an academic award but for the life of me i forgot every single academic award i got so. this was the next best thing.)

And yes, placing Thomas' photo on Marco was on purpose and it HURTED when i had the idea

And that's it!

Thank you for writing this fic, Max 💙❤️and uhhhhhh.......

Visca el Barça :3

[kaiser1ns]

WHY IS TUMBLR SO DEAD ??? HELLO HI WHERE ARE Y'ALL ???

[1000sunnygo]

Friendly reminder that the anime is on a break after next week!

Judging from the preview, it seems law vs teach scenes from chapters 1063-64 are crammed into episode 1093. In that case we have to wait until Feb 11th..

At least, we get the episode preview in seven days 🥣

[crowns-of-violets-and-roses]

I can't keep getting away with this.

[furrycyrus]

vote. btw please fucking vote

[izzy-b-hands]

Either tumblr and/or Spotify as apps are working so poorly rn if I want to use both at once to say, listen to music while I scroll and reblog, it appears!

Spotify will immediately crash if there's a video or gif set on my dash. Like as soon as I hit that post, boom. Then I go into Spotify and hit play, start the whole song over, only for it to happen again if I don't scroll fast enough past those posts (too bad if I wanted to actually look at them lmao)

This is a nothing sort of problem that I'm being a baby abt, but also listening to music before bed lately has helped my brain be Not So Itchy and I am. Frustrated that it's really bad tonight, like I scroll two posts and Spotify crashes. I go back to it to start the song over. Come back here and tumblr has crashed and I have to close it completely and then scroll to try and get to where I was on the dash. No idea why the apps won't just play nice together

[ruelpsen]

If I had to choose between cutting off my hand and redoing grad school apps, I'd seriously consider the hand. Be gentle with yourself, it's a fucking slog. What kind of program are you looking into?

Thank you for the reminder to be gentle. This shit has been stressful, and having for various reasons only about a month and a half to actually do focused work on applying has SUCKED. Not looking forward to potentially having to do this again in the future (it's complicated but I'll explain why in a sec), but I am SO looking forward to two weeks from now when these applications are in and it's out of my hands, as much as the waiting game itself sucks in its own way.

As for programs, I don't want to get too specific. I was a double major in undergrad, and I'm not exaggerating when I say I've literally never met anyone else with those two specific majors. (Ftr one is a STEM field and the other in the humanities.) I want to keep studying both in some capacity in the future, but to make a long story short I'm stuck in a position where I have to hold off on applying to the program in the humanities for now.

As annoyed as I am about the 'long story' part of that, I'm totally fine with prioritizing the program in STEM for now. Hell, in some ways that's a good thing given the limited amount of time I have to work on applications. But at the same time, I've greatly limited the number of schools I'm applying to so I can focus on creating well-tailored applications for their specific programs and faculty, and that means each potential rejection would leave me with a far smaller share of options. It's a bit of a risk, but damn it I'm trying my best to show how strong of a student I've been and that I would work well with their specific people. Hopefully things work out in the end.

I hope your own efforts have paid off too, wherever life has taken you.

[networksupported]

@sorceryparable (continued)

> not that i blame your guy. i would also hate to be in here if i didn't have to.

he manages a sort of reedy whine- and, in true cas fashion (or perhaps true cat fashion, it was hard to distinguish the two) looks incorrigibly proud of himself for it.

> then again, whoever 'she' is- uh- i don't wanna know her either. whoever gets that amount of stress put on their pronouns is not someone id wanna...you know, meet in a dark alley. not that there's any of those around. don't wanna run into her in the employee lounge, if you get my drift- no, that doesn't have nearly the same ring to it.

> whoever 'she' is sounds scary as fuck. there we go. that's what i'm tryna say.

the next three notes are almost a scale- and, failing that only slightly, are not...wholly horrible to hear.

> oh, god. well, telling you now, 'pleasant' and 'musical' are not words ever used to describe me. so. sorry. in advance. um.

more by luck then judgement, he almost manages to harmonise with batt for a whole four seconds. that, or he simply excels at also playing with no real key or signature to follow. probably a mixture of both.

[is-that-plural]

which alter would win in a fight

i have no idea but likely 🔪? given he was a war criminal sort of so,

but of just us three mods i have No clue and im tempted to say 🎀 tbh bc they work smarter not tougher

[freewayshark]

Formatting fics from google docs to put on ao3 when I’m working on an iPad is such a pain in the ass that I stopped after 10 ficlets lmao. I’ll get back to it maybe tomorrow

[aquamonstra]

I did the Beetlejuice thing where I said "I'm not a writer" to a friend 3 times and then got hit with an idea for a fic that is fighting so hard to get out of my head I can't focus on anything else 🫠