#Everyone go read this!!!
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Is this anything
#always an awkward conversation to have irl#“i love ai.” insert that one spongebob holding out his hands with a shadow above him meme#“FICTIONAL. FICTIONAL AI!!!”#clankerposting#Clay posts#fictional ai#shitpost#hal 9000#robots#p03#electric dreams#allied mastercomputer#ihnmaims#shockwave#transformers#fuck ai#this is an anti ai art blog btw#objectum#saying hello to everyone who reads the tags um... hi!! Really funny to read people recommending me entry level robot/AI media#like yes i have indeed heard of portal and ultrakill. i just didnt pit them in the meme </3#also some guy decided to write in the notes that they were going to crush me into red paste. hot? thank you? ???? weird.
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lead balloon (the tumblr post that saved me)
if this comic resonated with you, it would mean the world to me if you donated to this palestinian family's escape fund.
--
no creative notes because this isn't that kind of comic.
I know I don’t owe any of you anything but I still felt compelled to write about my long term absence. And I feel far enough away from the dangerous spot I was in to be able to make this comic. I have a therapist now, and she agreed that making this could be a very cathartic gesture, and the start of properly leaving these thoughts behind me. I am still, at seemingly random times, blindsided by fleeting desires to kill myself. They’re always passing urges, but it’s disarming, and uncomfortable. I worry sometimes that my brain’s spent so long thinking only about suicide that it’s forgotten how to think about anything else. Like, now that I've opened that door for myself, I'll never be able to fully shut it again. But I’m trying my best to encourage my mind in other directions. We'll see how that goes.
I am still donating all proceeds from my store to Palestinian causes. So far, I've donated over $15K, not including donations coming from my own pocket or the fundraising streams which jointly raised around $10K. In the time since I made my initial post about where this money would be going, the focus has shifted from aid organisations to directly donating to escape funds.
If you'd like to do the same, you can look at Operation Olive Branch, which hosts hundreds of Palestinian escape funds or donate to Safebow, which has helped facilitate the safe crossing and securing of important medical procedures for over 150 at-risk palestinians since the beginning of the genocide.
#cw: suicidal ideation#cw: suicide#cw: self harm#cw: mental health#cw: depression#i made the balloon the main representation of my self destructive urges for a reason but im not going to explain it#i tried to keep a lot of the details in this vague#it would be my worst nightmare if this comic encouraged someone to hurt themselves#so. please dont#for a long time even the thought of making this comic felt so insipid and narcissistic#with the state of the world as it is#having the only threat to your life be yourself felt so privileged and trite and shameful#but doing this comic made me sit down and process things in full#and im just. very grateful i didn't give in to my thoughts back when i sincerely felt i'd be more useful to the world dead#i also feel the need to say that this wont represent everyone's battle with mental illness. its unfortunately different for all of us#there is no fix-all#and im afraid this might be one of those comics that either resonates a lot or misses the target by a mile#i made it for myself foremost. and now that its done im glad i did it#thank you for reading#and please stay alive#stillindigo art#stillindigo comics
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Jason comes back from the dead and, as he's still a bit out of it, heads to the manor.
Crawling straight up through six feet of compacted earth is hard, especially after waking up suddenly in a coffin, so after he makes it inside, he sits down to rest on the couch.
And immediately falls asleep.
Hours later, Bruce returns home to find Jason's body, covered in dirt, dug up from the grave and left on his couch.
#batman#batfam#bruce wayne#jason todd#red hood#jason todd robin#jason todd angst#bruce and jason#its so easy to go angst with this#and there are so many directions it could go#but also consider#bruce gets pissed#he assumes this is a gand or villian trying to send him a message#so he heads out as Batman and lets EVERYONE know hes on the warpath#he can rebury Jason once he finds the people who disturbed him#meanwhile jason wakes up from his nap#and wanders around the house wondering where everyone is#he finds tim struggling with reading homework and helps him#tim decides that this muddy former robin zombie is a hallucination#and doesnt think any more of it#until dick shows up and freaks
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buckle up lads we're going BACK INTO THE BOOK
#art#twisted wonderland#twisted wonderland spoilers#lost in the book with nightmare before christmas#hajimari no halloween#(the origin of halloween huh) (oooh)#why yes i did wake up way too early to watch the stream and will have no memory of drawing this later#anyway THE MAGIC BOOK IS BACK TO EAT US ONCE AGAIN!!!!#this does make things make a lot more sense if it doesn't have to. y'know. actually take place in the established world#like how jack and sally are apparently just gonna be THERE as themselves WHY NOT#i'm certainly not complaining mind you#scully looks like he's gonna be super adorable and i love him already#spooky scary skeleman who just goes :O a lot and is excited for halloween#he seems like he might actually be more of a fusion of jack and sally? or maybe i'm just reading too much into it#still getting jazzy vibes off of him though. is not scully j graves an incredible jazz musician name.#does this open up the possibility that the last time we went into the book there was a sexy anime boy stitch just offscreen the whole time#...maybe some things are best left uncontemplated#god everyone in this event looks fantastic i'm so glad i saved up some keys after all#a little sad that there's no lilia but you know what the fact that a halloweentown malleus exists is still pretty dang good#and sebek's hat is SO tall#the biggest hat for the loudest boy#i hope oogie is here too i need him and jamil to meet#i need jamil to be faced with a guy who's just a bunch of bugs standing on each other's shoulders in a trenchcoat#i am not coherent right now i just needed to get this out before i go pass out again
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to be loved is to be held!!! print
#mine#cats#i made into. a5 print!!#i will still stock th larger one for now....i lov a5 tho its so nice. so compact#i had a good day today! went into the city and got notebooks and sticker and a poetry book i am going to hvae to read very very slowly#i can beat dyslexia . i can win#it is very cold also. perhaps will hve a bath tomorrow! and do some drawing :3#i hope everyone has a nice evening#if u are wondering how cat is doing he is settling in good ! he keeps clawing at the furniture but hey. thats a cat
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when its 4am and the whole squad is zooted out their gourds trying to read the overhead menu in mcdonalds
#baldur's gate 3#i've been them all#wyll: the smell of dirty fry oil is making him green out#astarion: 100% of his energy is dedicated to keeping his face perfectly neutral. he hasn't said or heard a word since they left camp#lae'zel: wait. where do my arms go. how do i noramlly hold my arms. what. am i supposed to do with my arms??? ogh god everyone knows im hig#anthrael: has been trying to read the menu for 13 minutes now but the pictures on the screens keep changing too fast
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“‘I just…I thought you might like to come back, one day,’ Crowley said very quietly. Aziraphale’s foot pressed against his again, and Crowley drew in a sudden breath, as if he hadn’t been breathing properly since Aziraphale had stopped touching him.”
This piece was a commission from the lovely @fellshish for their lovely friend, @alphacentaurinebula ‘s fic What Are You Doing Here? This fic is cute, funny, heartwarming, and incredibly spicy, and I’m very much looking forward to finishing it! Thank you Fells for being wonderful to work with, and happy (belated) birthday to you Alphacentauri, I’m very happy I could do this for you!
#I had the quote the fic it’s just so good#and cute#good omens#art#illustration#my art#aziraphale#crowley#ineffable husbands#good omens fanart#ALPHAAAAAAAA HAPPY BIRTHDAY#I’m so happy was asked to make art for the both of you y’all are so wonderful and nice to work with#I really hope you enjoy it#❤️❤️❤️❤️🎈🎁🎁🎈🎈🎁🎁🎁🎈🎈🎁🎁🎈🎈🎉🎊🎊🎉🎉#everyone go read the fanfic plsss#even if smut isn’t your thing the first chapter is incredibly good as a stand alone#good omens fanfiction
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Nothing like finding a body in the trunk of your cherry red sports car after a hard day at work!
#I am HOWLING LAUGHING reading the reblog tags lmaoooooo ty everyone#Phoenix Wright#Miles Edgeworth#SL-9 Incident#Rise From the Ashes#Detective Goodman#Edit: thank you for 1k+ notes everyone!!!!!#Ace Attorney#Edit: thank you for 2k+ notes guys??!!!!#Edit: THREE THOUSAND NOTES WTF IS GOING ON HAHAHA THANK YOU#Edit: g- guys 4k notes please someone tell me what’s happening hahahaaaaaaa#Edit: 5 THOUSAND NOTES I'M SCREAMING 😵💫#6 THOUSAND NOTES GUYS WE'RE MAKING HISTORY HAHA
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People sorting ao3 solely by stats and only clicking on fics with a certain amount of kudos or comments, you will not survive the winter, nor the summer, nor at all, *brings out knife,* run
#ao3#fanfiction#because if everyone thinks like that then so many fics that might be great get buried and fall into the void#someone has to read it with no hits or kudos#not to mention sometimes people just have wildly different tastes so you don't know unless you look at it yourself#i put a bunch of exclusion filters and then go by summary and tags and open all the ones that sound interesting to me#if they're bad well easy enough to move on#but lotta good ones hidden in there with not a comment in sight and i must change that#knife tw#?#tw knife mention
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Dare you say this love could just save you
#isat#in stars and time#isat spoilers#act 3 spoilers#isat act 3 spoilers#so my friends want to try going through the game as fast as possible#mostly because of the short time we all get to stream and read the lines together#so trying to jam pack as much angst into this bad boy as possible#lots of little things happened on the first friendquest#but everyone picked up on the malanga fritter third time dialogue and were debating if there ever was a time bonnie had made them spicy#as in bonnie made them spicy in one loop because of the cute odile convo and they didnt make them spicy in this loop#i thought that was interesting but they also did ask me for the straight answer#so i thought thatd be a fun point to put in there :>#the draws
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he did it! 🐍 and it only took...uhhh...well, there probably could've been less punches, but why hold back!
PUNCHES FOR EVERYONE
#art#twisted wonderland#twisted wonderland spoilers#twisted wonderland episode 7 spoilers#twisted wonderland book 7 spoilers#twisted wonderland episode 7 part 9 spoilers#twisted wonderland book 7 part 9 spoilers#snakes#ONE MORE DOWN#oh my god happy jamil was SO scary and yet adorable all at once#i want real jamil to see him and just be utterly disgusted#and yet he got nothing on the return of everyone's favorite twst character: WEIRD RHYTHMIC ELEPHANT#oh weird rhythmic elephant what would we do without you#me kicking my stupid little feet as jamil wakes up through sheer force of kalim though#he was SO happy for jamil and SO ready to just go along with everything. my sweet boy.#jamil getting so flustered by him that he's just shocked back into reality#and the SLAPFIGHT#silver being like 'they need this' and doing his one smile animation as kalim and jamil are pulling on each other's hair and going YOU SMEL#mmm yes delicious#also this is probably nothing but#but...they brought up the whole thing with azul having dirt on crowley again#the thing that was briefly alluded to in episode 4 and never mentioned ever again?!#i had JUST finally convinced myself that i was reading too much into it and it was just azul playing along with jamil's plan#but now they've mentioned it again and i'm going to be all BUT WHAT DOES IT MEEEEEAAAAN for another three years about it#is it a meaningless reference to that one scene?! is it absolutely ridiculous foreshadowing?! am i ever going to be validated?!#I HAVE TO KNOW
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Some really stupid season 3-4ish mag sketches plus obligatory crumpling Jon up into a ball (And also s1 Jon is there writing his gay little statements whatever).
I say s3-4 cuz Helen ya know here's another Helen under the cut my beloved they could never make me hate you. You are the not a who but the moment the icon the legend:
I'm sharing some more dumbass things I've drawn in another post cuz there are early season 5 references (I'm on MAG 169) so check that out if you're caught up to there if not begone no spoilers for you ok byeeeee
#my art#I've been going insane drawing so much tma#working on character design sheets for everyone rn but all i want to draw is how my man Martin has changed or Helen...#truly the dilemma#the magnus archives#tma fanart#tma spoilers#tma season three#tma season four#elias bouchard#melanie king#basira hussain#tma brainrot#tma podcast#jonathan sims the archivist#jonathan sims#jon sims#the archivist#the archiviiist lmao that's how i read that#martin blackwood#timothy stoker#yes i know i haven't drawn sasha and that's because I'm sad thank you#helen richardson#helen distortion#tma distortion#tma memes
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tiger tiger shenanigans ft. a wild laios
close ups under the cut!
#tiger tiger#tiger tiger comic#ludovica bonnaire#remy bonnaire#jamis arlesi#arno tiger tiger#luck tiger tiger#sausage tiger tiger#honeyfoot tiger tiger#my art#laios dungeon meshi#webcomic fanart#not sure if ludo and laios would be besties or worsties but the conversations would be interesting hehe#also everyone go read this comic right NEOW if u haven’t it is so so good
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bedtime story with my love !!
#mine#cats#oooooooooogh im so cold....bath time bath time :3 !#i hope everyone is hvaing a good week i am now DONE with work !!!!! hehe !!!!!!!!!!#i might not do any drawing for a little while . maybe just felt tips#also. cannnot for the life of me decide what 2 read...am like 30% way thro assassins fate but Um its . a little intense so im taking a brea#idk what im in the mood for....something....fun... but isnt bad#i feel like all 'light' books r bad. maybe i will just reread the goblin emperor. as i always do when all else fails#also. am going ice skating tomorrow i am SO excited . i hvent been in so so long its so exciting !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#mwah. hve good evening :3
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This is a PSA for all the writers who exclusively write only fluff and angst:
we love you. we still read your fics. no we don't care if it doesn't have smut in it. it is still valid and it is beautiful. thank you for existing. have a good day.
#i've seen so many times that fluffs and angst go unappreciated because everyone read ONLY smut.#but NO. there are people who enjoy everything. that includes me. i live historic au.#i love first kisses hcs. i love dating hcs. i live the angsty break up fics#pasi.txt
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WHOA i expected this to be good but not THIS GOOD OMG i'm so invested already and screaming crying giggling at my screen like the crazy person i am. this definitely deserves some stupid commentary.
1. first of all, already the first paragraph/two lines are just INSANE. such a clever way to jump into the story while at the same time giving background info on the main character. i'm in awe, in love, and it's been only a few words. damn. + also, ever since i started reading this, i've been singing "it's nine o'clock on a saturday" in my head non stop, not even going further in the full song lmao
2. charles not understanding the southern drawl is just too funny, i can so imagine him struggle to focus on driving and understanding at the same time lmao
3. also him thinking chris is a man at first - same here, charles, same here - i loved that way too much for how simple of a line it may be
4. "she's horrendously his type." WHY do i love this sentence as much as i do??? anyway i nearly screamed when i read it, to be truly honest here.
5. "she tucks her hair again. he wonders if she's growing it out or if she always keeps it at such a length that it's just too short to stay where she wants it to." AGAIN. GORGEOUS WRITING. such a tiny detail but it makes it all the more real and human and i just ADORE these details in stories.
6. "she loves the heat, and the heat loves her." this simple sentence just made chris SO RELATABLE. finally someone who's the same as me in this lmao
7. "you think i'm going to crash?" + "i would never crash with chris elliott in the car." AAHHHHH the way i'm screaming at this!!!! i can hear charles' voice in my head saying these words and it's not helping
8. THE ROLLER COASTER METAPHOR!!! so good, so creative, so perfectly executed. wow. that whole paragraph was just wow.
9. LETSGO CHARLES YOU GO BOY ASK IF SHE'S SINGLE!!!! hehe i'm not insane i swear. + also, his fingers starting to shake a bit asking her number AHHH
10. "what on god's green earth" made me chuckle, i love that line so much.
11. "nobody should be allowed to make her name sound like that." i'm honestly shaking and screaming rn but also relatable! + "you are a very beautiful girl and when a guy sees a beautiful girl, they act like an idiot and ask for her number" I'M GRINNING SO WIDE!! charles leclerc the man you are
12. OMG CHARLES BEING THE GENTLEMAN WHEN THEIR PHOTO GETS TAKEN I CAN'T he just pulled a tom hiddleston to his emma watson i'm crying
13. charles struggling with his first text is also so human and so real and so relatable omg it's such an important detail to me 😭 + "someone should just stop him from speaking to women all together" i cackled lmao
14. "joris says slowly, struggling to multi-task" AGAIN LIKE COME ON WHY DO YOU HAVE TO BE SO REAL MACK these are the purest little details a writer can include but they make such a huge difference!!!! and i feel seen with the way i also speak terribly slow (and sometimes creating nonsense sentences and/or words) when i'm texting, i love it 🥺
15. the writing style in itself deserves its own point over here because it's just so good, so professional!! honestly this is just way too good to be fanfic. this belongs on the shelves of bookstores. i'm not exaggerating.
wow. this was a rollercoaster (hehe like the metaphor) from the start to the end and i enjoyed every second of it way too much. Mack i already knew you're talented af but now you've just given proof of how much it's true. GOD I LOVE YOU M!!!
miss americana & the heartbreak prince
—01. all american girl —word count: 6.4k —warnings: none :) —a/n: this is queued so I'm sound asleep right now but trust when I wake... I will be throwing up about having posted this
It’s nine in the morning on Friday, and the kindergarteners at Robinson Elementary are getting picked up from the gymnasium and taken to their classroom to start their day. It’s nine in the morning on Friday, and their teacher, Chris Elliott, is running four minutes late to the first day of the U.S Grand Prix. Her fingers flatten down stray flyaways, working in tandem with the extra strength hairspray she found in the back of the Walgreens beauty aisle last night. Her makeup is strewn about in chaos atop the stark white marble countertops, a single folded piece of toilet paper in the trash can, remnants of her lipstick kissed onto the fibers.
She played it safe on the outfit today, still hasn’t been able to pinpoint exactly what the dress code for this race is supposed to be. Her Dad has been no help–he can get away with wearing jeans and a short-sleeve button-up just about anywhere he goes. More is expected from her, though. Three days, three outfits, always walking the line between casual streetwear and Kentucky Derby without a fascinator. She settled for something painfully classic and American, figured a European sport would be eating up the concept of everything being bigger in Texas. Levi’s, a white tank top, and a beat up pair of cowboy boots should do a good enough job at letting anyone curious know she’s authentically American, without screaming out for attention. That’s the goal for the weekend; blend in and keep Dad company.
Dad, who is not-so patiently tapping his foot against the floor, watching pre-race coverage of the Dixie Vodka 400 on his iPhone 7, is a guest of honor for Ferrari this weekend. It was a classic Bill Elliott commitment, one he makes and then forgets about until he’s getting sent an email a month ago to remind him. One he makes when he forgets his son is racing the same weekend. That’s how Chris ended up here with him, instead of her Mom or instead of Chase or Chandler. They’re all in Florida for the Cup Series. Well–Chandler isn’t. Chandler’s at her hot-shot job in the big city living her life blissfully away from racing.
She can count on a single hand the amount of times her dad has missed a Cup Series race in the years since his retirement. Even if he’s moved on from driving the track, racing is in Elliott blood. It comes easier to them than breathing does. Chris won’t be the first to admit it, but she's the NASCAR nepotism equivalent of a Baldwin baby. She’s no Kennedy, the first-families of NASCAR are closer to the Petty’s and the Earnhardt’s, but, you ask a NASCAR fan about the Elliott Clan and you’re sure to get an earful. Champion, Hall-of-Fame inductee father, supergenius transmission and engine mechanic uncles, and a superstar fan-favorite older brother, the Elliott family racing history spans generations of fans.
Never the Danica Patrick-type, Chris has always preferred to watch the races rather than compete in them, but she still grew up at the track and was always up for a trip to visit her dad at the auto-shop.
“Mums,” her dad says, peeking his head around the corner into the hotel bathroom. It’s a stupid nickname, Mums, Chrysanthemum. She’d roll her eyes if it was anyone but Bill still calling her by it. “We gotta go, darlin’.” Chris nods at him in the mirror, flattens her hands along her thigh and tucks one final strand of her bang behind her ear, and then they’re finally leaving the hotel for the track.
It’s a strange kind of first for Chris, in that it’s not really a first at all. She’s been to COTA before, multiple times. Hell, she watched in the garage when Chase won the inaugural Cup Series race here in May last season. She’s even been to the U.S Grand Prix before, back when it was still in Indianapolis, when Chris was too young to remember if it was big or if she was just little. She’s used to the crowds, spends almost every weekend with upwards of fifty-thousand people, but this? This is the kind of crowd she can’t fathom being among, and it’s only Friday. If it takes them an hour and a half to get through traffic on a practice day, she can only imagine what the next two mornings have in store for her.
“No antics today,” Bill tells her in the car. “They’re not like us. Trust me, I know.”
Last time you went to one of these races, you were still a driver, she wants to tell him, but doesn’t. He doesn’t take well to the implication he’s an old man. Walking into the paddock with a yellow pass hung around her neck, FERRARI-GUEST-17 and a picture of the team logo popping up on the screens at the turnstiles, she’s beyond taken back by the pomp and circumstance of it all. She’s barely through the entrance and she’s already spotted half a dozen people who could buy her without it making a dent in their pockets. It’s nothing like walking around a NASCAR track. There isn’t a single Bud Light knight or backs sunburnt into American flags or t-shirts turned muscle tanks. It’s just… rich people. Lots and lots of rich people.
In the Paddock Club tent, Bill manages to find a couple of his old buddies. Guys he raced with back in the day who’ve turned up for whatever with whoever this weekend. It’s unsurprising, stock car racing is nowhere near as exclusive a club as Formula One. They aren’t any of the guys Chris remembers being a part of her childhood, none of them pseudo-uncles in the way some other drivers were. You’re all grown up, they tell her, note her height and her features and one of them even asks if she’s in college yet. She plays along, pretends she remembers them fondly and that they haven’t been on the recipient list for the annual Elliott family Christmas newsletter for the past thirty or so years. His buddies are much more comfortable talking about Chase, anyways, about his racing and his fiancee and his little boy than they’ve ever been talking about Chris or Chandler. The concept of a quote-en-quote girl dad wasn’t such a thing in the nineties.
Chris makes small talk with one of the wives. They can’t be that far apart in age, she’s definitely of a different generation than her husband. Gross. Chris lets the woman lead the conversation; she talks about the polka dots on her skirt and Chris’ cowboy boots that are, apparently, perfectly authentic.
They separate from the group of former NASCAR drivers and their child brides within the hour. Bill has to be in Ferrari hospitality by one o’clock for a special meeting. He’s still not sure what he did to get selected for this specific group of people who get to do a hot lap with one of the Ferrari drivers, but he isn’t about to ask any questions that might get him out of it. He sets off to hospitality and Chris sneaks out of the paddock and into the rest of the track.
There’s only so much to see inside the paddock. Hospitality after hospitality after hospitality, just in different colors with different modern structures with pictures of different cars. She wants to experience the event, not just the rich people who can pay their way into the upper echelon of the pinnacle of motorsport. If she’s going to be on her own for an hour and a half, she might as well be fully and truly on her own.
She ends up in the beer garden. More specifically, the bar tent. You can’t separate a NASCAR fan from the Natty Light. The pass around her neck gets her into the VIP area of the tent, which… feels like an antithesis of itself. Her phone buzzes in her back pocket when she’s waiting on her bottle from the bartender. It’s her dad.
Brad Pitt is here. Crazy.
She makes quick acquaintances with a couple who looks about her age. She compliments the girl’s denim jacket and then she’s in. The DJ is playing country music with a techno backtrack at the other side of the tent and they all three spend a good fifteen minutes trying to decide if they love or hate the set. “It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever heard,” the guy says.
“It’s definitely not the best, though,” Chris winces, spots a Ferrari pass hanging with the VIP one around the girlfriend’s neck. “Are you guys here with Ferrari?” She asks.
“Oh, “ she says, looks down at the pass and fiddles with it for a moment. “Yeah, Will’s a golfer and they invited him for a tour and to do this golf event with ESPN.”
“Oh, that’s sick!” Chris nods. “Have you guys ever been here, or is this your first time?”
“We’ve come every year for…” Will starts, looks to his girlfriend for the rest of his sentence.
“Four years,” she nods. “What about you?”
“This is my first time,” Chris explains, leaves out the technicalities because she barely cares about them, doesn’t expect a stranger to even half-care. “My dad’s here with Ferrari, and I’m here to babysit my dad.” She laughs.
The woman nods, makes a quiet ah sound. Will asks for clarification. “You guys lose each other, or something?”
Chris nods. “Or something.”
Charles sees her before he hears her. She appears in his peripheral on the top floor of Ferrari Hospitality, moving swiftly through the groups of strangers with a confidence that makes you think she owns the place. He half-prepares to excuse himself from his current conversation–not that he’s understanding more than forty-percent of the words coming out of this guy’s mouth–to take a photo with the short brunette bee-lining it over to him.
“Excu–”
“I think I saw Brad Pitt on my way here,” she says, and the man he’s been talking to for fifteen minutes laughs. Oh, he thinks, that’s mortifying. She’s not here to intrude on his conversation and ask for a picture. She’s here with this guy.
“This is my Chris,” Bill says.
“Hi,” Chris says. Chris. Chris. Chris is a woman. A woman extending her hand, thin and well manicured with a single ruby ring, for him to shake. “Chris.”
“Charles,” he says, hesitates. “You are not what I was expecting.”
There wasn’t much he understood from Bill Elliott during their hot lap, not that Bill didn’t talk. Charles just didn’t have the focusing capabilities to drive the car in an entertaining way while also deciphering the thick southern drawl of the man sat in the passenger seat. It was thick, heavy, and sounded like maybe he’d smoked a pack a day for a few years. That, or he was straight-up making up words in a bit that only he was in on. One thing he did understand, though, was the kids’ names. I have three, he’d said, Chandler, Chase, and Chris. He’d assumed all boys. Chandler, Chase, and Christopher. Christian. Cristiano. The last thing he was expecting was a beautiful girl with a firm handshake.
“You were expecting me?” She asks, and her voice is a million times easier to understand than her father’s.
“No, no. He just,” He gestures absently to Bill. Chris doesn’t break eye contact. She has wonderful eyes. “I thought Chandler, Chase, and Chris are three brothers.”
“Oh,” She laughs like it’s not even close to the first time she’s had to follow behind her dad and correct the miscommunication, and a piece of her bangs falls loose from its tucked position behind her ear. She fixes it without thought. “Well, you’re one for three.”
She asks Bill about the hot lap, asks if he had fun and he laughs. They’re very laugh-oriented people, he’s noticed. Laughy and almost intimidatingly good at holding eye contact. He’d always heard Americans had an issue with eye contact, and if that really is the case, these two practice their active-listening skills enough for the rest of the country. Their kindness is in their expressions, soft eyes and small smiles that keep you from feeling like an intrusion on the conversation. He notes all of his findings internally, categorizes them together as if he’s spent the last ten minutes looking at anyone but her.
She’s horrendously his type. It’s painfully apparent with every passing moment. The hair and the face and the build and the smile. Just, God.
“Why didn’t you do one?” He asks, “A lap?”
“The need-for-speed bug skipped the women in my family, unfortunately.” She tucks her hair again. He wonders if she’s growing it out or if she always keeps it at such a length that it’s just too short to stay where she wants it to.
“We could go slow,” he offers and she chuckles, closing her eyes long enough to roll them without him actually seeing them roll.
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’ll be fun, I promise.” He’s never been good at flirting, always found it off-putting in the beginning, trying to walk the line between what one person finds fun and another person finds horribly uncomfortable. Once the dust settles, he can manage, but making those first few moves? He might as well be a deer in headlights. Semi-truck headlights.
“I don’t know,” she says, drags out the vowel sounds and he’s oblivious to whether or not she can tell he’s only making this offer as a chance to spend more time with her. He’ll get an earful for it, no doubt, but if she agrees it’ll be worth it. Bill chimes in, eggs her on with a guilt trip. You should do it, don’t be a party-pooper. Charles wonders if Bill can tell he’s flirting with his daughter. Probably not, he’d bet. “Okay,” she says, and his stomach does a celebratory flip. Before he can say anything more, Mia is pulling him off somewhere. He hadn’t even seen her coming, but he fills her in on the walk.
“Domani c'è un'aggiunta al programma dei giri veloci.” There’s an addition to the hot laps schedule tomorrow, he says. Mia glares at him and he pretends not to notice, flashes her a toothy-grin as an unapologetic apology.
When she’d agreed to do a hot lap with the gorgeous racing driver standing a foot away from her, she assumed it would be forgotten the moment he stepped away from the conversation. She never would have agreed to it if she actually thought it was going to happen. Chris was sorely mistaken though, when later that afternoon, a man dressed head-to-toe in Ferrari red finds her to gather her information. 1:10, he tells her through a thick Italian accent, be in hospitality at 1:10.
It was wonderful, really. Perfect, fantastic, great, legendary. This is an amazing opportunity. She isn’t going to regret agreeing to this, no chance. Even for the queen of optimism, this one is hard to put a positive spin on.
There is no underestimating just how much Chris hates going fast. She’s never liked it, spent the majority of her childhood getting carsick in a vehicle maxing out at forty miles an hour. Her sister and brother used to think she was faking it just so she could always ride shotgun. She’s not even allowed to drive the car if she’s with her dad or her brother because they can’t bear it. To her, a speed limit is just that, a limit. To everyone else, it’s a minimum.
Her only hope is that she doesn’t vomit all over an expensive supercar at 1:10 tomorrow afternoon, or worse��the cute guy driving the car.
In the meantime, she can distract herself with the Green Day performance and remind herself that only so much can happen in five minutes. Anyone can survive five minutes.
– – –
They eat the continental breakfast at the hotel the next morning. Bill has pancakes and Chris has cereal because, as she’ll tell anyone, there’s just something about cereal from a plastic container. She’s also three coffees ahead of where she was this time the day before, all of her nerves personifying themselves as desperation for caffeine. She’s responding to a work email on her phone while Bill has a call with Chase.
Somewhere on a race track in Florida, Chase is calling between practice and qualifying sessions. They talk every day during a race weekend–Bill and Chase–and it’s almost never about racing. Her dad might drop an occasional that’s not what I would’ve done or a well, that looked like fun, but that’s usually the end of race-talk. They used to fight like cats and dogs about driving when Chase was younger, so much so that Chris’ mom banned them from talking about racing inside the house for three straight years. The who of them are better now, now that Bill’s been able to let Chase find his own way and go through his own racing journey.
“Your sister is doing a Hot Lap today,” Bill says, and Chris can hear Chase’s laughter from the muffled speaker.
Bill and Chris are driven to the track on Saturday because traffic is so bad. It’s hot and windy and Chris has her window rolled down the entire drive, her fingers dancing through the dry air. She’s always loved the heat, the sun shining down on her skin, kissing her in a million different places all at the same time. She loves the heat, and the heat loves her.
The morning flies by. They start the day with a tour of the Ferrari garage, where they’re introduced, or re-introduced, to their drivers. They end up with a couple other very important people hunched over Charles’ car while he explains how much pressure needs to be applied to the brake pedal for the car to actually brake. Bill eats the semantics up, cars and their mechanics run thick in his blood, braided deeply into his DNA. Chris, however, has always enjoyed the more delicate things in life; the pink hair bows and the dollar store makeup kits and spinning herself dizzy in a flowy summer dress. She never spent exorbitant amounts of time at Dad’s engine shop or Grandpa’s Ford Dealership, it just wasn’t in her lane of interests. She sips another coffee–her fifth of the day–and listens attentively to Charles talk, bites her smile at his wild gesticulations. He’d make a good kindergarten teacher, she thinks, with his huge personality.
When the whole tour group is being shuffled out of the garage to be replaced by a new set of prying eyes, Charles makes a passing comment. See you later for the world’s slowest hot lap, he remarked, put his hand on her shoulder and gave it a soft squeeze as he moved past her.
She doesn’t know why, but she’d convinced herself that it wouldn’t actually be him she would be doing the lap with. It was qualifying day, after all. Surely, he had about a million and one better things to be doing than driving a random girl around a track a few times. She figured it would be a driver, but not one of the drivers.
After lunch, she makes her way back to Ferrari hospitality, to where she was told to be waiting at 1:10. She’s the only person who looks like they’re here on instruction. Nobody else is nervously picking at their cuticles or vibrating in place as a reaction to their seven coffees that morning.
She spent the night before grilling her dad about his experience, forcing him to give her a moment-by-moment breakdown of everything he remembered happening, from the safety briefing to the conversation afterwards. But, when it came time for Chris to actually do hers, there was no safety briefing warning her about the million different ways she could die. Instead, the same man who’d tracked her down the day before escorted her from the top floor of hospitality to the bottom, out the back into what she can best compare to an alleyway, and then to a red supercharged Ferrari.
Charles is there, talking to what appears to be a personal photographer and another man dressed in Ferrari garb. She re-introduces herself for a third time in twenty four hours. “I know your name, Chris,” Charles says, smiles and shakes her hand anyway. She doesn’t like the way her brain reacts to him saying her name like it belongs on his lips.
“Duh,” she laughs, “sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“Right,” she nods. “Yeah, sorry.” Charles laughs out a sigh, cocks his head and smiles. Chris bites her tongue not to apologize again. It’s a reflex. She puffs out her laugh and shrugs.
If she manages to make it out of these couple laps with her life and the contents of her stomach still intact, she’s sure to still look like a clown–a fact she realizes as she pulls the tight helmet over her head. She’s worn racing helmets a handful of times, but it’s not muscle memory to her in the way it is to him. It takes her a minute to tighten the chin strap just right and despite his genuine offer to help her, Chris turns him down and blindly works her fingers under her neck until it’s just right.
“Why don’t you get a fun Hot Laps helmet?” She asks while she fights with the strap.
Charles knocks on the side of his helmet with his knuckle. “Custom fit. Safety reasons.”
Chris knows, she was just messing with him. She nods like she never could’ve guessed that was the reason. “My safety doesn’t matter?” She comments, pulls the strap tight for the final time.
“You think I’m going to crash?”
She shrugs. “Maybe.”
“I would never crash with Chris Elliott in the car.” There he goes again, saying her name all annoyingly French and nice and easy.
“Whatever,” she says, turns away so he can’t see her squished cheeks flush pink against the polyester. He opens the passenger side door for her, knocks his knuckle on her helmet this time, and horribly mocks both her words and accent before shutting the door behind her.
Chris has her seatbelt buckled before he can get around the front of the car and into his seat. Her leg bounces anxiously against the floor mat. Charles starts the car and moves to shift into drive, but stops short. “Are you scared?” he asks, and in a moment of vulnerable honesty, she nods. She’s more than scared. She’s terrified, and despite his brief attempt to reassure her that it’s going to be fun, her leg is still bouncing when they peel off from the group already awaiting his return.
A hot lap, she’d come to learn in the last day or so, would be more accurately referred to as hot laps–plural, multiple, several. Three, to be exact. One out lap, one push lap, and one cool down lap. Three laps. Hot laps. They should really start referring to it as a plural.
The best thing she can compare it to is a roller coaster. The turns share the feeling you get at the tipping point, right before your body thinks you’re free falling. Her stomach is left behind three turns back and it never really catches up to the car once they start. The straights are like that first hill, fast and crazy in a way that pulls from her lips screams she hears before she consciously chooses to release. It’s like a roller coaster, if the person sitting next to you is completely unaffected by the ride and spends the entire time trying to carry out a conversation with you between your screams and their giggles. It’s like a roller coaster, if the cart never leaves the ground.
On the cool down lap, when they’re going at a speed that allows Chris to pick up her soul when they drive through turn four, he asks her if she’s single. It comes at her from left field.
“Are you flirting with me?”
He laughs, takes a hand off the wheel and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yes!”
“Oh,” she says softly. If he notices the surprise in her tone, he doesn’t mention it. “I am.”
“Can I get your number?” She swears that his fingers are shakier than before as they hover over the paddle shift. They were sure-footed just minutes earlier, she’s sure of it. She’s sure of it, but there’s no way it’s a genuine observation. There’s no way she’s making him nervous.
She laughs, because what on God’s green Earth is a European Formula One driver going to do with a small town American girl’s phone number?
“I’m not abandoning my dad for a hookup,” she says, and he rolls his eyes, repeats the question. “Why do you want it?”
“Because, Chris Elliott,” she wants to scrape the way he says her name out of his voice box and pin it in a scrapbook. It’s like a tick, the way it burrows into her skin. Nobody should be allowed to make her name sound like that. “You are a very beautiful girl, and when a guy sees a beautiful girl, they act like an idiot and ask for her number.”
“Oh, my God,” she giggles, shakes her head and looks out the window like it might ground her, or like it might reveal that she really is in some fever dream state and none of this is real. She’s not even in Texas, maybe. That’s how insane this whole conversation is to her.
“Too cheesy?” He asks, grimaces. She shakes her head, holds her hand out for his phone.
“Just cheesy enough.”
When they get back to where they started, someone asks Chris if she’d had a good time. She nods, flattens down the static-electricity charged flyaways on her head and tells them yes, even if she’ll be just a little bit nauseous for the rest of the day. It’s not a lie, either, she did have fun. She was scared out of her mind, but in a way that makes her happy she did it.
They pose for a photo together in front of the car, the picture snapped by the only guy with a camera around his neck, the only one besides Chris not covered head to toe in Ferrari branding. When they pose, Charles’ arm wraps around her lower back and, almost like he remembers himself in the middle of the action, his hand doesn’t close around her side. Instead, it hovers just beyond her body, open and stiff and flat. How gentlemanly. “Good luck tomorrow,” she says.
He nods his thanks, “I hope I see you around this weekend,” he adds, and then they go their separate ways. Good thing, too, because she’s still blushing over it when she gets back to her dad in the Champion’s club. Bill is too distracted by the live feed on Chase’s qualifying laps on his tiny phone screen to notice Chris’ presence, much less the coloring of her cheeks. He qualifies third and they celebrate quietly with drinks from the bar and FP3 on the big screens.
They stumble into more NASCAR old-timers while in the Champion’s Club and Chris spends the time fifth-wheeling their conversations about Chase and watching the second half of qualifying on one of the TVs.
She doesn’t really understand the format of the weekend. In theory, she understands the basics, didn’t have to read Formula One for Dummies on the plane ride over, but the intricacies of it are beyond her. In NASCAR, drivers are split into two groups and then are only given, at max, two laps to set their qualifying times. It varies depending on the track that weekend, but it always hits some of the same points. From what she can gather from the low-volume televisions mounted on every surface around her, F1 is definitely different.
They head back to the hotel directly after qualifying to ‘beat the traffic’ which is code for Chris is still nauseous and they’re both feeling a little too heat exhausted. They stop for dinner on the way back, at a barbeque place right by their hotel. Bill orders the chopped brisket with potato salad and Chris gets the pulled pork sandwich with a tomato zucchini salad.
Chris has been really busy with work, with settling into the new routine with her new group of students, and Bill wants to hear all about it. She always struggles in September and October, feels inadequate every time the other teachers find their footing with their new class weeks before she does. It’s the first time alotta ‘em have been in a school, Bill reminds her and she shrugs it off, tries to find something more upbeat to talk about.
Chris and Bill have really gotten close over the past couple years. Growing up, she and her sister Chandler were massive daddy’s girls, had him wrapped around their little fingers from the moment they came into the world. But, when Chase started to really take racing seriously, the girls lost a lot of their dad to their brother and spent the majority, if not all, of their time with their Mom. As a teenager, Chris did what all sixteen year old girls do and rebelled against any and every rule in the book. While Chandler was touring colleges and getting 1550s on her SAT and singing in the church choir, Chris had other plans. Whether it was stubbornly refusing to clean her half of the shared room with her big sister, ratting Chase out for coming home at 2am drunk, or sneaking out of the second-story window to go out with her all-too-old boyfriend, she tested all of the waters. It wasn’t until college, until she moved away to Athens and was out of the house for the first time in her life that she realized just how important family was to her. She’s been attempting to make up for lost time since.
That night when she plugs her phone into the charger and shuts it off for the night, she realizes she’d been half expecting a late night text from Charles. It didn’t come, and disappointed isn’t the right word for the tiny little pit in her stomach because she wasn’t really expecting anything to come from typing her number into his contacts. It’s not disappointment, it’s something closer to acceptance or rejection, maybe. It’s not like he would’ve been searching out anything but a hookup, anyways, and Chris made it perfectly clear that she wasn’t into that idea.
She would never hear from him again, and that’s how it should be. The whole interaction turning into anything but a story she can tell in a couple months when she’s drunk would be entirely too complicated of an outcome.
She doesn’t let herself think about it any longer, leaves her phone face down on the side table and tucks herself into bed.
– – –
Traffic on race day is true-crime inducing. They’re driven, again, escorted and still spend an hour and a half in the backseat of an SUV. Bill and Chris watch from the VIP stands and Chris has never seen anything like this, especially not at COTA. Even Talladega and Daytona barely hold a candle to this spectacle.
If she has one critique, it’s that F1 should really hire some B-List at best celebrity to scream drivers, start your engines! At the start of the race like they do in NASCAR. It would really add some flare, she thinks.
She and Bill share Chris’ airpods, one in each of their ears listening to the NASCAR broadcast. Charles starts twelfth, for whatever reason. She can’t be bothered to look into it, knows it’ll probably be a penalty she doesn’t understand and she’ll be tumbling down a rabbit hole before she knows what’s happened to her.
While it’s not Chase’s best race–he finishes fourteenth with a single sigh from Bill–Charles puts on a show, fights his tires all the way up into third.
They watch the podium celebrations on the TV screens and nobody looks happy to be up there. They look miserable, almost, and she understands it to an extent. It’s hard to have energy after a race, she’s witnessed it first hand more times than she can count. It’s hard, especially at the end of the season. Burn-out is real, but still. They look bored. She didn’t know spraying champagne could look so tired.
Bill grumpily flies them home to Georgia late Sunday night. He’d wanted to wait until Monday morning, after all the billionaires and their super-jets take off right after the race, but Chris refused to miss another day of work this early in the school year, not when she was already going to be missing time in December for her brother’s wedding.
Bill’s been flying planes since before any of his kids were born. His most recent purchase is a Cessna Conquest II that he uses to fly the family around for short distances. In another gene that skipped the females in the family, Chandler, Chris, and their mom all prefer to be passengers. Chase, however, followed in Dad’s footsteps once more in becoming an avid aviation fan.
By the time they take off, any thought Chris had of getting a text from Charles has faded far into obscurity. He’d probably gotten dozens of numbers from girls this weekend. He was probably at a club somewhere right now still pulling women. Women more his type, probably. He seems like he’d be more into the refined type, the girls without the ‘cheap’ accents who were all worldly and spoke seventeen languages fluently and had long legs that carried them down runways across Europe every other weekend.
Little southern girls get texts from little southern boys, that’s how it goes. That's how it’s always gone, and Chris is beyond naive to think anything different for even a moment.
She grades papers on the flight home. Purple pen, because she thinks that color is fun and red is too cruel to grade with. Puffy stickers for everyone, even the kids who aren’t anywhere near the right track because she doesn’t want anyone to feel less than just because they struggle a bit more. Chris has always been a firm believer that the student is never the problem. If someone isn’t learning what she’s teaching, she needs to adjust the way she teaches it to cater to their learning style.
It’s her job to teach them, not their job to learn.
Joris has been laughing at Charles from the hotel room armchair for fifteen minutes now, beyond entertained by his best friend’s restless pacing, providing absolutely zero aid to his current predicament. This act has been going on for some time now. Charles, pacing for five minutes before pulling out his phone and typing up an opening message to Chris. Each time, he starts to read it out to Joris and then stops himself short, deletes it, and paces for five more minutes.
Hey, Chris. This is Ch–no, that’s stupid.
Sorry it took me a minute to text–absolutely not.
What’s up? It’s Charles, how–someone should just stop him from speaking to women all together.
There’s half a dozen renditions before Joris breaks. “Mate? What is your problem?” He finally asks. “It’s just a girl.”
“I know,” Charles sighs, “I know.”
“Then why can’t you send her a text?”
“Because.” He doesn’t really know why he can’t land on a message, why everything he types sounds entirely too casual or formal or nothing at all like what he would say to another human being. This isn’t a problem that he’s used to having. It’s the in-person flirting that fucks him up, not the texts and DMs and comments. She was just… he doesn’t know what she was. She was just. End of sentence.
It’s no help that he doesn’t know American texting culture, unfamiliar with how long he’s supposed to wait to send a message or what he’s supposed to say in the opening text.
“Here,” Joris says, holds his hand out for the phone. “I’ve got the perfect text.”
“Don’t send it,” Charles warns, but passes the phone to his friend.
“I… won’t,” Joris says slowly, struggling to multi-task. He doesn’t type for more than a few seconds and then hands the phone back to Charles, with the message already sent. Charles’ look of sheer panic is met with a smile and a chef’s kiss from Joris.
She turns her phone off while Bill is shutting the plane engine down in the hangar. Because of his love of aviation, Bill had bought some land out in the woods a couple decades ago and turned it into the family’s private airstrip for their planes. Elliott Field, they coined it, stored all their extra vehicles out on the property. She slips it into her back pocket as her and Bill disembark and lock up the place, and the entire time she can feel it vibrating, the notifications from the hour and a half flight catching up now that she’s on the ground again.
It’s not until she’s in her car that she checks them, pulls her phone out to plug it into the aux and play some music for the drive back to her house. Right at the top of the dozens of notifications is a message from an unknown number with an unfamiliar area code.
[one unread message] the notification reads. She unlocks her phone to check the message.
She closes the messages app on her phone and opens up Spotify, shuffles her favorite playlist. She doesn’t reply to his text, doesn’t know if she wants to or even what she might say back. She’s sleepy, more than ready for bed after a long weekend in the sun, excited to be back with her students bright and early tomorrow morning.
The text from the cute race car driver can wait for another day. An issue for tomorrow, maybe.
#OMG#juliana's fic rec#!!!#fic: ma&thp#queen mack <3#my fave fanfic#my fanfic commentary#EVERYONE GO READ THIS!!!
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