#ALSO WAIT I JUST NOTICED THE OVERLAY??

[saltedcaramelreblogs]

@sorbusaucuparia hades, hades....

and @drawingneek ik you don't know this fandom but look at the colorssss :>

Mechtober 2024 Day 17: Dramatic

Definition of ‘The Drama’ tbh

[wintrii-shadows]

More Aromantic Visibility Day stuff, but Alastor Because yes

I don't plan on posting much more Hazbin any time soon if at all, because I'm not entirely sure how much I want to interact with the fandom But the aroace Alastor side is good so far so I wanted to post this :3 Bonus below of what probably happened just before vv

(I drew this before the other one and haven't drawn Alastor in a bit as well as only having drawn Rosie a couple of times before so this one's kinda eh)

[xxepherr]

.ೃ࿐ELECTION DAY

summary — in which austin accidentally lets it slip that hasan’s faceless (yet public) girlfriend is the woman they’re currently watching analyse the maps on CNN. 

pairings — hasan piker x politicalcorrespondent!girlfriend!reader

pronouns — she/her

word count — 1893

note — i personally would have “6’4 jacked boyfriend” as his contact name so that whenever weird men try to hit on me they see that but thats just me (and this reader insert ofc) (also this is nothing special just me rambling tbh — what’s to say this political!reader doesn’t become a mini series)

THE DAY WAS HERE. election day. not only was it the day your boyfriend had spent hours upon hours preparing for for weeks, but you, too. you were a political journalist and correspondent currently working the map for CNN during the weeks in the lead up to the election. 

it was a big day for you. four years ago you were streaming your own map coverage to fifteen thousand people on twitch, accessing your sources across multiple states to provide statements on what was going on nationwide. being asked a couple months ago to run the maps in front of millions was certainly a step up, but it gave you control to speak objectively without bias unlike most of the other news anchors and correspondents that were pushing right-wing sentiment over any other coverage. 

you hadn’t seen hasan in a few weeks now unless you counted facetimes and tuning into his streams. you’d get texts while he was streaming and the occasional kaya video ( because apparently she’d been whining with your leave ). it wasn’t the same, but you were both incredibly career-driven people, so being hours apart by plane wasn’t as daunting as it probably should’ve been.

“you’re gonna be late to stream,” you laughed softly, fiddling with the cap of the bottle of water someone had gotten you. endless tabs were open on your laptop in front of you, following aspects of every state because there was still hours to go before the polls closed, so you were only needed in short segments for now to go over 2020 and 2016 county votes in particular states at a time. 

“you’re right,” hasan’s voice was slightly staticky through the phone. “i might have to focus on kornacki or fox news so that i don’t spend too long staring at you.”

“aw,” you let go of your phone, holding it between your ear and shoulder to screw the cap back on the bottle. one of the directors caught your attention across the room, holding up his hand to say that she had five minutes before they were back on air again. “i’m back on in a few . . . i’ll have your stream open on my laptop, though!”

“good luck today,” hasan said softly as he started his stream, leaving it on his opening scene while his mic was muted. people were already flooding in by the thousands. “i’ll talk to you in, what, twelve hours? i love you.”

“twelve hours,” you hummed in agreement, “i love you more,” you sighed softly, noticing that the twitch tab was reloading to take her to his ‘starting soon’ overlay. “good luck.” you ended the phone call first, quickly putting it back on do not disturb and placing it over on the table that was full of analytical notes. the board that now had the map of the united states of america was lit up again, an empty canvas waiting for you to load up the old votes to load up projected blue and red areas.

TOO MANY HOURS TO count and three hundred thousand viewers into the election, hasan was still going strong. despite the pull to watching CNN more than he probably should, he managed to force himself to switch between fox news to laugh at republican propaganda and msnbc. though, he would one hundred percent lying if he said he didn’t have CNN up on his second monitor. 

things were steadily climbing, and josh ( ettingermentum ) was back after mike from PA left the call. josh, who had been raging on ( no seriously, no one had really heard him be that loud all day ) about how the democrats fucked up was finally broken up when austin joined the call, the atmosphere shifting.

christmas sign in full view and a cold slab of a slice of pizza being shoved into his mouth, austin’s discussion on if he was being sent to prison if the republicans dominated was dwindled until josh left the call to analyse the polls for twitter. 

“ugh, can we watch something else?” austin asked, barely swallowing his mouthful of pizza first. “all i’ve done is watch fox today.”

“yeah,” hasan chucked humourlessly, clicking around mindlessly between tabs as he tried to find msnbc’s coverage. because the tabs were so small thanks to the fifty million twitter tabs he had open, he almost groaned in frustration when he accidentally clicked on the CNN tab.

 the tab where you were conveniently fiddling with the data of state of pennsylvania. it was already a dangerous game having you on screen when the chat knew what the silhouettes of you looked like — photos from behind of you walking with hasan, photos of your eyes after he tried to do your makeup, mirror fit checks with your face covered by the phone . . . chat only needed to be railroaded enough to work it out. 

just as he was about to switch tabs again, austin opened his mouth. “oh, man, i miss her,” there was a shift in his tone, more than just him speaking without thinking. familiarity shone through. from the way he casually uttered your nickname to the sigh, it was probably worse than railroading. it was the train forgetting to slam the brakes on worthy. 

hasan wisely kept his mouth shut as he switched to fox news — anything was better than CNN currently — and his eyes slowly zeroed in on the chat. question marks upon question marks until it eventually morphed into ‘holy shit she looks familiar’ and ‘girlfriend reveal????’ to ‘omg face reveal’ and his breathing faltered. 

someone switched the chat to emote only mode in the few moments he was silent for, austin thankfully following suit. glancing at his second monitor, you were still doing your thing, this time discussing the iowa flip from blue to red, completely oblivious. 

“austin,” hasan finally said, tone flat. there was no use making a big fuss out of denying it — that would just make it more obvious. 

austin chuckled nervously, awkwardly. “uh . . . sorry, hasan. i didn’t think about it . . . awkward.”

“clearly,” he grumbled, digging his fingers into his hair for a moment as he thought. the election was put on hold in his mind for a moment as he switched the screen to the full facecam. he wasn’t going to directly deny or confirm anything, so instead he said, “take what you will from what austin said. in saying that, don’t go harass her, clearly she was faceless for a reason. anyway,” hasan cleared his throat, “moving on, back to the election . . .” and he swiftly moved on like nothing ever happened ( while the mods were timing out anyone who asked about it for an entire week ).

“PENNSYLVANIA AND NEVADA ARE expected to be the closest as of currently,” you gestured to the map that demonstrated the slight wave from the blue shift. “we’re looking at about half a percent, but election night is full of surprises so . . . we’ll continue to keep an eye on that for now.” the directors in the back signalled that the camera was no longer live, and you nodded and took a deep breath. the polls weren’t looking as good as everyone had expected it would look for the democrats.

finally off the air for a much needed break, you wandered back over to your little table off to the side. notes were piling up, but upon noticing the spam of notifications flashing across your phone. weird, you thought, your notifications usually not showing up unless it came from verified accounts across all social media platforms . . . until you noticed that it was coming from your private instagram and twitter account. super weird. 

and then the text from hasan. 

6’4 SUPER JACKED BOYFRIEND: uhhh so austin accidentally told 300k people we’re dating 

6’4 SUPER JACKED BOYFRIEND: call me when ur done? so sorry

oh. on one hand the first part was exciting. three hundred thousand? it was a new viewership record for him. on the other? that means a shit ton of people knew the secret you guys had spent almost two years safeguarding. you’d wanted to keep your face out of everything because you had your own career and didn’t want his to intertwine with it. a healthy work-life balance was keeping that shit separate, but it was only really time until people found out anyway. it wasn’t the best kept secret, anyway. 

still, you weren’t mad. you sent off a quick text saying ‘it’s alr’ with a smiley face emoji and shut your phone off completely, shoving it off to the side and turning your laptop back on. you’d be back in california tomorrow, anyway, it could be dealt with then.

THE AIRPORT WASN’T AS secretive anymore. tired after only getting a couple hours of sleep because you got back to your hotel at some god awful hour this morning, it was an instant relief to see hasan waiting for you, dresses comfortably to not draw too much attention to himself — which was difficult because he was fucking huge.

either way, you had no energy to do anything but collapse into his waiting arms, letting him engulf you until you were suffocating. “this is nice,” you mumbled. “sorry i didn’t call, was so tired.”

“you’re fine,” he promised, pulling you back slightly to look at him. “i missed you,” he slipped his hand into yours, and he took your suitcase with his other hand. it was nice to be able to publicly be in his presence without worrying, so much so that you leant into his arm, tiredness dragging your feet.

“missed you more,” you said honestly, but there was more on your mind than just small talk. “where’s austin? motherfucker’s been blowing up my phone.”

hasan chuckled, “if i hear him apologise one more time i’m gonna commit a hate crime.” he then shook his head, “he wanted to stay at the house but i told him to come ‘round tomorrow . . . want you to myself first.”

you knew what that was code for, so you shook your head with a silent laugh. “let me sleep first, god.”

and sleep you did. the house was silent thankfully so you were content tucked up in hasan’s arms, stealing him from clocking in with his twitch chat for ten hours in a fit of selfishness that you were entitled too.

“austin might’ve saved our relationship,” you teased, trailing your fingers up his arm that was tightly wrapped around you, both on the verge of falling into dreamland. “now we can go out on proper dates again.”

“you can tell him yourself,” hasan’s arms tightened around her a little bit more, so full of warmth that the blanket was starting to render useless. “when he knocks our door down tomorrow morning.”

“aw, come on,” you tapped his arm a little harder, fighting the urge to gnaw on his forearm. “you love him.”

“i love you, he’s just my side piece,” he kissed the side of your neck tenderly, “night, baby.”

“g’night,” you mumbled back with a soft smile, the world drifting away for just that little bit longer until tomorrow rolled around. you could deal with your very public relationship then.

[oddlydescriptive]

Reset, Chapter Ten

Series Masterlist This chapter had a lot of mistakes when I pulled it up, so forgive me (or better yet, shoot me an ask) if you see any editing issues I might have missed! I just need to get it out and I can look at it with fresh eyes tomorrow. Also! Do y'all think this story needs a signature cover pic or is posting it without media okay?

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

The sound reaches Kelly before anything else does- low, repetitive, clinical.

Not music. Not voices. Just engines. Tires over rumble strips. A gearbox caught mid-shift.

It’ wasn’t unusual, at first. Racing is their whole life. Their apartment is crowned with race memorabilia and sim rig parts and limited edition stickers tucked neatly into drawers. But something about the loop- the steadiness of it, the fact that it hasn’t changed since she left him this morning- makes her stomach tighten.

She walks quietly through the entryway, coat still on, bag slung over one shoulder. The lights are dim. It’s late. And Max is exactly where she figured he’d be. On the couch. Elbows braced on his knees. One hand thumbing through a frame-by-frame replay on his phone while the big screen mirrors the onboard feed from Zandvoort. Not his.

Hers.

Again.

Kelly doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches as Max gives P a half-armed hug and lets her scurry off to her room without so much as looking away from the screen. The ghost-blue glow of the television flickers across his face as he rewinds the same three seconds for the fifth time- brake, shift, turn-in, throttle. Brake. Shift. Turn-in. Throttle.

The footage is raw. No commentary. No overlay. Just the cockpit camera, the static of the engine, and the sound of her breathing through the corners. Kelly quietly sets her bag on the chair by the door. “You’ve watched that one before,” she says, lightly, not accusing. Just… noticing.

Max doesn’t glance up. “It’s clean.”

She crosses the room slowly, unzipping her coat. “Is that why you’re watching it on loop at 10 PM?”

His eyes stay on the screen. “It’s clean,” he repeats.

There’s a pause. The footage stutters and restarts. Her lap at Spa. That final sector, again. Kelly doesn’t sit. She just stands near the edge of the kitchen island, watching him the way someone watches a rabid dog. With caution. She tries again, gentler this time. “Do you need something to eat? You didn’t touch dinner.”

Max shakes his head once, barely a motion. “I’m not hungry.”

Kelly swallows the sigh threatening to rise in her chest. Not because she’s angry. Not even because she’s jealous. But because something is wrong, and he won’t say what it is. She waits for him to explain. He doesn’t.

“It’s just…” she gestures vaguely toward the screen. “That’s the only thing you’ve been watching lately. Not your races. Not your onboard. Not the other teams.”

Max finally looks over at her, but it’s more of a glance than a connection. “I’m just trying to understand something. Understand what eve-” He stops, like he realizes he was dangerously close to saying something real. 

“Understand what?”

Deflection. “Her line through Pouhon.”

That’s it. No elaboration. No analysis. No curiosity. Just her line. The way she takes a corner. Like it’s that fucking simple.

Kelly walks around to face him fully now. Her voice is calm but razor-thin. “You’ve won two races since Zandvoort. Two. And you didn’t even fucking smile on either podium.”

He still doesn’t look at her. That’s what breaks her. 

Kelly wraps her arms around herself. She suddenly feels cold, like the air in the room has shifted without her permission. “You’ve been off lately,” she says, carefully. “Not just here. Everywhere. After the race… the podium… it’s like you’re not even there.”

Max doesn’t reply. Doesn’t even blink. His jaw flexes once. That’s all.

Kelly presses her lips together. “Did something happen?”

He hits rewind. The footage stutters again. She watches him watch her- slow motion this time. The car rotates through Eau Rouge, and he’s studying her steering input like a man dissecting scripture.

“Max.”

He exhales through his nose. Not a sigh. Not frustration. Just… breathing. “Nothing happened,” he says.

She nods once. It’s not confirmation. Not really. The room is silent again, except for the sound of the car. Her car. Her lap. Kelly runs a hand through her hair, a quiet fidget. “Okay.”

She doesn’t ask again. Doesn’t push. She just turns, heads toward the hallway, leaving Max in the half-light, the onboard footage playing on a loop behind her.

He doesn’t notice her leave. He’s already rewinding again.

It starts happening at night.

Max disappears after dinner- doesn’t say where, doesn’t say why. Just vanishes down the hallway and shuts the office door behind him.

The first few nights, she pretends not to care. Watches a show by herself. Answers emails. Does a skincare routine she’s too tired to enjoy. By the fifth night, it’s not just a habit- it’s a pattern. The door locks at 9:37 PM, give or take a minute. Doesn’t open again until after midnight.

Kelly hears it click every time. 

She checks before she goes to bed, like she always does now. Just to be sure. Just to feel the cold insult of the handle not turning. She waits until almost midnight before knocking. She knows what’s on the other side of it.

It’s not porn. She almost wishes it were. Porn would make more sense. Porn is human.

This isn’t that. It’s LeChriste. Her voice. Her radio calls. Her data sheets. Her footage. Max hunched over two monitors, running laps she drove like he’s trying to solve a fucking murder. No change in tone. No interest in the noise of the outside world. Just… her.

When he opens the door, Max looks like he hasn’t blinked in hours. His hair is messy. His jaw tense. The backlight of the monitors still flickering across the room. One of them is paused on a sector-three throttle trace- hers, of course. The numbers glow like static.

The apartment is cold. Her fingers are cold. She’s standing in the hallway of her own home like a stranger. Watching her partner obsess over a girl who has no idea what she’s doing to him. What he’s letting her do. 

And somewhere beneath the quiet worry, beneath the sad, tired ache of a life being consumed by someone who’s never even set foot in your house- there’s fear.

Because it’s not admiration in Max’s eyes. It’s something darker.

Two days later, when Kelly brings it up, she’s not even trying to sound gentle anymore.

“You’re obsessed.”

Max doesn’t look up from his dinner plate. “I’m not.”

She laughs- just once. It’s bitter. “Your office is locked most nights. You watch her laps on loop. You read every article with her name in it, even the ones in fucking French. You don’t talk to me, you don’t touch me, and you haven’t looked at me like I’m a person in four weeks. But sure. You’re not obsessed.”

He sets his fork down with a little too much force. “You think I’m cheating? With her?”

“No,” Kelly says, too fast. “I think if you were cheating I’d at least understand it.”

That makes him pause. She watches the flicker in his posture- not guilt. Offense. “I don’t even follow her on Instagram,” he mutters, like it proves something. “Go through my phone if you want. There’s nothing there. We don’t talk. She’s not- she’s not in my life.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Kelly says.

Max turns, finally, face drawn tight. “What, you think I’m into her or something?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

“No, Max. I’m saying it doesn’t matter what kind of obsession it is. Love, hate, whatever the fuck this is- she’s in here.” Kelly taps her temple once, sharp. “And there’s no room for anyone else.”

Max glares. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m lonely.” Her voice cracks. “There’s a difference.” He doesn’t answer. He moves to walk past her- dismissive, ready to lock himself in again- but she stops him with a final word. 

“It’s sad.”

Max stops, barely glancing her way.

“That you can’t enjoy any of it,” she says softly. “Your wins. Your life. Me. Because you’re too busy trying to find a flaw in someone who doesn’t even think about you.”

This time, he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t defend. He just disappears back into his office and locks the door.

It clicks at 9:38 PM.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

You don’t get why people complain about England so much.

Milton Keynes isn’t bad. A little flat, sure. Everything closes too early, and the roundabouts are borderline sadistic. But the tail end of summer is hanging on, and the air outside the back plaza smells like grass and warm tarmac, and sometimes you think that’s enough.

Maybe you only feel this way because you’re not completely broke anymore. That helps. You’ve been able to make one or two fair payments on the debt your parents took for the Dale Coyne stint. 

You can comfortably keep enough, enough for your meals, your subscriptions, a splurge on a new pair of Levi’s and some skincare- and still send home more than you ever could at Dale Coyne. That part probably has more to do with them allowing you to stay in a windowless driver’s room above the factory and being too busy to actually do much beyond work and eat, but still. For once it’s not hanging over your head like a guillotine.

Maybe it’s because your mom says that offers are flying into the email inbox you share- not that you can open them, not that any of the subject lines have been titled with an F1 team, but there’s time yet before your November deadline draws up. (31 days, but who’s counting?)

Or maybe it’s because you’re respected here. As a person. As a contributor.

You’re not a wildcard here. Not a one-off. Not a name they trot out when they want a media boost or a miracle in sector three. They parked you here after Zandvoort- quietly, without much ceremony- and you’ve made yourself so useful they’d be stupid to let you go.

Sim work happens in the early mornings and after hours, when the building hums and nobody’s watching. That’s when you go deep- when the static clears and you can disappear into the numbers without someone asking if you’re sure you’re supposed to be here.

You code your own plug-ins. Build your own test stints. Optimize long runs with a spreadsheet no one else knows how to read. Gavin says it’s freakish, the way you love it.

He’s taken to staying late, playing engineer.

He’s not great at it. Not yet. He doesn’t have the practiced timing of a true race engineer- the split-second instinct to give you what you need before you ask for it, the sharpness under pressure. His delivery’s a little clunky, and sometimes he gets flustered when he has to shout over the engine sim. But he tries. Hard. And he doesn’t seem to mind that you don’t always wait for him to finish his sentences before you act on what he’s saying.

He’s got ambition. Heart. A notebook full of color-coded tabs and a voice that cracks when he’s tired. And you like that about him. You like the way he’s game for anything, even if he’s unsure, even if he’s guessing.

He doesn’t mind staying late or getting up early. Sometimes you’re elbow-deep in sector analysis at midnight, and he’s in the next seat with a half-eaten protein bar and one sock missing, running lap deltas until his laptop dies.

You’re forgiving with each other. You stumble. He fumbles. You laugh. It’s kind of fun.

Sometimes, when the runs go long and the lights dim overhead, it feels like you’re kids again- just two overachievers playing house in a Formula 1 sandbox. There’s no championship on the line. No press conferences. No goddamn legacy dragging behind you like a chain. Just work. Pure, addictive, gratifying work.

But the real magic still happens during the day.

That’s when the factory’s full- engineers, developers, race staff, logistics. People who are designing next year’s car, refining this year’s package, tightening every variable until it's all down to fractions of fractions. That’s your window. You slip into places you don’t belong- not really- but you pretend that you do.

You poke around. You ask questions. You offer insight where you have it. Soak up knowledge where you don’t. You pressure the dev team to sign off on more test drives, and when they do, you deliver. You give feedback so meticulous it borders on obsessive, and instead of brushing you off, they thank you for it.

And they listen.

They care.

They pull you into conversations, ask your opinion, remember how you take your coffee. They tell you when something’s going to break your heart, and when something might break records. You still don’t have a race seat. You still are greeted by a factory when you open your bedroom door. But for the first time in a long time, you feel like you belong.

You’re not in exile anymore.

You belong. At least, it feels like it.

It’s a good rhythm. Hard, grueling, nonstop- but it’s good. It’s yours.

So when they schedule a braking test and mention Max is flying in to run some laps too, you don’t think anything of it.

If anything, you think it might be kind of nice.

You haven’t seen an active driver since your last race. A few hours of track time- even just for feedback- will be good for everyone. You miss the rhythm of it. The language of it. The quiet competitiveness of being in the garage with someone who knows exactly what it feels like to thread a car through chaos and call it control.

Max is smart. He’s sharp. You’re not friends, but you’re not enemies either. He’s always been professional. Maybe a little short, maybe a little distant, but he’s under pressure too. Everyone is. You figure working with him might even be refreshing- he's good at what he does, and if nothing else, you respect that.

You’re still a little annoyed this braking package is even being tested. You flagged it as a waste of time two weeks ago when they booked the track- said as much to the room, in fact- but enough people had wanted to see it through for the show to go on. They’re paying you either way. If they want to spend money proving you right, so be it.

You sip your coffee. Re-check the model. Write down three things you’re planning to say during testing tomorrow.

You get to drive a real car tomorrow. At the actual track. With some of your favorite development staff, who’ve promised to bring snacks and sarcasm and a full day’s worth of dumb jokes. You’ll trade notes with an active driver, talk shop, dig into the nuance of things you only get to simulate most days of the week.

It’s not a race weekend. But it’s close enough to feel like home.

You’re optimistic. Excited, even.

Which is probably why you’re so surprised by how it all unfolds.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

The jet engines are still ticking warm as Max climbs into Christian Horner’s car outside the private airstrip at Luton. The clouds are low and colorless, the kind of overcast that feels like it’s pressing down on the world, but Max doesn’t mind. He likes when things are quiet.

Christian insisted on picking him up personally. A little odd, maybe, but not enough to question. People do weird things when championships are within reach.

They ease onto the narrow country roads, flanked by stone walls and wet hedges, and the mood in the car is light- Christian half-chatting about simulator feedback and upcoming upgrades. He’s got that particular brightness he saves for when he thinks something might actually work.

“You’ll feel it most through the exits,” he says, hands easy on the wheel. “Not a full overhaul, but it could smooth things out around the corners. We think. If it goes well, we can throw it on your car after the championship is locked, but we’re really looking to next year.”

Max shrugs, eyes on the road. “We’ll see.”

Christian grins. “I like it. Cautious optimism. That’s a good look on you.”

Max doesn’t answer, but his mouth tugs into the ghost of a smirk. The car hums beneath them, quiet and well-insulated, the rain misting against the windshield like static. Christian taps the steering wheel with the flat of his fingers, like he’s holding back from saying something heavier. Then he lets it go.

“You know we’re basically there, right?” he says, voice low and easy. “This weekend or the next. It’s yours.”

Max leans his head back against the seat, lets his eyes drift toward the slate-gray sky. “Feels different this time.”

Christian nods. “Because it is.”

They don’t say last year was chaos. They don’t say people still think it was rigged. They don’t say you’ve spent twelve months proving it wasn’t a fluke. But it’s all there, suspended in the air between them.

“Second title’s the real one,” Christian says. “First is luck. Second’s proof.”

Max doesn’t disagree. He can feel it in his bones- that slow, steady certainty that they’ve built something real. The kind of domination that doesn’t happen by accident. The kind that settles deep into your name and never leaves.

“Feels like we’ve stopped surviving and started building,” Christian adds, a little quieter.

Max lifts a brow. “You getting sentimental?”

Christian grins. “Maybe. A little. But come on- you feel it too. This year’s been clean. Sharp. Every piece falling into place. It’s not just you winning- it’s us executing.”

Max lets that settle. It’s true. It’s been efficient. Ruthless. He’s not just faster- he’s smarter. The team’s smarter. The machine runs, and he’s the sharpest gear inside it. He knows exactly what it takes now. There’s no flailing, no desperation. Just precision.

“Two more races, maybe three,” Christian says. “Then champagne and history books.”

Max’s lips press together, but there’s a flicker in his chest. A spark of pride. Of clarity.

It’s his.

He glances out the window again, watches a raindrop streak sideways across the glass. They pass a field full of soggy sheep and a weather-worn house with flower boxes under the windows opn the open stretch between Luton and Silverstone. It’s almost peaceful.

“You ever think about how long we’ve been doing this?” Christian asks.

Max tilts his head. “Since I was a teenager.”

Christian snorts. “You were a nightmare.”

“You still hired me.”

“Regretted it every day until about two years ago.”

Max laughs under his breath, just once. It’s easy. Familiar. They’ve fought tooth and nail to get here- together. For all the tension, the chaos, the headlines, this moment is smooth. Settled. Two men in a car on a gray English road, talking about the title like it’s already theirs.

And for a moment, it feels like nothing could touch that.

Until the Bluetooth chimes. The screen lights up with a contact he doesn’t recognize- just a number: 66.

Christian taps the console screen.

“Christian,” comes a voice, syrupy-smooth and unmistakably American, “I still think it’s a mistake bringin’ Max in to test this setup.”

Max’s brow furrows.

The voice continues, polite but pointed, every syllable wrapped in sugar and laced with heat. “I told y’all it wasn’t gonna land. The sim was already screaming at us. Max is gonna hate it, and I hate wasting good tires for undercooked ideas.”

Christian huffs a laugh, shooting Max a glance like this is some inside joke. “Well, good morning to you, too.”

“Mm-hmm,” you reply, not quite charmed, but not hostile either. “Don’t ‘good morning’ me. I already gave you feedback. I just don’t see why we gotta drag Max out of bed and across the continent just to come to the same conclusion.”

There’s a beat of silence in the car. Max goes still. The air shifts. That voice- it cuts through him like piano wire. Christian keeps it light. “Maybe he’ll surprise you. He’s in the car with me now.”

“Oh, is he?” Your tone changes, softens just a little. “Well. You go on and tell him good luck from me.”

Christian chuckles. “Will do. See you at the track.” The line disconnects with a soft beep. The silence that follows is heavy, but Christian doesn’t seem to notice. He taps the screen off and returns his hand to the wheel, casual as ever.

Max is frozen. 

His hands, warm moments ago, now feel clammy against the fabric of his joggers. The sensation of the seat under him sharpens- too rough, too real. A prickling discomfort creeps up the back of his neck.

He feels it in his teeth before he fully accepts it.

That was you. And you’re here.

His stomach tightens, and his thoughts immediately skate to Kelly.  She is going to lose her shit if she finds out he was in the same place as you- let alone unannounced. The thought sends a cold wave of anxiety washing over him. Christian breaks the silence without turning his head, completely oblivious to the nuclear fallout settling behind Max’s eyes. “She’s been helping us out since the Dutch Grand Prix.”

Max’s jaw tightens. “Helping how?”

Christian glances at him. “Dev driver. Sim work. Data prep. She’s been living at the factory, basically.”

Max stares straight ahead. “You never told me that.”

“Wasn’t important.” Christian’s tone is neutral, but not apologetic. “And,” he adds, almost amused, “after the press stunt at Zandvoort… well, she needs to keep her head down. Helmut wasn’t impressed. Figured we’d tuck her away for a bit and let everyone cool off.”

Max doesn’t reply. He’s trying to process, to rewind the last two races in his mind- every debrief, every feedback report, every flawless sim overlay he’d praised without thinking.

“She’s the reason your data prep has been better,” Christian says, almost smug now. “You even said it yourself- clean readouts, tighter strat margins. That’s some of hers.”

Max’s heart stutters. He remembers the comments. Remembers reading notes, your notes, smart and surgical, concise in a way that made him feel sharper just reading them. He’d leaned on them. Let them shape his choices- in Italy, in Japan. Trusted them without question.

And he hadn’t even known. How hadn’t he known? He should’ve seen it- the parallels between the meticulous work he’d seen on the plane, at the house- taped to the fucking walls like a goddamn psycopath- and the psychotically perfect debrief packages he’d been spoiled with for five weeks.

The car pulls through the quick stretch of asphalt that gives way to the track, but even as Christian decellerates, Max’s heart only pounds faster. 

Kelly is going to lose her fucking mind.

They’ve been circling this for days- no, weeks- dragging it through phone calls, between long-haul flights and cold hotel rooms, through quiet dinners that turned into arguments and arguments that turned into silence. Not because she thinks he’s going to cheat. That was never it.

She’s not jealous.

She’s exhausted.

Exhausted of the way his mood changes when your name is mentioned. Exhausted of waking up to engine audio and old race footage. Exhausted of being in a room with him and still feeling like someone else is taking up all the space.

She can’t stand the way he talks about you- or more often, the way he doesn’t. The way he seethes in silence after watching your laps on repeat, or how his mood darkens at the mention of your name on the feed. She’s said as much. She sees it. She sees him, and whatever sickness has taken root under his skin, it repulses her.

Max knows this. He knows it.

And this- you being here- is going to set it over the edge. Whatever tentative ceasefire he and Kelly have been holding together with fraying thread? It won’t survive this.

Not when she finds out he’s sharing a workspace with you.

And still, somehow, the thought that drills itself deepest into his chest isn’t that he’s wrong. It’s not that this obsession- because that’s what it is- has warped him. He doesn’t think about the way he’s been staying up at night with your sector data open on a second monitor.

No.

He thinks only about how this- you being here, you being part of his team- is going to cause a problem for him. It’s going to make things harder.It’s going to turn the tension in his apartment into something he can’t put off anymore. Something that demands a response.

And all of that would be frustrating enough if there were even the smallest part of him that felt anything tender toward you. But there isn’t. There never has been.

There is only hate.

Pure, compulsive, clawing hatred for the way you walked into Spa and looked like you belonged. For the way Jos has seemed taken with you from the start. For the way no one can stop praising your work. For the way Max watched that race footage on loop and still couldn’t find what he was looking for- a fatal flaw. A misstep. A single crack to prove you didn’t deserve any of it. Something that would condemn you to a life of anything-fucking-else.

And now?

Now you’re here. Embedded. Integrated. Inside the walls of his house. And he didn’t even know. 

Christian keeps talking. Something about the dev team. Something about how hard you’ve been working. How seamlessly you’ve integrated- God, Max can’t hear it anymore.

“She never went back to America,” Christian continues. “She’s been here, putting in hours at the factory, in the simulator. Seems like she’s doing well.”

It’s all just you.

You, you, you.

It’s like you’ve wrapped your hands around the throat of everything that used to belong to him- his career, his team, his family- and now you’re just squeezing.

His ears are buzzing. His chest feels too small, his seat too tight, the collar of his jacket suffocating. There's something crawling beneath his skin, pressing against his ribs, scratching at his throat.

You’ve been feeding him data via the team, via GP, via the neatly formatted debrief packages that always were laid out in front of his seat well before the meeting ever began. Without his knowledge. Without his permission.

You’ve been in his lap breakdowns, in his race strat, in his mid-stint timing sheets. Every time he praised a clean debrief package, every time he told the engineers that the sim rigs have been impressively sharp right on startup, no extra tuning needed- it was you. You were there. Inside his performance. Wrapped in the very thing he takes the most pride in. His driving.

And it had all gotten better.

He wants to scream. Wants to claw the seat apart beneath him. Because you haven’t just infected the margins- you’ve made yourself integral. He can’t escape it now. You’ve touched everything.

The team. The data. The fucking car.

Jos.

Kelly.

Every corner of his life that was already cracked- you’ve wormed into it like rot. You’ve tainted everything.

And worst of all, no one else sees it. They think you’re helpful. Impressive. Charming, even. They think you’re brilliant. They’re wrong.

They have to be.

Christian pulls into the side gate at Silverstone, flashing his credentials at the guard before easing the car into a private lot just outside the test pits. The tires crunch on gravel as he parks.

Max doesn’t move. Christian opens his door, throws him a look. “Alright?” Max doesn’t answer. Christian doesn’t question it. He lingers a second longer, then pulls the door handle and steps out with a nod. “We’ll see you inside.”

The door shuts with a soft thunk, and Max is alone. He exhales like he’s been underwater. Then he pulls out his phone. It rings twice before Kelly answers. Her voice is sharp, already on edge- like she’s bracing for something she already knows she’s not going to like. “What?”

“She’s here.” Silence. He swallows. “I didn’t know. I just found out.”

Another pause. It stretches, tight as piano wire. Then: “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

He shifts in his seat. “It’s not like that. I didn’t ask for this.”

“That’s not the point,” she says, voice low and tight. “It’s never been about her being here. I don’t think you’re sleeping with her. I never have.”

“Then what is this?”

She pauses, and when she speaks again, it’s quieter. A little shakier.

“It’s that everything- everything- gets to come before me.”

Max frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“Racing. Your father. This- this sick little loop you’ve been stuck in since Spa. The constant fixation. Like if you stare at her long enough, she’ll crack and you can prove something to yourself.”

He opens his mouth, but she cuts him off.

“I can’t compete with that. I shouldn’t have to.”

Max sighs, rubs a hand over his face. “Kelly, I’m telling you-I didn’t even know she was-“

“It’s not about knowing,” she snaps. Her voice catches, not with tears, but restraint. “I’ve tried,” she says. “I’ve tried to understand Jos, the team, the way you shut down and disappear when things get hard. But it’s not just one thing anymore. It’s everything. And I’m always the one waiting for your attention to come back around.”

Max’s chest pulls tight. “Don’t do this now.”

“I’m not doing anything,” she says. “That’s the problem.”

He stares out the windshield. You’re there- just barely visible through the parked trailers. Laughing at something someone says. At ease.

Max leans back into the headrest, staring out at the track beyond the gate, barely blinking. “Kel, I’m telling you, I didn’t know.”

“I don’t care!” she shouts, voice cracking. “I don’t care if you knew. I can’t do this anymore, Max. I can’t deal with your weird fucking hatred or your fucked-up family or Jos or her or whatever the hell it is that’s broken inside you. I just… it’s too much.”

“I’m packing a bag,” Kelly says. “P and I will be in Paris for a while. Please don’t call. I don’t want an apology. I don’t want promises you’re not going to keep.”

“Kelly-“

She exhales again, long and hollow. “I can’t be second to your father. I can’t be second to racing. And I sure as hell can’t be second to some fucked-up obsession you won’t even admit you have.” 

The call ends without ceremony. He stares at the blank screen. Then at the world beyond the windshield. You’re still there.

Across the lot, standing half-shielded behind a transport truck, laughing at something an engineer says. You’ve got one hand on your hip, a clipboard tucked beneath your arm, and that easy, unfazed expression you wear like armor. You’re not just here. You’re comfortable. Settled. Liked.

Max watches you like a predator watches movement through tall grass. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. His blood is molten. It was you.

You.

You set this fire. You brought this shit into his house. Into his team. Into his life.

Everything unraveling- Kelly, his father, the team, his fucking brain- it all circles back to you. To the way you wormed your way into their trust. Into their affection. Into his results. Without his permission. Without even trying.

And you haven’t paid for it. 

Not yet. But you will.

Goddamn it, you will.

Max opens the car door, grabs his few things, and starts walking towards the pit. He offers a few small waves, a head nod to the right people, but doesn’t stop to talk on his way to the locker room. 

The garage is already humming- light flooding in from the , tools clicking, radios murmuring. It’s all sharp-edged and sterile. Familiar. He keeps his head down, jaw wired tight, and makes a sharp turn into the locker room.

The door smacks shut behind him, and for a moment, it’s quiet. Still. But it doesn’t feel right.

Max has spent more time in the Silverstone testing garage than any other locker room at any other track. Even Zandvoort. Even Spa. He can close his eyes on any given day and tell you exactly where everything is- which corners the cleaners skip, which outlet holds a phone charger the most securely. He knows something is different.

It smells different.

Not just the usual cocktail of oil, rubber, and deodorant that clings to these places like a second skin- no. There’s a sweeter note in the mix now, faint but undeniable. A soft scent tucked into the corners like it’s trying to blend in. Like it’s pretending it’s earned a place here.

He drops his duffel on the bench with more force than necessary. His eyes flick to the wall of race suits. There’s a new one on the rack.

Cut narrower. Smaller. Slimmer through the shoulders. The sleeves hang like they were sewn with secrets. It's hung right beside his- like you belong next to him. Like the team thought nothing of putting you there.

His teeth grind.

A sports bra looped lazily over a folded hoodie. A scrunchie pulled tight around the latch on locker 14. Fireproofs folded neatly over the top of the duffel in front of it. Your helmet on the wall hook- gleaming, smug, perched like a crown.

Max's fists curl tight before he even realizes it.

This was supposed to be his sanctuary. A space untouched by anything soft, or sentimental, or feminine. It was where he went to be only a driver- where nothing existed except the weight of the suit on his back and the war waiting at the end of pit lane. Where being exactly who he was raised to be makes him a master, not a monster.

But now?

Now there’s a pink fucking beauty blender by the sink.

There’s you.

And you're everywhere, yet you don't even take up much space. That’s what pisses him off most. You haven’t overstepped, haven't flooded the locker room with your things. You’re just... here. Undeniably.

He walks to the sink, slower now. Grips the edge of the counter and leans forward until he can see himself in the mirror- sharp under the fluorescent lights. Too pale. Shadowed. Something about his reflection looks... unfinished. Like he’s missing skin. Like something inside him has been scraped raw and left to blister.

Kelly’s gone. Packed up and left without crying. Left without begging. He told himself she wouldn’t leave. She always said she wouldn’t. Who would leave this?

Max hadn’t said much to convince her not to go. But what was there to say? He knows what she thinks of him. That he’s poisoned. That he’s sick in the head. That he’s been rotting from the inside out, a rabid dog chewing on a bone he refuses to let go of.

His gaze drops to the makeup bag. Then to the helmet. Then to the suit.

You didn’t ask permission to be here. Didn’t earn your way in. You walked in with soft edges and good timing and everyone opened their fucking arms. And now?

Now they talk about you like you matter. Like your voice means something. Like you help. Like you contribute. You’re not just tolerated- you’re welcomed.

Max’s throat tightens. His jaw pulses. And worst of all? You’ve been touching his work. His craft. The one thing he’s built his entire goddamn life around.n You’ve been touching it without him even knowing.

Helping.

Helping him.

And now Kelly is gone, and Jos keeps looking at him like he’s waiting for something, and the team is humming better than ever and you’ve been here behind the curtain the whole time, pulling strings with your clipboard and your Southern drawl and your clean, pretty hands.

It makes him want to wreck something. To burn something to the ground.

He grips the edge of the counter and stares at his reflection. The overhead light cuts sharp lines down his face. He looks tired. Stretched thin. Like a man whose world has shifted ten degrees off center and no one around him seems to fucking notice.

He yanks open his locker. The door bangs louder than it should, metal slamming metal, the sound echoing in his skull. He pulls on his gear mechanically, dresses with sharp, brutal efficiency. Each motion is exact. Angry. Controlled. Suit zipped. Boots on. Balaclava shoved down and hanging around his neck like a noose.

He has no plan.

Not yet.

But he knows one thing: you’re going to regret ever stepping foot in this garage.

You’re going to feel him at your back every second of this day.

He’s going to dismantle you- piece by piece, inch by inch- until you’re begging to go back to America. Back to IndyCar. Back to whatever cousin-fucking farm town let you believe for even a second that you could survive here.

He’ll be patient.

He’ll smile, if he has to.

But he’s going to make you suffer.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

You’re mid-sentence with Gavin when the garage doors groan open and Christian steps inside, clipboard under one arm and coffee in hand. “Morning,” you call, light and easy.

Christian eyes the data printouts still clutched in Gavin’s hands, then the half-drunk coffee beside your laptop. “How long have you been here?”

You smile sweetly. “What time did the gates open?”

It’s almost amused, the way he chuckles and taps the top of your clipboard as he passes. “Tell me you didn’t print more for me.”

“Two full stints and a run breakdown,” you say, offering a proud little shrug. “Nothing crazy.”

Christian shakes his head, muttering something about overachievers as he disappears toward the telemetry station. You hadn’t expected to like him. He wasn’t particularly warm during your brief stints in Spa or Zandvoort. Efficient. Cold, even. He’d barely looked up from the boardroom table during your first contract discussion.

But the longer you’ve been here- filling his inbox with run logs and leaving stacks of annotated telemetry on his desk like a one-woman crusade against inefficiency- something shifted. The occasional conversation. A dry comment. The way he pretends to be annoyed when you fudge your time card and don’t bill him for the overtime he knows you’re putting in.

It’s subtle. But you can feel it.

He’s not as brutal as he seems. Just exacting. And mostly left to run his own little kingdom off to the side of whatever chaos Helmut’s orchestrating.

“So,” Gavin says, nudging the edge of your clipboard with his knuckle. “Still think this whole setup’s half-baked?”

“I didn’t say half-baked,” you counter. “I said… unpolished.”

Gavin grins.

You glance over the sheet again- dragging the opposite rear slightly under braking. The idea isn’t terrible. A little more rotation into the corners. More rear stability under stress, offset the rotational drift a bit, give more grip into corners, especially in changeable conditions.You get what they’re trying to do. You’re not against it. You just… don’t think they’ve nailed the implementation yet. Too many assumptions built into the mapping. Sloppy on paper, sloppy in the sim. You can’t imagine it will translate to the car as anything but… sloppy.

Still, if you can feel where it wants to go, maybe you can help get it there. Track’s already paid for. Might as well make the most of it. 

GP wanders into your periphery, and you give him a smile and a quick nod. Familiar, but not close. Max’s race engineer is sharp- maybe the sharpest in the paddock- but he tends to keep his cards close. You can respect that.

“Hey,” he says, in that calm, understated way. Always neutral. Always listening. “You ready to jump in first?”

“Sure am.”

And then- he walks in. You don’t hear the locker room door, just the shift in the air. The crew seems to pull tighter around his presence, instinctively, like they’re anticipating the weather to change. You glance over automatically, and there he is.

Max Verstappen.

It’s been weeks since you last saw him. Not since Zandvoort. Not in person, anyway.

He looks the same- jumpsuit half-zipped, balaclava slung around his neck like a scarf, expression unreadable.

You offer him a small, polite smile. “Morning,” you say. “Good to see you.”

Max doesn’t smile back. He doesn’t even nod. “I’m driving first,” he says, loud enough for everyone to hear, like he’s not really speaking to you, just announcing something inevitable. The words hang in the air like a dropped wrench. You blink.

The clipboard in your hand shifts slightly, but your smile doesn’t move. “Oh,” you start, keeping your tone light, neutral. “I thought the plan was-” 

“She’s had the package on the sim for weeks, it sounds like,” Max cuts in, sharp but calm. Talking to Christian, not to you. “She can send her notes if she wants. I want to see how it runs without the preamble.” He still hasn’t looked at you. You feel something sink low in your stomach. You’re not even in the conversation anymore. You’re around it. Present, but no longer acknowledged.

There’s a split second where you’re trying to catch up- trying to figure out if you misheard something. If maybe this is just Max being weird and Dutch and blunt and driven. You know how Jos is. Maybe it’s cultural. Maybe it’s hereditary. Maybe it’s nothing.

You don’t agree. You don’t argue. You want to. Your gut reaction is to open your mouth- to gently, confidently remind him how the session’s been laid out for two weeks, how the engineers asked for your warm-up feedback specifically, how you were supposed to help optimize the later runs for him.

But you don’t.

It’s not your place. Not here. Not in front of everyone. Not with him.

You pause for a beat, unsure whether to speak again- but it’s already out of your hands. Christian gives a small, tight nod. “Alright,” he says. “We’ll get the seat swapped.” That’s it. No question. No redirection. No eye contact. Not a hill Christian’s going to die on. Not with Max.

You process it quickly- no time to let it land wrong. No time to show anything other than flexibility. You adjust your grip on the clipboard and give a polite, easy smile. “Of course,” you say. “Happy to work from the pit wall until someone needs me.” Your tone is warm. Helpful. Undemanding. And it’s true. You’ll help however you’re needed. You always do.

But still… something tugs low in your chest. A dull, familiar ache. You haven’t been in a real car in weeks. Not since Zandvoort. Sim sessions are fine- they serve a purpose- but they don’t breathe. They don’t push back. They don’t talk to you the way a real car does when the weight shifts under braking or the tires start to chatter against the limit.

You miss it. Not in a dramatic way, not in a desperate way. Just... like missing a limb. No big deal.

You step back from the car as Max steps up, careful not to let your gaze linger when the pit crew pulls your seat and installs his. You don’t look at Max or GP or Christian. You keep your smile. You center yourself in your role.

You’re here to be useful. That’s enough.

Gavin shoots you a side glance, but you don’t look at him, either. You're too busy straightening your posture, smoothing down the front of your jacket like that’ll make it sting less, collecting your laptop and your headset and wandering over to the temporary pit wall. 

Max climbs into the car like he owns it. Not just the machine- but the moment.

You stay off to the side of the pit wall, arms crossed loosely, clipboard pressed against your ribs. The headset sits snug over your ears, filtering in telemetry, tire temps, radio chatter. You’re not sulking. Not even disappointed. You’re observing.

That’s what you said you’d do.

Max launches cleanly out of the garage. No hesitation. Smooth in the pit lane, sharp into the out lap. Everything looks fine, at first. Clean throttle pickup. Controlled steering. You let yourself settle into the rhythm of it, eyes flicking across the numbers on the monitor.

Then the first braking zone hits.

The front end wobbles. The rear steps just half a beat too late. It’s not huge- barely noticeable on the external feed- but you’ve felt this setup a dozen times in the sim. That was the drag pulling unevenly. Just enough to throw the balance.

He adjusts, but you see it again. Lap two. Same issue. The car skips like it wants to pivot too early under load.

“Bit twitchy,” GP says lightly into the comms.

“Feels great,” Max responds. His voice is tight. Quick. “No notes.”

Your brows draw together. The laps keep coming, and the issues start compounding. He’s fighting the car. Overshooting entries. Missing apexes. Going off line. He’s driving the hell out of it. That much is clear. But it’s brute force, not balance.

You glance at Christian. He’s standing with his arms crossed, jaw set, not saying anything. But he’s watching Max a little too closely. You tug at his sleeve. He tilts his head, just slightly, and you lean in to speak under the comms.

“I know it’s not my turn,” you say quietly, “but I’ve been in this setup more than anyone. There are a few tricks to stabilizing the rear under heavy braking. If you want, I can talk him through it.”

Christian eyes you for half a second- measuring, maybe- but then nods. “Give it a shot.”

You flip your mic on. “Hey, Max,” you say gently, keying your mic with the same calm tone you’d use during a debrief. “Try braking a little earlier into Turn 9, then dragging about half-pedal to rotate the car. The pull settles better that way, keeps the rear where it should be. Might give you a cleaner line.”

There’s a beat of silence- long enough to make you wonder if he’s thinking it over. Adjusting. Trying it.

Then-

“Don’t need coaching,” Max says, his voice hard-edged and clipped. “Got it.” The comm cuts out with a decisive click. You blink, startled- but not bruised.

It’s not what you expected. You were careful with your tone, kept it light, supportive. Non-confrontational. The advice wasn’t even complex- just a tweak, a trick that helped you tame the same twitchiness during sim work last week. You glance toward Christian, but he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look at you. Just stares straight ahead at the live feed, his jaw set, arms folded tighter across his chest than they were five minutes ago.

You shift back in your seat, smoothing a crease in your jeans out of habit. The headset hums soft with tire data and GP’s quiet pacing in Max’s ear. You focus on the numbers, on the lines. On the job.

Let him work it out. Let him feel it.

He’s Max Verstappen. World champion. Hell of a driver. If anyone can take a twitchy, half-baked braking system and drag something clean out of it, it’s him. You didn’t mean to imply otherwise. You don’t think otherwise.

So you sit back. Let the moment pass. Watch the delta clock tick. You expect to see improvement- not instant brilliance, but maybe a cleaner sector. A smoother trail into Turn 9.

But the next lap comes and goes. And the data says otherwise. The car still fights on entry. The rear still snaps wide at the apex. He’s still overcorrecting. Still off-line. You tilt your head slightly, frowning at the monitor.

You weren’t trying to take anything from him. Not control. Not authority. Just... offering the knowledge you’ve earned the hard way. A few more laps go by. More missed corners. More resistance from the car. The brake temps are running high. The split across the rear bias is getting messy. His lines look aggressive, not efficient.

You say nothing, quiet, until it feels cruel, inefficient, wasteful not to try. God knows what kind of tab today is going to run up for RedBull. It’s wrong to just sit on knowledge that you know can clean this up, even just a fraction. “Try adjusting your entry into Turn 12,” you offer again, voice smooth as glass. “Just a little more-”

This time, there’s no voice. Just the soft, deliberate click of a mic button being held down long enough to cut you off. Your audio drops out mid-sentence. You exhale, slow. Not upset. Not yet. Just... calculating.

That wasn’t an accident. He’s held his mic button. Deliberate. Dismissive. Your hand tightens around your clipboard. The pressure blooms hot in your chest, but you push it down. He’s making it clear- he doesn’t want your help. Not in front of the team. Not in front of Christian. Not ever.

And the worst part?

It’s not just hurting the session. It’s killing the data.

He’s not learning anything. He’s not adjusting. He’s pretending the system works because he’s refusing to let it fail. He’s trying to drive around physics, and no one’s getting clean feedback out of it- not the devs, not the engineers, not you. This isn’t just a bad test session. It’s unusable. 

The system was always going to be a little unrefined, a little more than unrefined, in your opinion. That’s what these days are for. But this? This is sabotage. Max isn’t driving to improve the package. He’s driving to prove you wrong.

And maybe it’s not personal. Maybe it’s just ego. Maybe he doesn’t like your suggestions. Maybe he doesn’t trust a dev driver to advise a driver that’s approaching two-time world champion.

Maybe.

But something about the way he’s doing it- the performative dismissal, the passive silences, the outright cut-off- It doesn’t sit right. You press your lips together and tuck your clipboard tighter to your chest. You’re not wrong. You know that.

But suddenly, it feels like being right isn’t going to matter. Not in this garage. Not today.

When they call Max in, there’s no explanation. No argument. Just a dry instruction from GP to box this lap, delivered without inflection. Max doesn’t push back.

The engine cuts and it’s almost a relief. The tension that's been laced into every radio call, every lap, every breath- it doesn't vanish. But at least it stops compounding.

You pull your headset off and make your way toward the huddle already forming around the screen. GP’s in the center, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Gavin’s got a pen behind one ear and a thousand-yard stare. Alessandro, the lead on the braking prototype, is scrubbing a hand down his face like he’s trying to physically wipe the data away.

You glance at the screens. It’s a mess.

He never settled the car. Never found a consistent input rhythm. Lap one looked nothing like lap three, which looked nothing like lap six. Braking variance, throttle delay, tire wear pattern- all of it compromised. He didn’t test the system. He tested his ego.

“Jesus,” Alessandro mutters. “He forced it the whole time.”

“Every lap,” Gavin adds. “No clean delta. No lift-brake comparisons. It’s worthless.”

Not entirely. You’ve done this enough times to recognize usable slivers buried beneath the chaos. But to anyone else it looks like dogshit. Totally unworkable. You glance down at your own clipboard. Your notes are meticulous. You’ve been shaping this system in the sim for weeks. You know what it needs- what it responds to.

You don’t make a show of it. You slip them to GP under the screen, out of sight.

“Here,” you say. “Maybe these will help.” He takes them, scans the handwriting, then flicks his eyes up to yours.

“They’re pulled from your data,” you say quietly. “Your analysis. Got it?”

GP blinks at you. His brow furrows, just slightly. He nods. Folds the papers. Doesn’t ask again.

You don’t elaborate. Just step back as the group crowds around the tablet, trying to stitch something together from the mess.

The headache building behind your eyes lifts miraculously when Christian turns to you and says, “Let’s get you in for a couple laps. Just to stabilize the baseline.”

And just like that? It’s gone. The tension, the frustration, the weird sick pit in your stomach.

Gone.

Your whole body lifts at once, like someone pulled a string in your chest. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” he says, already turning toward the engineers. “Give her a baseline and send her out. We need something usable.” You don’t wait for anyone else to speak.

You practically skip to the locker room, the clipboard swinging in your hand, the weight of the last thirty minutes falling off your shoulders like water. You haven’t driven a real car in weeks. Not since Zandvoort. And sim hours can’t replicate the sound, the vibration, the way the tires talk back to you at the edge of grip.

A real car.

You could cry.

You swing open the locker room door, still smiling. And then you stop. Your boots are there. Your gloves. Your helmet- just gleaming on the shelf, visor slightly cracked open like it’s waiting for you. Your suit, hanging neatly just as you left it. But your fireproofs?

Gone.

Not folded over your bag where you always keep them. Not tucked in your locker. Not crumpled on the bench or dropped behind the door. You freeze for half a second, scanning everything twice, then again.

No. No fucking way. You know you brought them. You folded them this morning. Laid them out just so- sleeves crossed, neckline folded down, because you like being able to get dressed in exactly ten seconds flat. And now? Nothing.

You stare at the spot where they should be. Okay. Okay. Maybe you moved them. Maybe you set them somewhere and forgot. Maybe someone tossed them in a pile without thinking.

But the locker room is too clean. Too intact. Everything else is untouched. Just the one thing missing. You bite the inside of your cheek, the nerves starting to flicker under your skin. It’s stupid. Paranoid. Insane, even. This is a professional garage. People don’t just… hide each other’s fireproofs.

But you can’t ask.

You can’t let anyone know you don’t have them. Because if someone finds out, they won’t let you drive- not without the full kit. Safety regs. Liability. Some poor OSHA nerd, or whatever the insufferable Euro equivalent is, would throw themselves in front of the car.

And you are not missing your shot today. Not over this. Not when you’ve been starving for the vibration of some real power through your bones.

There’s no time. No one saw anything. No one’s asking questions. No one knows. You can’t wear jeans and a sweater under your suit- they’ll bunch and pinch. And if anyone sees the fabric lines, they’ll know. So you strip.

Down to your bra and underwear.

You step into the suit carefully, like someone might walk in any second. Tug the zipper up to your throat. Adjust the collar. Make sure every inch is covered.

It’s fine.

No one needs to know.

It’s just a few laps.

You walk back into the garage with your helmet under one arm and your gloves clenched in your hand, the weight of your suit suddenly heavier than you remember it being. It clings differently now, soft and close over skin, and the air inside the building feels sharper, thinner, colder through the bretahable panels. But your stride is steady. Even. Measured.

No one says anything. No one looks twice.

That’s… good.

Your gear is zipped to your throat, cinched at the wrists and ankles. Velcro checked. Checked again. Every inch of you is covered. And still, you feel bare in a way you can’t explain. Not vulnerable, not exactly. Just… aware.

The pit crew is moving like clockwork. Christian and Alessandro are already at the screens. Gavin sees you coming and gives a sharp little nod, stepping in to take your phone. You murmur a thank-you as you pass it off and start toward the car.

You don’t see Max until you’re practically alongside him. He’s just standing there, arms folded, posture easy, like he hasn’t spent the last hour driving that setup into the ground. You glance his way, ready to be professional- polite, even. Maybe offer a small smile if it feels appropriate. But something in his expression doesn’t match the moment.

His gaze flicks toward you. Not dramatic. Not lingering. Just a pass over. And in that second- barely longer than a breath- you catch it. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. A shift in his eyes.

Like he’s… surprised.

You wouldn’t have noticed it if you hadn’t looked. You weren’t looking for it. But now that you’ve seen it, it sticks in your mind- not because it makes sense, but because it doesn’t. Surprised?

You don’t dwell on it.You’re not here to dissect his mood. You climb into the car, careful with your motions, hyper-conscious of how the suit moves against you- how much thinner it feels without your fireproofs underneath. You grip the edge of the cockpit to lower yourself in, careful not to let the fabric shift too far up your arms or legs.

Gavin helps you buckle in, clips your HANS anchors over the posts of your helmet. The harness pulls tight over your chest, pressing your heart into your ribs. Your breathing slows. You exhale once. Then again. Visor down. Radio check. Systems go.

Series Masterlist Another super chapter- 25 pages for your patience over the weekend <3

Sorry, Kel 💔

[mrmoldavite]

The Main Synastry Overlays & Aspects That Drove My Attraction to Approaching and Speaking to Random Women.

This year, I set myself a mission: to cold-approach every woman that I found attractive—no matter the setting, be it the gym, shopping, public transport, or elsewhere. If your energy drew me in, I wanted to talk to you.

After having established a connection, I’d then dive deeper and analyse our synastry through birth charts.

Here are the key trends I’ve noticed when it comes to attraction and astrology:

1st House Synastry (Time Stops Because We Stand Out)

Immediate and noticeable attraction. Walking into a room and noticing each other felt like entering a spotlight together—undeniable chemistry, as if we existed in our own bubble. We looked good together, Magnetic and undeniable chemistry. Sometimes a little Ego clashes.

2nd House Synastry (Boosted Self-Esteem)

Mutual respect & validation and a sense of value; just talking to each other made us feel confident and seen. Didn't tend to feel a crazy romantic attraction, just more like we're chill with one another. A person you'd smile at, say hello, small talk and wish each other well. Two people simply enjoying each other’s company and building each other up.

5th House Synastry (Energetic, Childlike, Fun Connection)

Vibrant. Fresh. Exciting. Conversations effortlessly turned playful and light-hearted, like our inner child had known each other for years. Felt like a burst of creative energy. Fun, spontaneous dates like bowling, cinema, mini golf, funny conversations over a quick meal. Fun and subtle sexual tension. Situationships or Quick causal light hearted fling.

8th House Synastry (Magnetic Intensity)

Chemistry so palpable, everyone in the room seemed to feel it. Our connection hinted at something primal and raw. Intense sexual tension behind our eyes. Thinking "just you wait and see what I'll do to you". Wanting to f*ck each others souls. Watching each other across the room like a Lion stalking its prey. Can be too intense for those not used to 8th House energy.

11th House Synastry (Instantaneous Friendship Vibes)

The vibe was casual, but deeper connections brewed beneath the surface. We felt like best friends immediately. In the gym for instance we might have ended up working out together, sharing laughs and light conversation. Everything felt easy and natural, with a good surface-level connection that hinted at a deeper, more meaningful bond underneath. Friends with benefits.

12th House Synastry (Past Life Soul Recognition)

I’d feel an inexplicable familiarity, drawn in as if we’d crossed paths in another life. There was depth and intrigue beneath our words. 12th house isn't just hidden enemies seems like people forget that it can also mean a deep feeling of unconditional love for one another. Especially when you're both spiritual beings that have done spiritual inner work. There's no words needed between each other, just an instant subconscious understanding of one another. Eyes are the window to the Soul. Seeing & feeling the spiritual love emanating within each other beyond our physical vessels.

Moon Conjunct Venus (My Moon in Virgo or Venus in Pisces)

Emotional connection blended with admiration. We found ourselves naturally caring about each other’s feelings, even if we’d just met. The kind of tenderness you feel when you see a dog or cat, you just think "awww let me pet you". Naturally supported & fulfilled each other emotionally, with little effort, creating an immediate sense of comfort and trust.

Ascendant Conjunct Venus/Mars (Attention Drawn)

The way we noticed each other was magnetic. My presence caught their eye, and they instantly held mine. It was like a beacon of light drawing us together. The way I moved, spoke, and carried myself seemed to be exactly what they were looking for—and they had the same effect on me. Every glance I'd take of them felt significant, making it hard to look away from.

Sun Conjunct Venus/Mars (Captivating Aura)

Our energies combined in a way that others could sense. I became more aware of my own glow and theirs. Our conversations and laughter seemed to light up the entire room. They saw how my Ego expresses itself as ideal match. Naturally we fit together.

Venus Square Pluto (Intensity)

Strong, transformative attraction that felt like a challenge to resist; conversations and eye contact were magnetic. Feel like I have this aspect with so many people because of my Venus in Pisces in a generation of Pluto in Sagittarius. The Pluto person loves how gracious my Venus placements is, the square makes them feel obsessive, intense and drawn to me. They want to own me.

Lilith in 1st, 5th, 7th, & 8th House Synastry:

A sense of forbidden attraction and untamed energy, manifesting in bold stares and raw authenticity.

1st House; My physical appearance & self expression is just raw and irresistible to them.

5th: Can't get enough of each other. Lots of fun together.

7th: Lilith energy just feels like a perfect fit. What you didn't know was missing.

8th: Knowing how to tap into each others hidden sexual desires. Insatiable.

Conclusion

I won't even front this little experiment/journey of cold-approaching beautiful women and then being able to explore the synastry aspects has been very insightful and has shown me how astrology definitely reflects the connections we feel with others.

Each encounter I had, whether it be brief or deep, has revealed unique chemistry, patterns of attraction and has vastly deepened my real world understanding of astrology aspects.

It’s not even just about charts; it’s about experiencing real connections in the moment. How fascinating it is to be able to experience certain types of bonds and then have the feelings backed up by astrological patterns.

The moments I've experienced have remind me of how the universe aligns energies and paths in such mystical way!

I hope this post was informative.

(P.s. I'm 6'3, have an 8h Venus, Leo Rising & Aries Stellium. My aura and confidence is powerful, which is why I am able to get a lot of attention from women). 😏😉

[dreemurr-skelememer]

Hello :D

I have been following you for the last year or so (a few days after I got my Tumblr lmao) and I absolutely love your art!

I have been wanting to study your art style for a while but don't really know where to start,,,

Could you please show me a small portion of your art process, if it isn't too much trouble of course. Thank you and have a nice day!

hello. oh my god. this took forever to find.

im sorry it took 2 WHOLE FUCKING MONTHS for me to respond to this but i wanted to put it off until i felt happy with my art process again, so here it is

my fall 2024 rendering tutorial!

(this will be very very long)

FLATS AND WHATEVER YOU WANNA DO WITH LINES GIRL. then make sure to recolor the lineart to better match your base. trust me it helps, bold dark lines are Not your best friend when rendering. wait for that post-rendering

i start off with a doodle or a sketch, and then filling it in with flats and other details such as blush

FIGURE OUT YOUR LIGHT SOURCE. FIGURE IT OUT GIRL YOU CAN DO IT you can make it as simple as possible, make it as big as possible, dont even THINK about the details.........just make it really fucking big so you at least know where the shadows and the light goes THEN add smaller shading details LISTEN TO ME. LISTEN TO ME OKAY!!!!!!!!

my key point with this is for you to learn lighting fundamentals.

it's SOOO ANNOYING but alas......they are all correct. it helps a lot.

one thing i also really want to point out is that i like creating a big shadow shape first before fixing up the little details (such as folds and whatever) because it helps me focus on the way the lighting actually works instead of tunnel vision-ing into making the shading make sense on the clothing.

contact shadows (i dont remember if thats what theyre called okay) theyre fucking ugly because im not actually thinking sorry 💔

okay so basically:

contact shadows (if that's what they're called) are the spots in shading and lighting where light will NEVER hit.

shadows are still influenced by the colors and lights around it (it's why a blue shadow and a yellow shadow feel completely different, despite both being shadows) so it's not always COMPLETELY dark.

BUT! there are small points in shadows where light never hits, and they're almost always super dark or pitch black.

it's hard to explain shadow and light so briefly for a tutorial, but you'll notice it when watching fundamental studies and when trying it out for yourself

YES i unclipped the multiply layer YES its ugly and terrifying but it makes coloring the multiply layer easier okay the colors merged w multiply so now it looks cool and has depth overlaying colors that actually make sense

so basically what i did was color the multiply layer that i used to shade the overall drawing

adding a band of red/orange/yellow around where the light hits, and blue where the shadows get big and wide, gives it a fake ambient occlusion effect in the way that a person would get if they stood under the sun with a clear blue sky

the colors don't have to make sense, especially because i never draw backgrounds, but coloring the shadows really help it give a sense of depth and extra subtle detail and effect that just helps make the painting look nicer

around the end, i also put in colors (in an overlay layer with a low opacity brush) that actually make sense in context of the drawing, which is the lit cigarette and the yellow eyelights

mostly because none of the colors were making sense and i needed to actually make use of the lighting that DOES exist in the drawing lol

adding a muddy golden yellow pin light layer (opacity turned down to like 40-50%) to make the light colors less ugly lol

i SWEAR by the fucking pin light layer style. it's so useful and so so underrated.

i used an almost brown-ish gold color on stop of all the layers, and with the pin light layer, it helped make the bright (almost blue-ish) white colors more warm and more yellow. it just helps make things more warm (something i prefer)

i could probably show what it looks like without adjusting the layer opacity to truly show off what i mean (like in the coming section) but i sadly forgot to do that lol

make a layer on top of your drawing with this color in these ranges YES the drawing is fully merged NO don't be afraid, the base was fucking ugly anyway 💔 make this layer into an exclude/exclusion layer style TRUST turn down your exclusion layer opacity from a range of 10% to 40% literally until you're happy with the contrast and the way the color over the drawing. use your eyeballs. i know you can do it im so proud of you

this is pretty self-explanatory instruction-wise, so i'll go into why i do this instead

i really like art that seems like it has low contrast, with almost mid-gray shading and lines. i don't personally use dark and bold lines and shading, unless i find it necessary for the tone of the piece, so using this method helps lower the contrast of the art and make it look "pleasantly muddy" in the way that it's easier and softer on the eyes.

the inverted blue color also helps makes things warmer!

the exclusion layer style is still a bit of a mystery to me but i really like the effect it gives, even if i don't completely get how it works lol

if you want an alternative method to this, and if you have access to it (because i primarily use sai and sai only),

i absolutely encourage you to play around and experiment with gradient maps.

there are so many out there you can make yourself or even get from others that just give the painting an extra amount of depth and color variation. they're SO fun.

personally, if sai2 gets a gradient map update, it's over for y'all it will literally be so over no one will be able to stop me

then i merged everything and actually adjusted the contrast back up because it was looking too muddy for me 💔 but the color adjustments are still there so all hope is not lost here's a comparison of the adjusted contrast in black and white (adjusted on the left) (newly merged layer without adjusting the contrast on the right)

as you can see, i actually turned the contrast back up (despite talking all about how i liked things with less contrast lol)

i wanted to demonstrate that doing adjustments should be done in moderation, and is why i adjust layer opacity often when making color effects

you are free to play around with colors to help your style, but don't lose your initial idea and colors along the way.

you still need to trust your own colors and intuition!

along with that, i just want to say that it's completely okay to change your mind mid-painting, and it's okay to make somewhat drastic changes.

don't be afraid to change things you don't like or change your mind about certain aspects way later on

that's basically the whole thing of this!!! don't be scared!!!

now im gonna hold your hand when i say this..........but you need to learn how to render by yourself. it seems like i can teach you but i literally can't, because rendering is different on every piece and depending on how clean your base is. i have to render A LOT because of how fucking ugly my sketches are LMAO to simplify it, think of it as obsessively cleaning up every detail you can see, but with a color picker and a clean, hard edged brush. if you have shit lineart, you don't have to redraw it cleanly over and over, just paint over it. that's basically what rendering is

THIS especially is where you need to be brave and stop being scared.

like i said, i can't teach you how to render, and it's something you have to discover yourself because rendering is something that will always be personal to every single piece you make. the way you render on every piece is different.

on one piece, you will barely need to render, and on another, rendering is more than half of your ENTIRE process.

don't be afraid to paint over your old art.

rendering is a process that's both very perfectionist yet also very careless.

find your balance and just go for it.

and then that's it……..u did it………..now yuo know how to paint and render. it's literally just layering shading and lighting knowledge until you think it makes sense and looks okay lol additional note: since i render in only one layer (you don't HAVE to do this, but it'll be harder for you…), i also made slight adjustments with the transform (and liquify, if you have it) tool to make things more proportionate. (i drew the head too big lol)

if you compare the finished piece to the final unrendered base, you can see that a LOT changed, including a bit of subtle proportion adjustment.

particularly, the sleeves changed A LOT (because i really didn't like them)

but it's also over all cleaner and more coherent, instead of having haphazard colors and shading just thrown about.

rendering is when you finally use all 100% of your brain to finalize and figure out where the shading should go, where to clean up your lines, where to ERASE or ADD BACK in lines, and make sure all your colors look coherent.

it's not as intimidating as it seems, i only use a hard edged brush with a little bit of color mixing and my color picker.

it's like dragging and dropping colors to cover up mistakes, it's really quite fun when you get used to it

i wish i could explain it clearer but it's hard to describe without visuals!

i hope this helped, and i hope all my yapping isn't annoying (art as a special interest beloved)

have fun studying and trying to render in my art style!

[corkinavoid]

By the way, when ghosts and Ancients appear, should there be any visual effects and sensations? Like Frostbite? A drop in temperature? Surfaces becoming crusted with ice?

For example, a headcanon on Danny who is a cosmic Ancient, an eldritch, a cryptid, a ghostly entity. How would all of this affect him showing up next to a human?

Ooooh, that is a good question, I like it!

To start, yeah, I think there would be plenty of visual and sensory effects when Ancients appear in the living world. I actually think it goes for all the ghosts - you know, the eerie feelings and static and all that - but it's more noticeable with Ancients.

So, in my head, Frostbite makes the space around him colder, and he is always standing on a thin layer of snow. Like, it doesn't start snowing when he appears, but there's always this snow under his feet, so when he walks, you can hear his steps creaking over it. Imagine how that would feel on a silent summer night when you just feel the temperature drop and the steps coming from somewhere.

Next, Clockwork is pretty self-explanatory, he has time either stop or slow down around him. Pandora would have this weird feeling of thousands of eyes looking at you - like you are standing in a gladiator arena, and everyone's waiting for your next move. I feel like she could also bring sand with her in the same way Frostbite brings snow.

Vortex has winds blowing, little hurricanes forming and stuff just wildly flying around, and Dora has the temperature around her go up, actually. Standing next to her is like standing next to an open fire, and when she walks, she leaves burning footprints on the floor, only they are not human, they are dragon.

Nocturn brings night. Like, wherever you are, even if you summoned him at noon, when he appears, it's suddenly night, and everything is dark around you. He can also make people fall asleep if he is too close.

As for Danny, Ancient of Space, I feel like when he is present, everything becomes silent. Not eerily quiet, but kind of like the feeling you get in the absence of all sounds, like in space. Maybe there's also this weird, low hum of cosmos present. It also gets cold, like with Frostbite, but it's a different kind of cold. Comparatively, standing next to Frostbite is like standing in a walk-in freezer, when standing next to Danny feels cold on the brink of hot, like you're already experiencing hypothermia but there's no source where it's coming from. Also, with Frostbite, you can wear a coat and be fine. With Danny, you're going to feel the cold no matter the amount of clothes.

Also, his voice is getting distorted differently to other Ancients, but, errr, I think all the Ancients have different voices. Nocturn's voice is a lullaby, Clockwork's is a whisper, Pandora's is thousands voices in one. Danny, then, speaks like he has a very good radio overlay on his voice - it's perfectly clear, but you can still hear it's not a normal human voice.

I'm not sure if I mentioned all the Ancients, but that's as far as I got, so if you want me to add anyone, comment it <3

[tartppola]

Stranded in another world, with no hope of going back or any magic to defend themselves with, this is the anecdote of the Ramshackle Prefect Yuulis Crowley's first week in another world called Twisted Wonderland.

warning : mentions of blood & dissection, didn't beta this so :P a/n : happy april fools :D

It was a chilly morning on the Night Raven College campus, and Sam’s first day coming back to the mystery shop. Oh, how he missed the purple overlay of the wallpaper; the diamond skulls and taxonomy and other knick-knacks that seamlessly blend together to form something quite avant-garde. Speaking of knick-knacks, he remembered that his new stock of goods his ‘friends’ salvaged from who knows where should be arriving today, how exciting!

His feet skipped up and about, the keys he spun around his finger chiming as he hummed a happy tune from the Port of Jubilee. Sam wonders what kind of faces the new first years would make the first time they step into the shop, or when they meet his ‘friends’ for the first time. 

Just as he was about to make a turn from Main Street, he stopped dead in his tracks. There was a pile of huge boxes at the doorstep, that must be his new goods, but there was something else, or rather, someone else. That someone–young enough to be a first year, but not wearing the school uniform–was waiting by the boxes. No student has ever been to the shop this early, and the school hasn’t allowed any of the local townsfolk to visit, so why?

“Excuse me!” Sam called out, making his way towards them, “I’m flattered that a line is already forming, but opening hours aren’t until lunch time!”

They stared blankly at him the moment he stood right in front of them. They held out a clipboard with a delivery receipt that listed the names of various magical supplies 

“I’m here to on behalf of the Headmaster,” Sam barely understood them through their thick accent, “Please double check the receipt and make sure to tell of any errors.”

Since when did the Headmaster hire any couriers.....and one so young at that. Oh well, as long as Crowley’s not breaking any child labor laws, it should be alright, shouldn’t it? The shopkeep noticed that his back grew colder and colder as he went through the new inventory. He stole a small glance at the youth, turning back immediately when he saw how intently their gaze bore through his soul.

“Phew! It’s getting pretty darn cold out here!” The hand that held his keys trembled a bit, “How about we go inside to warm ourselves up a bit?”

He took back his thoughts. This was far from alright.

“--and where do these charms go, Mr.Sam?” 

“By the aisle near the grimoires, next to the paper talismans,”

It’s been nearly half an hour of restocking, yet they haven’t left the store. Sam tried his best to breathe through the awkward atmosphere, but the tension was so thick he could harvest it, bottle it up and sell each for 500 madol. If only such a thing was possible, if only.

“Mr.Sam,” 

He felt his shadow jump to the ceiling at the sound of their voice. 

“What kind of store is this, exactly?” 

“Well, since you’ve seen my wares firsthand, should you be able to tell right away?” He put on an air of faux confidence, hoping they wouldn’t notice. 

“At first, I thought this was a magic supplies store, but none of them back at home sell dangerous herbs like oleander and wolf’s bane. How did you get a hold of this amount of them anyway?”

“Well, what can I say? There’s only so much exotic ingredients you can grow in the botanical gardens,” 

“But, there are also basic necessities like toothpaste and clothes,” They pondered, “Come to think of it, one of the new deliveries was a box of snacks, wasn’t it?”

“That’s what happens when you’re the only tuck shop in one of the most prestigious schools in the world!” He winked, “It wasn’t easy getting ahold of most of the inventory, but you gotta do what you gotta do, don’t you agree?”

A small chuckle escaped their lips, “That’s not a bad mindset for a businessman.”

In the end, no matter how eccentric they initially seemed, a child is still a child. He felt foolish for being so afraid, what could they do when he had his friends by his side?

“By the way,” it was hard to notice how much time passed by, “Shouldn’t you go back to your dorm and change into your uniform? It’s almost time for morning classes.”

“Ah, was Mr.Sam not present during the entrance ceremony? No wonder you didn’t recognize me,” 

There was some word on the street about a fiasco happening during this year’s entrance ceremony, something about the halls being lit on fire by a beast? He couldn’t believe it when  one of the friends that stayed to guard the shop told him about it.

“I was deemed unworthy to be sorted into a dorm, because I possess no magical capabilities whatsoever. It seems that there was an error during the student selection process,”

“Is that even possible?” his suave expression morphed into worry, “Then, why didn’t the Headmaster send you back home?”

“He tried, but the Mirror of Darkness said something along the lines of ‘The place from whence they came from can’t be found in this world’. 

“And so here I am, doing odd jobs and tasks on behalf of the Headmaster, the students and the staff of NRC,” Sam could hear a small sense of pride at their introduction, “I'm more capable than I look, please don’t hesitate to call upon me if you need any assistance.”

Of all the strange things to make their way into his shop, never in a million years would Sam expect an estranged secretary to be one of them, and one that possibly came from another world to boot. He had a feeling that this year was going to be much, much more eventful than any of the years to have come, and he couldn’t wait to see it all unfold.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, little demon,” The shopkeep tipped his hat in a fine, gentlemanly manner, “Make sure to drop by again, ‘till next time!”

The gap of knowledge between the first and second year was indeed a big leap to overcome, Crewel knew how unprepared his puppies were going to be.

But by the Great Seven, oh how much he overestimated them.

The likes of Riddle Rosehearts and Azul Ashengrotto couldn’t possibly make up for the utter incompetence these mutts have, even the students with subpar scores like Savanaclaw’s Ruggie Bucchi and Diasomnia’s Silver looked like geniuses. At best, there are students like Kalim al-Asim, who actually tries, yet their efforts seem to seep out through their ears the moment they leave class, then there’s the unpredictable ones like Floyd Leech.

He remembers how the eel turned in blank test papers, or how he mixes whatever ingredients he finds interesting together, bleeding the chemical supply. 2 days ago, he used up an entire month’s worth of imp spinal fluid during potions class. It’s not as if they were hard to get, but their effects are most potent when freshly harvested. The thought of harvesting it himself made him shudder; sure, he’s seen some grotesque imagery as an alchemy professor, but who knows how long it will take to restock if he made a report to Crowley?

Sigh. Looks like he’ll have to put practical sessions on hold for a while and haggle with Sam.

“Excuse me, is Professor Crewel here?” 

The door to the alchemy lab opened, bringing the professor back to reality. Someone he has never seen before let themself in, a plastic bag in hand. 

“Stay! I don’t recall allowing anyone without a lab coat to enter….!” Realization kicked in once he got a clearer look, “Huh--so it’s you, the magicless stray that caused a riot in the entrance ceremony.”

The sound of a whip resonated through the room, followed by faint chattering and murmurs from nearby students scrambling away from the alchemy lab. 

“Only authorized students and staff are allowed in the lab during school hours, didn’t the Headmaster tell you?” 

Most of his students would cower just by hearing his tone grow stern, yet they remained unfazed. Playing bold now are we? Looks like he’ll have to teach them a lesson. 

“The Headmaster,” they brought the plastic bag to his chest, “said that the lab’s storage room needed restocking.” 

Ah, was that it? Making a child do his job; how much of a slave driver was Crowley? Knowing Crowley’s tardiness, it was probably something he had already spent his paycheck on, although the bottom of the bag was unusually cold. 

Curiosity getting the better of the professor, he untied the knot and opened the bag. His face recoiled, from the shock of seeing the contents. Aurora moth’s scales--he had only requested these a few days ago! Not to mention all of that translucent mucus coating the scales, how long ago were these harvested?

“Is there something wrong, Professor?”

Crewel almost forgot about the intruder standing in front of him, “No, it’s just--this is the first time I've seen them so...fresh. The ones Crowley buys usually come preserved in bottles.”

“That may be because I just harvested them this afternoon,” they said nonchalantly.

“You--You what?!” the professor didn’t even try to mask his disgust, “You did this yourself?”

Their head tilted sideways, akin to a confused child.

“The Headmaster said that the locals needed help with pest control, so I’d thought I’d lend a hand, and they let me do whatever I wanted with the moths as payment, ” Despite having experience with that sort, Crewel’s stomach began to swirl, “The Headmaster gave me permission too,”

A scowl grew on his face. Typically a moth would've been killed humanely before their wings were plucked to relax their ligaments, but seeing the mess clinging to the wing's ends, it's clear that they didn't consider such option. He couldn't decide if they had a strong stomach to withstand seeing large bugs squirm underneath them, or an uneducated fool.

“Professor, are you alright? You look exhausted,” 

He snapped back to reality that instant, rubbing circles around his temple. Pull yourself together, Crewel, he edged himself, you’ve lost your composure twice already. Maybe he just needed a good serving of raisin butter with wine on the side, or a joyride on his prized car. He glanced back at the dismembered wings, at least he got what he wanted. Still, this has never happened before, perhaps if he could take advantage of this situation….

“Tell me, pup. Since you have...the appropriate experience to harvest wings, how good are you at dissecting imps?”

They pondered for a while. It’s the most animated he’s seen of them, “I suppose I do how to extract fluids, their lymph is a versatile ingredient in many types of salves after all. Although it has been a while since I’ve ever needed to.” 

Bingo

“Then, how about spinal fluid?”

It was their turn to be surprised, “I-I’ve never done that on an imp before. Just think of the amount of imps needed to fill a single bottle.”

“Tell you what, pup. Are you interested in a side-job?” 

Without giving them a chance to respond, Crewel tossed a few madol and a map of the campus in their direction, “There are some common imps causing trouble in the college lately coming from who knows where. If you can deal with them, I’ll give you the other half of the payment, and of course--.”

He shoved them a basket full of empty test tubes, slinging it over their shoulder, “Fill every single test tube here to the brim before tomorrow's Science Club activity, I won't take no for an answer.” 

And with that, they were pushed out of the alchemy lab. Spending their first sleepless night in another world catching imps wasn’t on their bucket list. Sighing heavily, they picked up their feet and staggered.

‘I wanted to creep him out a little,’ they thought, ‘but I ended up being the one getting creeped out.’

For such an important place, why did Crowley’s office have to be in a place so out of reach? For all his years in Night Raven College, Crewel always dreaded sending weekly reports to the Headmaster’s office, he could feel his leg muscles ache as he knocked against the two large gates. He peeked inside the office to look for the Headmaster. 

“There you are, professor! What took you so long?” 

There he was, sitting cross-legged on his desk as the portraits of the Great Seven floated up and about. Trein was there as well, as cold as usual and showing no sign of fatigue, peering at him as if he could see through everything. Maybe it was because he had a 20 year head start, either way, it was irritating how he was the only disheveled one.

“I don’t know, maybe it was the countless stairs I have to climb every week to submit a report when you can simply hire a secretary to fetch them for you?” 

The crow simply smiled, already figuring out a solution to Crewel’s ire, “How has the first week of teaching been for you, professors?”

“I don’t know which is greener, the topiary maze in the Heartslabyul dorm, or the new puppies I’m in charge of,” Crewel shook his head. 

“For once, I agree,” the history professor nodded indefinitely, Lucius yawning in his arms, “But that could be said for every first year in the history of NRC.” 

Dire nodded, “Seems like everything’s going smoothly then! I shall leave the future of our students in your capable hands!”

Both professors nodded in response, “As you wish, Headmaster.”

“Although, I’d like to inquire about something,” Crewel spoke up before raising his index finger to the large window. From above, the view of the setting sun looming over the campus could be seen, but his finger specifically pointed to Main Street, or rather;the magicless stray walking to the direction of the alchemy lab, with the basket in hand and the direbeast from before by their side.

“What are we going to do about that?”

Without needing to look, Trein simply closed his eyes, “If what the mirror spoke was true, then that child quite literally has no place to go back to. It comes to question how they even ended up here in the first place."

Crowley rubbed his chin. The ultimate decision lies with him, and honestly, there was nothing stopping him from just shirking them off his feathers and leaving them to fend for themselves, along with the cat-beast that terrorized the entrance ceremony.

"It would undoubtedly stain the reputation of our esteemed college if we just kicked them out," the Headmaster groaned, "Oh, why must I be plagued with such problems!"

"Best of luck to you then, Headmaster Crowley," The two professors turned their heels and left Crowley's office with not a care in the world, leaving him with his worries.

The Headmaster leaned against his chair and sighed against the beak of is mask. Dealing with the child was the last thing he wanted to do at this moment, with their odd mannerisms and such, however...

Being unable to return home wasn't an unfamiliar conundrum to the Headmaster.

Perhaps it's his boundless generosity speaking to him, but there was a pang of heavy emotion in his chest that told him he couldn't simply leave that child, Yuulis, alone. Was it guilt? or maybe atonement? Whatever it was, it overrode the rational side of his brain

Dire Crowley was the type of person to judge a book by it's cover, which is why he was surprised how his new errand runner, or rather, the new Ramshackle Prefect was able to hold up better than he expected. The reports he received from the staff members he had tasked them with helping have been amicable, and his workflow was much smoother now that he had divided the more menial tasks to someone else. He had thought he had envoked the wrath of the Great Seven with the mess that was thrown his way, but surely they were more pliant than they initially seemed, and now Crowley had a reliable aide at his beck and call.

That would've been the end of the story if Crowley's worries ended there.

Perhaps it's his intuition as a mage, one that's been sharpened by many years of experience, but there was something off about the Prefect. It was subtle enough for none of the other professors to pick up on it, perhaps not even the prefect the▅self were aware of it, but Crowley co▅ld fe▅▅ it.

The lingering mi▅▅ma ▅▅ p▅rmea▅▅ from ▅▅em, it ▅▅ ▅▅▅▅▅ ▅ ▅▅▅ M▅▅▅l▅ ▅▅ ▅no▅▅ ▅▅▅▅ ▅▅▅▅▅▅▅ ▅▅ , ▅n▅▅d f▅rom the loo▅▅ ▅, if Crowley doesn't get it under control, it might spell disaster for the mages in his beloved college.

They'd succeeded his expectations as a prefect, so why not bestow upon them another act of kindness?

A knock resounded from the door to the Headmaster's office, before creaking open. Under the candles that lit the office dimly, the prefect looked like one of the many ghosts that toiled in the campus.

"Apologies for the delay," they nodded, curtly greeting the Headmaster, "It took a while to convince Professor Trein to let me into the library archives, but I got what you asked for."

"It can't be helped, I suppose. The lecture he gave me that time still rings in my ears," Crowley picked the bundle of files off of Yuulis' hands.

"Rightfully so," the monotone in their voice wavered, "With all due respect, I don't see why what you did was necessary, nor will it benefit you or your reputation, Headmaster."

His fingers intertwined and rested over his mouth, obscuring what's left of his face. A part of him thought that Yuulis wouldn't question his actions, but it seems they had not let their guard down completely. Not that he blamed them--in a world of villains, it's wiser to play your cards right.

"I've made it quite clear that it was a mutual agreement, yes?" he says, "One day, you'll understand, once you've proven that you're worthy of carrying my secrets."

He sauntered towards them, slow and heavy footsteps circling around the prefect, "Besides, don't you want my help? You won't have to isolate yourself anymore, drifting around from place to place, worrying about hurting other people. You'll be able to live a normal life. It'd be easier for me to help you with your more personal matters like this, wouldn't you agree, my dearest nephew?"

It was probably underhanded of him to take advantage of their ignorance, but it's too late for them. The pact has been made, Crowley isn't sure whether Yuulis could feel the invisible link that binds them together as well, but the matching blue vest he gave them, their new surname, was enough to send them the message.

"It's getting late, come now, I'll walk you back to that rickety old--err, Ramshackle dorm," says the headmaster, waiting for Yuulis to trail behind him, like they usually do.

With bated breath, they come to accept their new circumstances. They step closer to the Headmaster.

"As you wish, uncle,"

[undead-moth]

The last scene we get of Sydney this season is her having her panic attack. The scene isn't very long, but the Camera is extremely close to her face the whole time, and all we can see is her face and her hands. In that scene, we see her go from hyperventilating to beginning to breathe more slowly.

I noticed all this when I watched it the first time, and I also noticed that there's no music overlaying the scene. We can hear Syd's breathing, her crying, and the party happening in the background.

All of this stood out to me when I compared it to Carmy's panic attack scene. I compared them to begin with because so many other parallel scenes already exist between Syd and Carmy. Right away, I saw Syd's panic attack as another parallel. Just like in Carmy's scene, we see her alone. Just like in his, the camera is up very close, only showing us her face and hands. And most importantly, just like in Carmy's, she calms down. It wasn't strictly necessary to show us her calm down, and in fact, cutting away from her while she's still panicking would have been more emotionally intense for us. This more than anything else makes it feel like it's meant to be yet another parallel.

However, when comparing them, they're not properly mirroring each other in other ways.

In Carmy's panic attack scene, there's music overlay, initially skipping and then smoothing out, and we get flashes of his thoughts, which include clipped flashbacks from prior scenes. Because of this, when watching Carmy's panic attack, we know exactly what thoughts were causing him to panic, and what thought calmed him down. Thoughts of his family and Claire above all are causing him to panic, and thoughts of Sydney calm him down. The music stops skipping at the same moment he begins thinking about Syd.

But with Sydney, we don't get music, and we don't get flashes of her thoughts. Even if we can surmise what's causing her to panic, we don't get to see it, and we have no way of knowing what calms her down. We don't even have music offering insight, unless we include the music being played at the party - which, I listened to and looked at the lyrics for.

The song is "Laid" by James, and I think the music could be meant to imply Syd's thoughts on Carmy. It's a song about someone whose been told by his therapist that he needs to leave the woman he's seeing because she's behaving unhealthily and isn't good for him, and he knows it's true, but the song nonetheless ends with him asking, "When are you coming home?"

We know Syd is debating whether or not to leave The Bear, and we also know that the reason is because Carmy's behavior this season was unhealthy and affecting his relationship with her. I think the song could easily be alluding to Syd's desire to stay even though she thinks she shouldn't.

That could be all there is to this scene, and I certainly could be looking too deeply into it.

But season 4 could also return to this scene, and it could change. Since the music in this scene is background music, they could come back to it again in season 4 and overlay it with a different song that more indisputably is meant to offer insight into Syd's state of mind.

And given that we didn't get to see any visual representation of her thoughts, the second time around they could show us that.

Both the choice not to have music overlay and not to show us Syd's thoughts was intentional, and though the scene isn't long, it's a long time to spend zoomed in a character's face while she has a panic attack in silence. It felt conspicuous to me that there wasn't music or flashbacks indicating her thoughts.

And sure, I know we primarily see that happen with Carmy. He's the protagonist. His thoughts are shown to us more than anyone else's. But we do see other characters thoughts sometimes. For example, when they want to pass their fire safety exam, and they're waiting to see if the balloon fills, we get a snippet from all of the characters lined up to watch.

And given there are so many other very purposeful parallel scenes between Carmy and Syd, and this would appear to be another one, I feel like there has to be a reason this one so conspicuously deviated in style from its counterpart.

Basically, what I'm saying is, what I'm theorizing is, I think they purposefully didn't show us the whole story with Syd's flashback this season. I don't think the choice not to have music overlay and not to show us her thoughts was simply because they determined this was the most effective way to convey her panic attack to us. I don't think it was for the emotional effect silence or an extended up-close look at her distress would have on us, or at least, not just for that.

I think (I hope) season 4 will return to this scene, and when it does, it will more closely mirror Carmy's panic attack. I think (I hope) there will be music overlay, and we'll see flashes of Syd's thoughts. Just like in Carmy's, I think (I hope) we will get to see the transition from thoughts about what's panicking her, which we already know -

To thoughts about whatever calms her down.

I think that thought could either be of leaving The Bear, which would then solidify her decision to leave -

Or it could be of Carmy, which would then solidify her decision to stay.

I genuinely think that if this is the route they go, if I'm somehow incredulously spot-on, either one could work sufficiently with the narrative. I do think there's a strong chance Syd will leave The Bear -

However, the only way to truly make this scene mirror Carmy's scene, and to thereby make it consistent with all the parallels that have come before - and not incidentally or purposelessly either - it would have to be thoughts of Carmy calming her down.

I'm crossing my fingers.

[kuroppiii]

  forty, love ᵕ̈       tennis au!miya twins x gn!reader       ( pt. two ) ˎˊ˗

⋮⋮ ˒ ₍ᐢ..ᐢ₎ 𖥻 ⿻ : what to do when two  ⋮⋮  fellow pro tennis players are ⋮⋮  interested in you ? you compare ⋮⋮  their stats , of course !

📋 content     ♡ # 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧 🐮     ♡ # 𝘴𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦❕     ♡ # 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 🥛     ♡ # ~4.1𝘬 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 ( wow )     ♡ # 𝙘𝙬 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘦 ( all characters are 18     or older during all events of the story !! ) ,     𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨

🧺 extensions  ⋮⋮  prev  ⋮⋮  series masterlist  ⋮⋮  next ( coming soon ! )  ⋮⋮

🎶 on shuffle " yeah x10 " - trent reznor & atticus ross ( challengers movie soundtrack )

🧸 directory  ‹ ✩  like what you read ? check out more of my blog !  •ᴗ•

💬 kuroppiii ─ “ i locked tf in for this one ... ( also thank you ree for helping with the smau stuff i ' ve never done myself prior to this lolll ) ”

atsumu and osamu are neck-and-neck in a tie break. the crowd around you grows frustrated in a twisted type of voyeurism as the two tennis players are almost equally matched in the masterful way they return the ball to each other.

it's still only the first set but it feels like you've been sitting there watching 100 tennis matches–and in a sense, you have been.

as the ball gets traded between the miya twins on each side of the net, the countless times you've seen the two passionately rally tennis balls with their rackets cycle through your mind. they overlay the sight in front of you, almost like a flip book–one that eventually lands on a page from a long-gone time.

a time when the twins used to play alongside each other on one side of the net.

،   の   ✧   後    🌱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗻 …

after winning the match that made your young pro-athlete career those many years ago, you remember you took your new trophy with you to sit in on a certain mens doubles match a few hours later that same day.

there were a few hours to kill between when the cameras flashed in your face as you held your trophy and when you'd have to deal with it all over again that night for the winners' banquet. so, you decided to take up the two twin brothers' offer from the previous day to watch them in action.

slipping into a secluded corner of the stands, you were just barely able to catch the last few sets of their game since yours had overlapped slightly time-wise. but even in those few sets, you found yourself drawn to how the two ruled the court.

looking at the scoreboard, it seems like they breezed past the first set, had faltered and lost the second, but were definitely back on track to secure the third when you had arrived.

under the searing afternoon sun you noticed how atsumu always donned a certain smirk on his face before serving. this smile somehow shone brighter than the rays of light beating down on him and his sweat-drenched shirt.

and not too far from the blonde and closer to the net, osamu continuously provided ample support whenever atsumu's serves were returned, no matter how powerfully their opponents hit them back. he had a show-stopping habit of leaping into the air to reach the tennis balls whenever they were returned up high. volley after volley, osamu's usually bored expression would turn to one that was laser-focused on swatting at his neon green targets with his racket so the balls would quickly crash onto their opponents' side.

in this way, the twins weren't ones who waited for the ball to hit the court. they always had the ball in motion. it was like they were so in-tune on some deep and unspoken level, and you hadn't seen doubles partners play in any way like it.

'maybe it's because they're brothers,' you thought to yourself as you found yourself more invested watching a tennis match than you ever had before, 'maybe it's because they're twins, at that!'

either way, the miya twins secured that third set, and despite the annoyance of your manager as you were completely oblivious to their calls and texts telling you to start getting ready for the winners' banquet, you intently watched every moment and every point as they finished off their match by winning the fourth set.

you earnestly joined the audience in the stands as you applauded the two, watching them drop their rackets and excitedly embrace one another in a tight hug upon realizing the match was now over. they were winners.

the trophy gets brought out, and you get a great view of their faces lighting up in celebratory smiles, holding their shared trophy between them for the cameras.

the image of them both–hair sticking to their foreheads and dripping in sweat yet still grinning impossibly wide–as they clutch their new trophy and both kiss it at the same time, was one that would be burned into your memory for years.

but at the time, the moment passes as quickly as it came before they go to pack up their duffels on the sidelines. you take this as your queue to leave and finally catch up on the notifications from your manager. but just as you stand up from your seat, atsumu spots you in the crowd, and you see his jaw drop.

immediately and without risking to glance away from you, he aggressively swats at osamu's arm next to him to get the gray-haired one to look at where you stood, too. osamu reluctantly follows his brothers gaze, and you see the frustrated expression aimed at his brother quickly melt into one mixed with shock and admiration as he locks eyes with you.

(unable to fight the small smile that tugs at your lips upon seeing their ego-boosting reactions again) you nod at them in acknowledgment, give them a small wave, and go to pick up your trophy as you leave while they flash those winning smiles right back at you.

،   そ   ✧   の後    🌱 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗻 ...

the banquet a few hours later was held in a classy venue, with winding spotless marble staircases and chandeliers in every room. when your ride pulled up in front of the building, you stepped out onto the ostentatious red carpet that was laid out for all the tournament's victors to waltz down. you could hear the buzz of chatter and crystal glass clinking inside. the louder it grew, the more your hands gripped at the shiny handles of your award as you entered the hall.

a worker directed you to a table where all the winners were asked to place their trophies for a round of pictures that would take place before dinner started. just as you go to set yours down, two similar and familiar faces entered through the banquet hall doors.

the voice of the tournament employee started to sound more and more tuned-out as you watched them step into the hall. the miyas were clad in clean and simple dress pants and blazers. osamu's outfit was on the more, of course, grayer side than atsumu's (and defiinitely more of atsumu's dress shirt buttons were unbuttoned than that of his brother's).

osamu held in his hands the brothers' trophy from their match earlier that day, and a different worker suddenly approached them, kindly gesturing to the table you were standing right next to. they were probably asking osamu to place the trophy down on the table–something you were still yet to do.

you quickly look back at the worker talking to you, apologizing for "spacing out" before carefully positioning your prize in the spot where they needed it. you feel a presence come up next to you, and look up to make eye contact with the two twins.

"long time no see," atsumu teases as his brother sets down their trophy next to yours.

"nice trophy ya got there," osamu adds on. a light-hearted scoff escapes you before you attempt to congratulate them on their own win.

"thanks! congrats to you t–"

"l/n! i've been looking everywhere for you!" your manager suddenly appears and interrupts you, "there are some photographers who're asking for your picture. right this way, please..."

as your manager nudges you away from the award table, you glance back to give the two brothers an apologetic smile. they wave you off and soon you lose sight of them as the crowd in the room gets between you.

and that's how it went for the first half of the evening: looks here and there exchanged between you and the miyas, but always getting whisked away by the crowd to each take pictures with so-and-so or do another interview with whatever news outlet.

until finally, all the trophy bearers are called up to take one big picture together, and you find yourself standing next to the doubles partners once again. osamu is right next to you, and atsumu next to him. the moment after all the athletes have clobbered their big trophies in their grasp to hold up for the cameras, you start getting bombarded with flashing lights.

as you try to maintain your smile for the pictures, you catch in the corner of your eye osamu leaning closer to you, and he whispers, "ya looked great out there"–he pauses and smiles again at the flash of another camera–"and you're lookin' great now, too."

"lay off the gorgeous singles winner, would'ya 'samu? you're ruinin' our photos right now," atsumu smoothly joins in on your brief hushed conversation.

your smile begins to resemble a more genuine one at the interaction, and you're hoping the photos of you don't show the blush dusted on your cheeks once they get released to the press.

again, you don't get to talk to the twins much throughout the rest of the event. but during dinner hour–while them and their team are off somewhere else in the venue doing some p.r.–you successfully managed to slip a napkin with your number scribbled on it into the cup of their trophy as you pass by.

that night at your hotel, two new numbers popped up on your phone.

،   そ   ✧   の後    🌱 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗻 ...

the sound of tennis balls making contact with hardcourt echo through the darkness of night.

a few weeks later you're practicing late-night at a hotel court for your first grand slam appearance. for you recently, it's been nothing but nonstop training and drills. you were aiming for the final. sure, you could tell yourself to make it to at least quarter-finals, or even be satisfied at seeing yourself at semi-finals.

but no, your mind was set on the final. hell, your mindset was to win overall.

you got ready to practice your serve for another time, following the neon green ball as it went from the palm of your hand, to spinning in mid-air, to crashing against the wires of your racket–

your phone emits a small beam of light from where it laid on the bench in your peripheral vision. you wondered for a split second who could be texting you at this hour.

watching as your serve hit the exact corner you were aiming for, you decided you could give yourself a short break to check.

you reach into your duffel and fish out your towel, and you pat your neck and arms dry as you unlock your phone to open up the sudden set of notifications accruing on your homescreen,

it was the miyas.

ever since they added your number from the winners' banquet napkin, the three of you have had a shared groupchat you used to stay in touch. you had discovered pretty early on that the twins were very different, even if it's in how they text.

recently, however, on account of your intense grand slam preparations, you haven't been very active in it. but out of nowhere, here the two brothers are blowing up the chat. as you caught up on the messages, you pick up on an interesting amount of typos–more than usual...

at the mention of bottles, you immediately caught on. a small laugh escapes you as you type back to voice your suspicion, and atsumu almost instantly replies back to confirm it–that they've had a few drinks tonight.

you shake your head at the bench. it was almost midnight. and they want to see you this bad?

you debate for a moment how much you really wanted to see them again.

they were definitely staying at some different hotel than yours, as they were going to be at the upcoming tournament as well to compete in their usual doubles bracket. you had no idea where or how far their hotel might've been, though. how would they even get to your hotel from theirs anyway? how long would you have to wait for them out in the dark? you could probably fit some more drills in that time instead.

after thinking about it for another minute or two, you sigh and look up at the moon in the dark sky, too exhausted from the hours you've already spent on the hard court to really think of an excuse not to have them visit you. a small break right about now couldn't hurt.

besides–other than catching sight of them on tv or on online tennis news articles–the last time you saw them was at the winner's banquet, and you really wouldn't complain about seeing their faces in person again.

so you tell them what you're up to at your hotel, and you're met with eager replies back in the groupchat: atsumu suggesting they join you in your practice, osamu saying they have a driver that can bring them to you.

a sudden surge of energy enters your system realizing you're about to have them right in front of you again. you bounce your leg against the court impatiently to try and let some of it out.

you start thinking back to the last time you were face-to-face with them, and you can't help but cringe a little, recalling how you were more of a flustered mess than you might've wished in front of them.

you internally cursed the effect they have on you.

and yet, here you were giving in to see them. but if you were going to have to face them again, you concluded you'd need a bit of liquid courage pumping through you yourself...

around 20 minutes after you seal the deal and send your hotel's address to the two brothers, you hear footsteps approaching where you were sat at the court bench.

and then there they were–casually in t-shirts and shorts they were probably about to wear to bed–in front of you. you hear the clink of bottles as atsumu drops the duffel on his shoulder onto the court.

"be more careful with that, would'ya 'tsumu?" osamu hisses while landing a quick blow to the side of atsumu's arm.

you already find yourself giggling in their presence again and barely a minute has passed by. but what can you say? both on and off the court, the two were so interesting for you to watch.

after atsumu does in fact fail to open some more bottles with his racket and osamu instead opts to use the cap of one bottle to open two others, the three of you then start rallying in a friendly 2-v-1.

with the twins opposite you across the net, tennis balls start to get lazily passed over the net using one-handed forehands and backhands (you each had an occupied hand holding your drinks, after all). though you three aren't giving it your all, a steady and precise rhythm of clicks still start to ring out like a metronome with each pass of the ball, accompanying the catch-up conversation that you share on the court.

a few rallies in–and a drink or two more–atsumu suddenly poses a question mid-rally that catches you off-guard.

"hey, say if you had to date one of us, which one you would pick?" the blonde shouts across the court, almost causing you to miss your return on the ball. you question if this was atsumu, or the alcohol talking.

click!

skeptical, you shout back, "i'd go out with whoever actually liked me, obviously."

click!

"but what if we both did?" you barely catch osamu add on, as his words are more mumbled and almost slurred before you see him hurriedly take another swig from his bottle.

you can hear the joint-confession in his words, and your other hand goes to give you another sip from your own bottle to calm your nerves.

click!

"is it normal for you both like the same girl?" you tease.

click!

"nah, not really, actually," osamu calls back.

"so what, should i feel honored or something?" you can't help but sarcastically throw at the two.

click!

"of course. you're hot and talented," atsumu reasons, dropping his description of you like it's the most normal thing to say in that moment. you feel your face start to heat up–and it definitely wasn't the alcohol making its way through your system.

click!

"oh, is that all i am?" you feign offense, and for once both brothers mistakenly go to return the ball, when they usually are so coordinated only one ever has to take initiative. you loved messing around with them.

the ball falls between their two outstretched rackets, and atsumu curses under his breath as osamu goes after it as it starts bouncing away. after retrieving it, he tosses it to atsumu to serve it over and start up another rally.

click!

"'s not that," says osamu, "we've both gotten to know ya, you're great all-'round."

click! click! click...

"but based on what you've gotten to know 'bout us," atsumu speaks up in the pause of conversation, "who would'ya pick?"

click... click... click–

you suddenly give it your all and crash the ball hard onto their side of the court, downing the rest of your bottle right after, "let me think that over."

،   そ   ✧   の後    🌱 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗻 ...

the three of you had stopped rallying, opting to hanging out on the bench and just talking about life. the few bottles from the miyas' duffel were about halfway through and it was close to about 2 in the morning now.

the sound of tennis balls and rackets making contact was now replaced with hushed giggles, the sound of tennis balls lightly being dropped against the court surface and being caught again once they inevitably bounce back up, and the whirr of rackets being twirled by absent-minded hands.

all these sounds muddle together in your ears, an internal tell-tale signal to you that you were very tipsy.

since you were asked the question, the notion of getting with either of the miya twins has been floating in your mind. other thoughts came along with it, too, and the alcohol was not helping to push those curiosities of yours away.

as always, these two made it so easy to cave into your wants of selfish self-satisfaction. but this was a much-welcomed respite from the otherwise constant pressures and grueling day-to-day of going pro so young on the tennis court.

that you could be sure of, sober or not.

... so you figured your future and more sober self in the morning can't get that upset for what you were about to try.

"i think i know how i can figure out an answer to your question from earlier," you find yourself humming while atsumu was on your right, attempting a racket trick on the bench, and osamu was to your left, on the ground leaning up against the bench and bouncing a ball between the court and the palm of his hand.

"which one?" atsumu questions with a quick glance over to you as he tried balancing the middle of his racket on one finger.

"who i'd go out with," you nonchalantly shrug as you hear the wires of your racket slice through the air when you quickly spin it in your grasp.

"really?" osamu cranes his neck back to look at you, hand still trading contact with the ball between his hand and the court.

you look between them, the blush from the alcohol clearly visible on their faces–one you can certainly feel is shared on your own facial features, too–before looking back down at your racket, "i dunno, i just think i need more... stats to compare."

"what d'ya mean?" atsumu now puts down his racket in his lap and asks. you bend down and use your racket to slice the tennis ball out from under osamu's palm, directing attention to the racket by tapping it against the ground.

you ask osamu, "heads or tails?"

a beat of expectant silence passes by the three of you, as the brothers wonder what you're getting at.

"...tails," osamu finally replies, and it almost sounds like he utters his words on bated breath as he looks at you. (or maybe that was just your ego getting to your head.)

you twirl your racket one more time and let it clatter to the ground. the sound reverberates in the now completely-silent space, as the miyas are frozen in place as they scan your every move.

heads.

you look at atsumu, and mustering up all the confidence from your inebriated system, you reach your hand up to lightly hold his jawline. his skin under your fingertips runs soft as you dare to start leaning in closer, and closer, and at the moment your lips brush the slightest bit, you feel his breath hitch.

for a second, you reconsider if now was the time to settle into desire, if this may all just wind up being a big mistake–

but then atsumu quickly gets fed up, and he finally closes the gap between you. before you know it, your eyes flutter closed as you get lost in how his mouth feels on yours. his kiss is relentless, leaving no room for you to catch your breath as he constantly makes sure you can feel as much of him against your lips as you can. it's like he doesn't want you thinking about anything but him, not on his watch.

yeah, this is definitely not a mistake.

after a few moments, you hear shuffling and the bench creaks under a new weight on your left, and suddenly you feel a hand on your left thigh–osamu's, no doubt.

you carefully pull back from you and atsumu's kiss, catching how atsumu's eyes remain lidded as his body involuntarily tries chasing after you, both of you letting out soft pants to try and breathe in much-needed air.

you turn your head to face osamu, and you follow how his eyes trace over your face and his teeth subtly gnaws at the inside of his bottom lip in an anxious state of anticipation. you take it as your sign to start leaning in towards him–your fingers still lingering on atsumu's face as you do so.

osamu's kiss is much softer, but deliberate nonetheless. he isn't afraid of pulling back a little bit, but it isn't long before he takes the initiative to gently trap your bottom lip between his teeth now and then, forcing content sighs out of you–this in itself almost eggs him on further to toy with you more.

and then the skin under your right hand's finger tips disappears, a pair of lips start to kisses your jaw, and a pair of hands starting to wander along the right side of your body.

now both miyas are all over you, their possessive hands almost competing in grasping at more of you than the other. that, combined with the feeling of lips on yours at the same time as lips trailing along the side of your neck, made your head buzz.

you felt giddy–you've only ever seen them playing on the same side of the court. but right now, they were opponents, but instead of fighting over some glass trophy or medal, they were trying to win your attention.

finally needing air, you pull away from osamu. when you open your eyes to see his face, his lips are swollen and even in the dark of night you can catch a glimpse of his pupils appear blown out.

those same eyes flick over to glance at his brother on your right, and before you can follow his gaze, osamu's going in for the left side of your neck.

in the dark you can feel every touch–two varying paces of lips working against your skin, bleached and dyed hair brushing along the underside of your jaw. there's hands on your thighs, hands on your waist, hands peeking just under the hem of your shirt, hands threading through their blonde and grey hair–

your phone starts to ring.

"oh shit–" you quickly stand up from between them, stumbling a little from the imbalance that comes with your current tipsy state. you feel around for your phone on the ground and by the time you locate it among the mess of duffels and rackets and empty bottles, you see a missed call and texts from a member of your team. they're wondering where you were, and telling you to wrap up and head to bed if you haven't already.

"s-sorry," you stutter out at the two boys, picking up your racket from where you left it on the ground and fumbling with the strap of your duffel, "i gotta go–thanks for... the drinks."

and all osamu and atsumu can do is dumbly nod as you leave them at the bench–lips slightly parted and hair messes, with star-stuck looks from them that you've grown quite accustomed to.

🗒⋆ *. ୨୧⋆｡ taglist (2/30 at the time of publishing) : @zumicho , @liillyliilly (just send me an ask if you’re interested! xx)

[kaythefloppa]

More rambling about Wild Kratts Game Lore bc I can

On today's episode of "shit about the flash games that I am probably the only person alive to care to notice," let's look at a certain pattern in the tutorials that, whilst it may seem minor, may actually reflect something about the overall website (and if you have no clue what the f*ck I'm talking about, feel free to stay, it's so much funnier that way)

Ok so let's look at the first wave of flash games made by Chocolate Liberation Font (the dev-team behind them). In the tutorials of these games, (i.e. Cheetah Racer, Ride on Remora, Caracal Leap, Draco Glide, Kickboxing Kangaroo, ect), one of the Kratt Brothers would introduce the animal and objective before activating their Creature Powers. When they do so, we see a close-up of their shirt (oddly enough without the suit or gloves??), and we see the buttons on the Creature Power Suit with the Creature Disc insignia in the same color as the suit itself.

Some image examples as Exhibit A.

You get the picture.

Now let's move on to the games that were added to the website in 2012 by Pixelpusher; Flower Flier, (R.I.P.) Croc Hatch, Frogfish Feast, Aardvark Town, and Web-tastic!; The Wild Kratts Creature Math Suite that collectively made up a quintilogy game, Creature Roundup. These games features new animals and new Creature Powers, 3/5 of which were featured in Season 2 of Wild Kratts which had recently premiered on PBS Kids at the time. Like before, the Kratt Brothers introduce the creature, the objective and Activate Creature Powers. However, here is one difference;

When the screen zooms in on the Creature Power Suit post-activation, we can see the physical Creature Power Disc itself over where the PowerSuit button/creature insignia would be. Regardless of the disc's color, it would show up. As shown below in Exhibit B.

Quite the difference eh?

But wait, it gets even more fun.

In 2013, two games, Dolphin Dive, and Slither Run, also done by Pixelpusher, are released. They're not affiliated with the Math Suite, but are in the same league as them. In the tutorials where the brothers activate their Creature Power Suits, you realize that, just like in the games developed by Chocolate Liberation Font, the close-ups of the buttons don't have any overlays of the disc (using Slither Run here because Dolphin Dive wasn't a good enough example)

Put a pin in this, because this becomes relevant later.

Let's redirect ourselves to the habitats. You probably remember exploring the habitats, finding and learning about different animals, unlocking photos, and adventuring with the Creature Powers earned from the games. The site was updated to include some new habitats and Creature Powers, but let's exactly look into the details of that, shall we?

Here are the available Creature Powers to use in the habitats to unlock the photos for your adventure journal in the character creator page, Your Room. Rattlesnake Power, Draco Lizard Power, Cheetah Power, Kangaroo Power, Caracal Power, Squirrel Power, Firefly Power, Dolphin Power, and Remora Power.

Now, you may notice that the Creature Power Suits from the Math Suites (Hummingbird Power, Crocodile Power, Frogfish Power, Aardvark Power, and Spider Power) are missing here. In fact, they're not in any way able to use in the habitats. They (along with Dolphin Power and Rattlesnake Power) are also absent amonst the assortment of Creature Powers to use in the supergame, Habitat Rescue Game.

This is where I pull stuff out of my ass cause I'm fcking crazy everything comes together.

Notice how the only Creature Powers that aren't available to use in the habitats are Creature Powers that the brothers use in the games where the physical discs are displayed on the buttons. The only ones available to play are ones where the button is visible when the brothers activate that particular Creature Power.

Conversely, none of the Creature Power Suits from games developed by Chocolate Liberation Font have PowerSuit photos that the user can take with a camera once they complete Level 5. Only the games added by Pixelpusher (this includes the Math Suite, Dolphin Dive, and Slither Run) are, and 5/7 of those games are where the physical disc is placed over the button. Slither Run and Dolphin Dive are anomalies from this pattern, but the majority rules (especially since they were added in post after the Math Suite).

But wait. It gets even deeper.

You know how I said in the assortment of games where the physical discs are present in the tutorials, Dolphin Dive, and Slither Run are anomalies in terms of games that had unlockable photos in levels? You know what pattern they aren't anomalies of?

Yeah, the Habitat Rescue Game at the beginning of this post wasn't just bc the game is fucking peak (based on a show that's fucking peak). None of the 7 Creature Powers from Pixelpusher's update to the website appear in the supergame Habitat Rescue. Not a single. One. And none of the Creature Powers available in Habitat Rescue are from games where you can unlock a photo in the site from directly finishing Level 5.

In case this has been way too complex, let me break it down *Activates Lawe's Parotia Power*

Creature Power Discs earned from games where the physical disc is not shown on the Power Suits after the activation in the tutorial are available in Your Room and the habitats.

Creature Power Discs earned from games in which the physical disc is visible over the Power Suit button in the tutorials are available in Your Room, but NOT in the habitats or Habitat Rescue Game.

Creature Power Discs earned from games in which you must complete Level 5 to earn the PowerSuit Photo and Badge, regardless if they physically appear on the Creature Power Suit in the tutorial, do not appear in the supergame.

None of the games that show the physical button of the suit have collectible photos from directly playing Level 5, BUT all of them that do are available to access in Your Room, the habitats, and Habitat Rescue Game.

CONCLUSION: Whilst there are many anomalies and errors in the structures or patterns of the original flash version of the online Wild Kratts website (I'm sure many of you noticed the duplicate Martins in the Aardvark Town tutorial Jesus Christ), some of these inconsistencies have consistencies in their inconsistencies, even if it wasn't the developers' intention. With this, you could logistify several appearances or absences of certain Power Discs in certain games or pages. And to those of you, who like me, grew up with the flash games and were confused as to why you couldn't access all 14 Creature Powers in the habitats or in Habitat Rescue, hopefully this observation could provide good enough answers and closer after a decade.

Thank you for coming to my TedTalk.

[myersgirlxxx]

Shadows of the occult

07.Revelations of the other side

Wednesday x fem reader

summary: In the shadowy halls of Nevermore Academy, you navigate the delicate balance between reality and the Other Side. As an occultist with a powerful yet unstable connection to the elements, you learn that the Other Side does not come easily. it demands secrets and sacrifices. Caught in the gaze of the enigmatic Wednesday Addams, you must confront the darkness within before it consumes you.

Warnings: Dark themes, mental health, supernatural elements, intense relationships and mature content.

The air in the room hung thick, stifling, with a weight that felt almost oppressive. Shadows seemed to ripple along the walls, responding to my heartbeat’s erratic rhythm. This wasn’t just any conversation; this was me opening the door to secrets I had kept for too long. And Wednesday — her gaze colder than ever — watched, waiting with a sort of expectant quiet, her sharp eyes never leaving my face.

"You suspected, didn’t you?" I finally asked, my voice barely above a whisper, not wanting to break the silence that had settled between us.

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed, her expression guarded. "Of course. What happened with Tyler and the Hyde taught me more than enough about monsters and twisted things lurking beyond the ordinary. But this... what you carry, it's something else. Something old, something dangerous." Her words carried a dark edge, a strange mix of curiosity and wariness.

I nodded, the weight of my own confession pressing down on me. "The Other Side isn’t just a place for souls and spirits to wander. It’s a dimension that overlays ours, connected by forces like chaos, death, fear, and spirit itself. The elements that govern it... they’re more ancient, more powerful than anything Tyler or any Hyde could wield."

Wednesday’s gaze didn’t waver. "Then explain what’s different. Explain what ties you to all of this."

Taking a deep breath, I began, feeling the pulse of energy coursing through me. "Occultism... it’s more than rituals and strange symbols. It’s an art of understanding and manipulating the hidden forces that govern our existence. My parents — they weren’t ordinary occultists. They were exoterrorists," I revealed, noticing the faint lift of Wednesday’s eyebrow. "They practiced the occult to tear open the fabric between this world and the Other Side. From a young age, they used me as a bridge, a conduit for their rituals."

"They turned you into a tool," Wednesday murmured, her voice carrying a tone of sharp disapproval. It wasn’t pity — Wednesday was beyond that. It was recognition, an acknowledgment of my past that felt oddly like respect.

"Yes," I admitted, feeling a strange weight lifting as the truth came to light. "And because of them, more than half of me... it doesn’t belong here anymore. Their rituals tied me to the Other Side in ways that I’m still trying to understand. They exposed me to the purest, most dangerous forces within it. Spirit, Fear, Death, and Chaos — the four elements that govern its reality. I can wield them, but each time I do, I lose a little more of myself."

Wednesday’s expression was unreadable, though her eyes glittered with a dark interest. "Spirit, Fear, Death, and Chaos. What do they mean for you? Can you control them?"

"In a sense." My voice faltered as I continued, but I forced myself to press on. "Spirit is the essence that binds all souls — past, present, and future. It’s life and death, woven together. Fear is the force that governs every sentient creature; the more it manifests, the more the Other Side consumes everything it touches. Death is transition, the eternal end that awaits all things, but it’s also a doorway — and the Other Side holds that doorway open. Chaos..." I hesitated, feeling the familiar chill of dread that the thought of Chaos always brought. "Chaos is pure destruction. It unravels everything, turning order into nothingness. Every time I summon its power, I tear the veil between our world and the Other Side a little more. That’s why the boundary is weakening."

Wednesday held my gaze, her expression tense. "So that’s why the balance is off-kilter. You’re connected to all these forces, and the Other Side is... pulling at you, isn't it?"

I nodded, clenching my fists as I felt that pull more acutely than ever. "Yes. Every time I use those powers, I’m dragged a little closer to the Other Side. If I lose control, I’ll become a permanent gateway, a door for everything over there to come through here. Life and death, order and chaos — all of it will dissolve."

For a moment, Wednesday seemed almost to consider the weight of my words. Her eyes were cold but calculating, assessing the situation with that keen, relentless focus she possessed. And then she finally spoke.

"What happens if you do lose yourself?" Her question was as direct as ever, her tone demanding honesty.

"If I lose myself, the Other Side wins," I answered, a slight tremor in my voice. "The veil will break. Everything from the Other Side — chaos, death, every twisted force and creature it holds — will pour into our reality, tearing apart the balance of everything we know."

Wednesday stared at me for a long moment, absorbing the gravity of what I’d just told her. Then, after what felt like an eternity, she finally nodded, her expression set in that familiar mask of cold determination.

"Then we won’t let that happen." Her voice held a steady resolve, but something else glinted in her eyes — something sharper, more curious.

She straightened, and I could see a new question forming behind her gaze. "But the Sect of Masks... they told me the Other Side wants me, not you. They said I’m the catalyst for the imbalance. But why?" Her tone was laced with frustration and suspicion.

I frowned, wondering the same thing. The Sect of Masks had insisted that she was the reason the balance was slipping. That she was the key.

A shiver ran down my spine, and I met her gaze, feeling the same creeping dread she must have felt. "I don’t know," I admitted. "But if the Other Side wants you, there has to be a reason. Something about you... something connected to it. We have to find out what that is. We need to know why it believes you’re the key."

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed, but her gaze didn’t waver. There was a fire there, a cold, unyielding determination that I had only ever seen in her. We both knew that every answer we uncovered would only lead us deeper into the shadows — but the answers were there, and they were waiting.

[doodlyreone]

Smiling Friends at Pony Town Memories ADVENCHA!!!

Part III

An experimental bit to compensate for my always delayed screenshottter phone and archiving ponytown instances to doodles. I roleplay as Charlie and these are the highlights of my interactions with a Pim kinner @mellowvisions .

Although I haven't taken drugs, I felt like I am high in these conversations, it's just one shower thought after the other. This is the last bunch for today and it feels right it ends this way.

Hours pass and it's really coming along greatly. There's this awesome dude was nearby and like wow I can't take off my eyes on him like get this – he has more beard than any Santa Claus I've encountered in any mall. Like all natural beard. He let us touch it and it feels like an ancient artifact. It looks so cool and I'm considering about growing out a beard myself.

(Charlie and Pim having beards just makes them looking more akin to their voice actors bwhahshck. I really saw bright orange shirt with blue accent and white bandana having pony and I was like "IS THAT A DRAGONBALL CHARACTER?" I-)

Turns out the guy just got released out of prison and got the prison bar glitch 50 years ago. It is rumored around here in the local area with how bad the police are in their jobs that the prison cells are so tired of being empty, it just teleports in people, regardless of they're innocent or guilty. I don't really believe it, like I just think it's the police but it might as well happen here. I hand out the Smiling Friends building address to the guy by writing on his palm. Oh, the pen was from Pim, he always had some just in case we need to write on something and that pays off.

(I just love like trying to make sense of the show and its lore. Like as a charity that wishes to help people lift spirits, I wouldn't question like the building having a facilities to cater to those who are homeless or like neglected by society – have you noticed their building is beside an asylum. I improv that theres a public showers available and I wanna imagine they hand out free food too.

Uhh also referencing what happened to the background character in the Who Violently Murdered Simon S. Salty? ep like dude just walks out the theatre and be lookin confused when he's behind prison bars the next scene release him he did nothing wrong)

It's pretty uneventful after that. Pim and I discuss what just happened.

( I really like Charlie's front face in the Charlie Pim And Bill Vs. The Alien episode it reminds me of Captain Underpants somehow oml. Also, the disjointed phrases is mostly to blame with Ponytown chat limited-words-of-pop-up-at-time but it feels right since it emulates like Charlie and Pim sometimes cutting each other off it's brilliant)

What I heard is groundbreaking, earth shattering, reality tilting notion. I genuinely thought I'm just imagining the heart swelling chime because it feels nice but- but no Pim is actually hearing it too. Had the clients heard it as well? Is there someone tailing us behind waiting to play that chime when we'vedone our job? But no that can't be right cuz there's the constant decibel and tune and like we would have notice it and like no matter where we are, it's the same thing, as if it's not in the room for it to change its aural texture but instead like- like a sound bite overlayed on top of a show. I-I think I might actually puke from this, oh my God.

(SMILING FRIENDS IS INCOMPLETE WITHOUT EXISTENTIALISM BWHAHAHAHA. The genuine distress they're under after becoming too self aware oml. It translates to what if 4D dimension exists and we are just tv show for them kind of bit. Also I kept the misspellings and missing words cuz it adds character and funny - the sequel.)

UNTEXTED VERSIONS UNDER CUT:

[tact-and-impulse]

Shinkane Week 2024 Day 1

@shinkaneweek, thanks for giving the perfect prompts for this superhero/vigilante AU occupying my work-exhausted brain 😛

Day 1: Urban

From the other side of the door, Akane could sense his presence. She entered anyway, the cool air of her apartment washing over her face. She maintained the impeccable holo overlaying her crimson bodysuit, but dropped the half mask.

His pointed mask was also absent, the laceration on his cheek was encircled by a deepening bruise. The dark armor-like quality of his costume was at least intact, better than before. He gave a strange smile. “Lady Justice.”

“Please, don’t. Kougami-san, what happened?” She turned away, retrieving her medical kit. If she were a telekinetic, it’d be much easier to summon, especially with how often they met like this.

“A scuffle for information.” He winced when she pressed the antiseptic wipe to his skin.

“And did you find what you needed?” She immediately regretted the sharpness in her voice. It had been a lengthy day, with additional meetings and public events that Sybil’s favored leader of elite psionics could not avoid. And it was always complicated with Kougami; she knew her own mind would be an emotional storm to any other telepath.

“Akira’s gone missing.”

She froze. “Kei’s older brother?” The Russian born brothers had the same familial ability of psychic shields, but while Kei was one of her new Bureau colleagues, Akira walked the vigilante path, just like Kougami had decided six years ago.

He nodded, grimacing now. “No trace at all, not even a scrap of fabric I could use for detection.”

“Was he still following the new lead?” She asked carefully. Technically, she shouldn’t have been aware of his group’s extrajudicial pursuit of the Peacebreakers. However, they were past the point of secrets between them.

“Yeah, he was. The rest of us split to cover more ground, but I ran into two of the targets. They got away, but they mentioned someone called the General. Have you heard of them before?”

“Never. Then again, the last knowledge of the Peacebreakers on my end was from Tibet, and in a report. I’ve been solely occupied with domestic affairs for a while.”

A flicker of understanding crossed his expression, and then, his callused fingers caught her chin. “When was your last break?”

Akane swallowed hard, her memory failing at his touch. She was glad his psychometry didn’t extend to people, or his mind would be flooded with the reminiscence of a small humid room in Shambala.

The sounds occurred simultaneously. The trill of her wrist alert, and the vibration of his alarm. A nearby disturbance, so they’d be working together for the moment. Now, the storm cleared to excitement.

“It’ll have to wait. Let’s go.” She hastily said, stepping to her balcony. She noticed the lock was intact and frowned as she prepared the flight mode on her boots. The evening wind carried her words. “Isn’t this where you came from?”

“No.” He had the gall to smirk and tossed a shocking statement before he rappelled off the ledge. “I still have the spare key you gave me last time.”

***

They perched on the roof of the invaded high-rise building. From the street surveillance footage, the trio of disrupters were climbing the floors with clear intent. As Kougami secured his grappling hook, he casually inquired. “Fifteen minutes until the Dominators arrive?”

“Ten. We can use delivery drones now.”

“Now, I’m the one with outdated info.” He meant it as a joke, but she still felt the sore twinge of his departure. “In the meantime, I’ll go first.”

Akane opened the telepathic bond between them. They had done this so often, that sharing their thoughts wasn’t overwhelming at all. Be careful.

Same to you. With the hiss of the tensile wire unraveling, he leapt to break in.

She counted the seconds before taking a deep breath and slowly descended into the bright city. Flashing news banners, advertisements for mental care, the small red sirens drawing closer. The people, bustling and conducting their peaceful lives. And despite everything she’d experienced since she first joined the Bureau, her resolve to protect them had never faltered.

Lady Justice soared into a combat scene.

Smoke obscured the floor, one person knocked unconscious. Kougami was trading brutal, efficient blows with a muscular man; the other one, struggling to get up from a broken table, unsheathed a dagger. Akane started with a psychic tap, a self-defensive maneuver that was typically enough to bring a person to the ground. However, he seemed unaffected, mechanically standing and raising his arm. Left without recourse, she broke the wall and peered in his thoughts.

Pure static.

She reeled back and shot a message to Kougami. They’re brainwashed.

Her usual methods of telepathic communication and persuasion would not work. Unless she found the higher psionic in control, she was stuck until the Dominator arrived to measure Crime Coefficient. She pushed the limits of her telepathic range, but her strength was in intensity, not distance.

Explains their complete silence. He whirled, the dagger wielder sinking his blade into his comrade’s shoulder. He cracked their heads together, the sound nauseating, and Akane glimpsed blood pouring down their faces as they went down.

Abruptly, she received comms from Karanomori and Hinakawa. The drone was on its way, and Arata was the closest, but was she alright? She refrained from mentioning Kougami, though she could sense his amusement through the bond. He picked up the dagger with a gloved hand and paused.

Akane!

She startled, but he was already grabbing her waist and sprinting to their entry point. They plummeted, the urban lights blurring, before the explosion blew out the glass walls. Her boots activated, operating at full power to carry them through the air. Her arms tightened around him, her face flush against his mask.

When they landed in an empty alleyway, they disentangled and she put on a brave face. “That was close. Thank you.”

He cleared his throat, his gaze singularly on her eyes. “You don’t need to thank me. As many times as you need me, I’ll be there.”

Flustered, her gaze fell to the dagger, secured in his belt. “Does that belong to Akira?”

“It seems familiar, but I’ll examine it. Later.” He amended, with the sound of approaching sirens. The Bureau would arrive in minutes, and he retreated into the darkness, Lone Wolf once more.

“Yes.” She reluctantly shuffled backwards, her heart aching. “I’ll catch you next time.”

A short laugh escaped him, as his grappling hook clicked in an overhead spot, and his voice faded. “Looking forward to it.”

Akane straightened, walking to the illuminated street. They’d chosen different methods, but as long as they both desired to protect this city, they’d meet again.

[dawnoftime22]

seven days of comfort.

a 500 follower special <3

Main Masterlist | T.S Masterlist | Taglist

long description!

these are fanfics I would be hesitant to post, as they are things I would relate to, and need comfort from myself. I tend to keep sensitive fanfics like these to myself because they need to be handled with care; since its not only fluff, but also things that have anxiety, or other things. (but of course not including the incredibly concerning ones)

short description!

since I know many other people also go through things like these, I thought maybe I'd give some of them to you all, just in case you need the comfort :] so please, take care of yourselves, ily<3

for a limited time, I'll also take requests for this time period, (8th - 14th july), but please note that I can't promise it will be perfect, finished, or be done in a short time.

I'll only take requests for Taylor and of fluff and comfort! no smut, age regression, and angst is a maybe.

one fic per day for a week!

1 - breathe, sweetheart.

An anxiety overlayed by calmness isn't always the best way to spend your day, especially when it didn't have a reason to disturb you. Taylor notices, and tries her best to help you find yourself back in the world rather than staying in your mind.

2 - grounding.

Something of a sort of back seated anxiety takes over your seemingly calm self, but nothing seemed to get rid of it, so you decide to speak up about it to Taylor, and she offers a way to help that works for you.

3 - sensory.

It was a planned date day for you and Taylor, but you had seemed off the entire day, until a realization comes across that you were missing something.

4 - stuffed cat plush.

A cuddle session after Taylor gets home from work was all she needed. Especially when she sees the sight of you holding something precious to you in your arms while you slept in bed.

5 - social events & crowded rooms.

At the after party of an awards show, you get a little overwhelmed, and Taylor takes you home with care.

6 - exhausted.

You come back home from work, late after one mistake ruining your day, and your energy had been drained while Taylor had been waiting for you. So, she sends you to bed after some time on the couch that held reassurances.

7 - a long journey.

After so long of fighting your battles, you were finally releasing everything and calming down, and you couldn't help but let out all the tears you've ever held with Taylor.

taglist <3 - join here! :]

@dmenby3100 @wandsmxmff @tia-thesimp @marvelwomen-simp @escapereality4music @fawnedolly @justgayloringeverthrone @lovelyy-moonlight @stevecore @midastouch013 @liloandstitchstan @maleahoswick @raven-ss

[astra-galaxie]

"Jacques! I told you to wait for me!" - Rochelle Chevalier

Biographical information

Full Name: Rochelle Chevalier

Alias(es): Ro

Gender: Female

Sexuality: Lesbian

Status: Alive

Age: 19 (season 4)

Birth: 1871

Race: Werecat

Nationality: French-American

Origin: Madawaska, Maine, USA

Residence:

Concordia, USA

Madawaska, Maine, USA

Profession(s):

Costume Designer

Circus performer

Family:

Unnamed parents (deceased)

Notre Chevalier (adoptive father)

Kilian Bontemps (step-father)

Jacques Bontemps (step-brother)

Sélène Bontemps (step-sister)

Isaac Bontemps (step-uncle)

Noah Bontemps (step-grandfather)

Unnamed step-grandmother

Affiliation(s):

The Circus of Dreams

Cirque de Nuit (formerly)

Profile

Height: 5'2" Age: 19 (season 4) Weight: 135lbs Eyes: Blue Blood: B-

Rochelle is a young woman with light skin, bright blue eyes, and long light brown hair braided with pink and blue ribbons on the right side of her head. She wears a soft pink dress with elbow-length sleeves, a light blue corset vest, and a matching blue skirt overlay with a beautiful design reminiscent of stained glass windows embroidered on it. She also wears blue, heeled boots, short, lacy white gloves, and a short necklace featuring a crystal heart-shaped pendant.

Powers and abilities

Rochelle is a Birman Werecat. Like a werewolf, she can transform into a feline creature. Most of her abilities are physical, but she does have some magical ones.

Her powers include, but are not limited to:

Shapeshifting (Rochelle can turn into a Briman cat, a monster cat form, and grow some of her cat trails (ears, tail, claws, etc.) while maintaining a primarily human appearance at will.)

Animal communication

Healing Factor

Other abilities she has include, but are not limited to:

Superhuman Strength

Superhuman Speed

Superhuman Durability

Superhuman Agility

Superhuman Dexterity

Superhuman Reflexes

Superhuman Senses

Other facts about Rochelle's magic:

She hates getting dirty and is the biggest clean freak out of her family. Kilian helped her find the best skin/fur and hair care products since Notre is hopeless when it comes to that stuff. She and Kilian love having father-daughter self-care days, and sometimes the others join them

She can purr even in her human form. Whenever she's relaxed, it just happens naturally, and sometimes she doesn't even notice. Jacques and Sélène enjoy napping with their sister as her purring is very soothing

When she was younger, she would turn into a kitten and curl up on her father's shoulder. Thankfully, Notre has very broad shoulders, so Rochelle can comfortably relax on one of her favourite spots in cat form even as a young adult

Her necklace stays on in any form and changes sizes to best fit her forms

She likes chasing mice for fun but doesn't eat them

She can get hairballs in cat or human form. Both are equally annoying

Her canine teeth are sharper than human teeth, even in her human form. It's not so noticeable compared to her monster form, but people can spot the shaper than average teeth if they pay attention

Like werewolves, the moon forces werecats to transform when it's full, but unlike werewolves, werecats maintain their sanity and the human mind

Synopsis

Rochelle is the oldest child of Notre Chevalier and Kilian Bontemps. She was adopted by Notre when she was a baby after Cirque de Nuit found her with her mother, who was dying. Rochelle's mother begged them to save her baby, who wasn't even a week old yet, from the supernatural traffickers who had tried to sell her and her husband. Rochelle's birth father died during the escape, and her mother ran as fast and far as she could without looking back. But sadly, she was very sick, and by the time the circus found her, she was too far gone to save.

Honouring the mother's dying wish, the circus took Rochelle into their home and family. To everyone's surprise, the baby seemed to gravitate towards Notre. She always wanted to be around the gargoyle, and she lit up whenever she saw him. Some people teased the strongman about it being fate since Rochelle means "little rock" and Notre is made of stone. Whatever led to Rochelle entering Notre's life didn't matter to him. He loves his daughter, and while he wishes there was something he could have done to save her birth parents, he will do everything in his power to ensure Rochelle grows up safe, happy and, most importantly, loved.

Rochelle got all of that and more. Even if she never got to grow up with her birth parents, she knew they loved her and would be proud of her. She loved living with Cirque de Nuit, and while it could be lonely at times without other kids her age to play with, the performers made sure she never felt left out or alone. They were her family, and Rochelle was grateful that the universe led her home to them.

When Rochelle was about nine years old, Kilian and Jacques joined her family. Although she didn't interact with them much when they first arrived, she remembers how scared Kilian was. He believed the circus was going to hurt him and his baby. Rochelle remembers being ushered away when Kilian had a breakdown shortly after arriving. He begged them to leave him and Jacques at the next stop as he couldn't repay them the way they wanted him to in exchange for shelter and protection.

(While no one would talk about the incident with her, Rochelle suspects Kilian believed the adults were planning to use him for their pleasure after she learned of her stepfather's old job later in life… Thankfully, the misunderstanding was corrected, and Kilian joined the circus as the magician's assistant.)

With Jacques joining the family as well, Rochelle enjoyed no longer being the baby of the circus. She also loved watching her father fall in love with Kilian as time passed; the poor gargoyle had never experienced romance before, and it showed! But while some might have teased Notre for his cluelessness, Kilian didn't. Instead, he helped Notre learn the ways of romance and had so much patience.

Now that her father had found his other half, Rochelle felt her family was complete. Two loving fathers and a baby brother made everything seem perfect. As the years went by, things only got better and happier for the circus and Rochelle's family. While she was sad to leave the circus when her fathers informed her and Jacques that they wanted the kids to have a formal education, she knew their goodbyes were not forever, nor did their leaving mean the love and family they had built was gone.

The town they settled in was small and quiet, so different from the loud, rambunctious life they lived with Cirque de Nuit. It was nice, but it didn't feel like home… However, in hindsight, it didn't matter because the family moved to Concordia before they could try planting roots in that little town. It had been a whirlwind move in the dead of night, with Rochelle holding her newborn baby sister and little brother while her fathers loaded up the carriage with their things as fast as they could.

As Éclipsa pulled the carriage with the family towards Concordia, Kilian told Rochelle why they needed to leave and why Sélène was now a part of their family. Rochelle secretly always wanted a little sister, but she never imagined this was how her wish would be granted… She hopes Sélène's biological father never finds them, but if he does, Rochelle is not above clawing his eyes out to protect her sister!

On the plus side, Concordia immediately felt like home after they moved into their new house. Maybe it was the addition of Sélène, or perhaps it was the fact that the city had much more excitement, but whatever it was, Rochelle was happy fate brought her and her family home. She loves her new home and the life she was making in Concordia. To top it off, the creation of the Circus of Dreams not only brought new joy to the city but also brought a piece of Rochelle's old home to her new one.

Even though she wasn't much of a builder, she could make costumes with her eyes closed and was so excited to design new costumes for the performers. She was sure everyone would love the circus (excluding a certain Deacon and nun…), and she couldn't wait for their opening night! Not even a murder on the circus' grounds couldn't tarnish her hope of success.

However, Kilian's disappearance could! Rochelle tried to stay calm while Jacques panicked, but she couldn't help the worry that ate away at her heart. So, she and Jacques hurried to the Flying Squad's airship to request their uncle's help finding their father. Waiting for Isaac to find Kilian was torture, but Rochelle was relieved when he was found. While it would take time to heal his wounds (both physical and mental), Rochelle was happy to have her father back safe and sound.

Story Information

First appeared: The Greatest Murder

Trivia

She learned how to design and make clothes while growing up in Cirque de Nuit. Rochelle used to help the members who made the performers' costumes and discovered a talent for fashion design. She's considered one day pursuing a career in fashion, but for now, she's happy making the costumes for The Circus of Dreams performers

Her design is inspired by Rochelle Goyle and Catrine DeMew from Monster High

She makes the majority of her clothes and clothes for her family. It's useful when finding clothes that fit her father's build, and Kilian's style is so hard. Rochelle is excited for when her sister gets bigger so she can make her cute clothes

Rochelle wants to visit Paris one day and see the city from where her parents came from. Notre doesn't talk about his life in France much (not that he talks a lot in general), but the stories he tells his daughter of Notre Dame always increase Rochelle's desire to see the cathedral for herself

She loves stained glass windows. She finds the colours captivating and the details beautiful. It's why she designed clothing inspired by the multicoloured pieces of glass artwork

Disclaimer: Character design was created using Rinmarugames ! I have only made minor edits to the design! Background courtesy of CriminalArtist5

Links to my stories:

The Case of the Criminal (Ao3/Wattpad) Killer Bay (Ao3/Wattpad) Where in the World are the Killers? (Ao3/Wattpad) Murders of The Past (Ao3/Wattpad)