#dumplings making machine

[tiny-evillious]

allen. that face you make when the bat gives you another task actually fuck that in the middle of writing this my dad called and informed me that our electric kettle died guess we're boiling our water in a pot now

[tecchous-thicc-buttocks]

Do you have any bsd headcannons you'd like to share? (literally anything, I just love learning about other peoples hcs)

OMG YES YES A THOUSAND TIMES YES SORRY FOR RESPONDING SO LATE IVE BEEN USING THIS IN MY DRAFTS AS A COLLECTION OF JUST ABOUT ANYTHING THAT GOES THRU MY MIND AND I'VE JUST DECIDED I'M GONNA POST IT ALR

chuuya's hat is so old (bc it keeps getting passed from person to person and he brings it with him everywhere obviously) and WORN OUT but he has no idea how to fix it. he treats it like his child but it's inevitable that the material will deteriorate over time, so he's been trying to convince himself to go to a hatter for ages and can't swallow his pride. he drunkenly told it to hirotsu once night while they were drinking, and hirotsu just sighed and got it fixed for him that night while chuuya was passed out. they never spoke about it.

dazai has met several women who actually did say yes to a double suicide. the majority didn't mean it and just wanted to toy with him, but ran when they realized he was serious. a few actually did mean it. he pulled strings and invited them to a romantic date, except that he sent therapists there instead of him, basically playing matchmaker. all those women are now doing better but ask him about it and he'll act dumb and say he knows nothing about it.

fyodor needs glasses. his eyesight definitely sucks and the hours he spends at a computer don't help. however, he manipulates himself into thinking that he's actually fine when he's not. nikolai also has shitty eyesight bc of his dull eye and the other one he's probably abused looking at the birds in the sky and thus the sun. they are literally the blind leading the blind. nikolai places his portal 2 meters from where he meant to put it and fyodor says "good job". it's incredible how they're feared terrorists.

sigma gets tired wearing heels all day. he wants memory foam but doesn't know it exists. give him his goddamn memory foam. anyways one of his employees saw him holding his feet in pain and offered him orthopedic shoe inserts. he hasn't been the same since. would give them a raise if he knew how.

tachihara used to get acne from having his bandage on his nose all day. so, he's developed an incredibly rigid skin care routine. his face is soft as hell. cheeks are smoother than you'd think.

kouyou made it her first demand as executive to raid her favourite shop where she gets all her kiminos and accessories. hirotsu led the black lizard battalion into the shop and the workers were so fucking confused. stole expensive silk fabrics and clothing of the highest quality because she doesn't settle for less, and in the process has gotten hirotsu more into fashion. they go shopping together.

speaking of shopping, kajii only goes thrifting. have you seen his clothes?? they're not his size and torn as hell but they're so damn cheap he can't resist. his sandals are so goddamn iconic. yeah he's blowing you up but his dogs are OUT like a mf psychopath. i maybe love him a little too much.

ivan has greasy hair. while doing his surgery thing wtv tf that was, fyodor was continually grossed out (ironic aint it). pushkin was then ordered to help ivan wash his hair and they died just a little bit. neither knew what the difference between shampoo and conditioner is, and they struggled with it for a long time. eventually when they came back for fyodor to do the surgery, ivan's hair smelled like flowers and was braided cutely because they gave up and went to a salon where the people working there fell a little in love with his hair and went overboard. pushkin's hair (if you can call it that...) was also in a little bowtie. they enjoyed their little adventure just a little bit. just a little ofc.

odasaku has no idea how to cook curry. he loves it and fears doing it wrong, so he just buys it from the same place over and over. considered asking for the recipe but never did because why change what is already perfection. dazai however is convinced oda has housewife abilities and can cook like a god. he never knew the truth.

fitzgerald can't do math. he pretends he's good at converting currencies but in his head it just doesn't add up. 20 000 yen? that's like.... 5 freedom eagles obviously. no biggie *throws a bunch of american dollars at the workers and just takes the item and leaves* he also doesn't give tips when it prompts on the machine, and instead prefers sliding a crisp bill to them directly. cried a little when his favourite shop told him they ran out of an item he wanted and they didn't budge after he slid them a stack of 100s (he has no idea how many were in the stack)

fitzgerald also owns an airline but he doesn't manage it personally ofc. his only interaction with it is that they provide him and the guild with a private jet to travel to japan. lovecraft did not get on. he swam??? who knows, but he did not get on that plane. lucy got sick and louisa freaked out every time there was turbulence. mark was snoring loudly the entire way and steinbeck had his nose pressed on the window looking outside the entire time the lil cutie.

agatha has the super power of drinking tea while it is still piping hot. she never burns her tongue and never complained about its temperature, except when it's too cold. the water was literally boiling once (her subordinates wanted to find out how hot she can go) and she gulped it all down without a single contortion of her face. incredible.

shirase doesn't understand english and keeps trying to learn it but every time he thinks he's getting the hang of it, someone throws cockney slang at him and he gives up.

adam finally figured out how to blow a bubble of gum, but keeps swallowing it. one day, it clogged his internal system (he's not supposed to be eating obvi) and he's been afraid of it ever since. thinks it's possessed by evil spirits his android brain can't understand. i also hc that he recharges thru solar panels integrated onto his skin and for this reason he goes to the beach to 'tan' often. HE'S SO PALE people get a little concerned for him when they see him not apply sunscreen and just lay down for hours at a time. one lady actually told him he could get skin cancer and he opened his eyes "ackshually 🤓👆" then began reciting every fact known to man about skin cancer. rip that lady

verlaine and rimbaud complain about france all the time. "fuck france i fucking hate the french this country goddamn sucks" then as soon as someone else says anything bad about it they give them death glares and threaten death for disrespecting their country.

wells has memorized a whole lot of things about quantum theory from her days studying to be an engineer because it was her favourite class. she cannot handle mechanical or civil engineering topics and physically ascends at the mention of anything to do with dynamics. i also think she's been hit on a lot while wearing disguises; she tells them she's actually a woman, they freak out, then she sends them back in time. this time, they do not approach her and thus she doesn't have to deal with the awkward rejection and doesn't even remember it.

jules verne has made little dolls and pretended that they were his friends and invented scenarios in which they hung out. i will not elaborate on this.

albatross sometimes interrupts conversations in order to listen to the engine of a vehicle passing by. tries to track them down, too. he'll be the type of guy to ogle at your car without making eye contact with you while you're still in the car. and when i say ogle, i mean ogle. checks out motorcycles more often than women.

the flags bully lippmann sometimes when he acts in a really cheesy scene. he's coming to hang out with them and they're all giggling and chuckling at him stupidly. albatross walks up to him, tucks his hair behind his ear and whispers whatever cheesy thing was said in a low voice before bursting out laughing (he usually starts laughing before he can even finish the sentence). pianoman slides it slickly into conversations, and doc 'fufu's at random moments when looking at him and he suddenly remembers the scene. iceman has not watched the movie and chuuya couldn't care less.

the first time he tried to take the train, ranpo loudly exclaimed and yelled at every turn and stop of the train. he went during rush hour too and got his entire body smooshed into the strangers next to him. he squealed when someone accidentally (accidentally) grabbed his ass in the crowded traincar, then asked loudly who did that. dramatic as hell. got his pockets picked and knew who did it, but couldn't do anything about it. he felt awful and slumped his way back home and collapsed into yosano's arms with a groan. this was the only time she'd ever willingly bought him a bunch of sweets and let him eat them in peace while he ranted to her about the atrocities

kenji is more notorious on the streets than he knows. he got recognized by some huge 200cm tall man built like a goddamn tank with tattoos all over his body who wanted to fight him. kenji was so flattered that he knew his name that he thanked him and burly dude was like. wtf. anyways they got beef ramen together afterwards bonded over cows and are now besties. he's told the agency about it but they think that by "friend" he means someone else his age.

tanizaki ran into kajii once at his favourite thrift shop. he recognized him and ran out freaked never to return. for this reason he had to keep wearing his same stanky ahh uwu girl clothes that don't fit and hasn't had a style update. actually, when doing his research for how to infiltrate the mafia, tachihara found out that there have been a lot of sightings of known dangerous ability users in the thrift store, and that's why he wears the same shirt as tanizaki.

tachihara dreads the hunting dogs meetings because they make him feel like the only sane one there. his back has become so chiseled from carrying teruko around all the time, and once - jouno thought it would be funny - he tripped on a wire laying down on the ground and almost dropped her. he had to use his ability to pick her up from the belt of the uniform to prevent her from faceplanting, and she looked like she was about to explode. he had to let her beat him up a little then she hopped back on his shoulders and nothing changed. he questions his life choices often

jouno can't handle cinnamon or ginger scents, they overwhelm him and he goes into a fucking sensory overload coma. odor orgasm. sinus sex. teruko got sick once and tachi made her the strongest herbal and ginger tea you've ever seen (learnt it from his brother rip the goat) and he collapsed on the ground with a moan. woke up a half hour layer with no clue wth just happened. tecchou eventually heard about it, placed a hand on his shoulder and said "it happens to the best of us" while nodding solemnly then never elaborated.

yeah fukuchi and fukuzawa used to steal food when they were younger but imagine them figuring out milestones together. "dude my armpits are itchy where is this hair coming from :(" "genichiro i don't need to know about that *scratches at his armpit subtly*" i think they were very goofy about it

speaking of puberty elise once freaked mori out by saying she got her period. dude was like. wtf. you're an ability. how tf. she insisted he got her a bunch of tampons n pads and chocolate and heating pads and the works, then once he (the underlings he made go do the shopping threatening their lives if they ever told a soul) bought everything, she looked at his confused and asked why he bought those things. she's an ability how could she have a period? mori cried a little that night.

bram is a swiftie for no reason other than i think it's funny. alternatively, i believe he listens to reggae for no reason other than i think it's goddamn FUNNY.

kunikida's old students sometimes run into him on the street and recognize him. they immediately straighten their backs, nod at him and quickly walk away in the most respectful way because they don't want to ruin his schedule. he nearly tears up from happiness every time.

natsume goes through 5-6 "here, kitty kitty!"s in a day when he's just vibing around. people try to feed him grass blades. people get WAY too comfortable rubbing his stomach. once, a girl saw him on her way back from school and started scratching a random spot behind his ears and he folded so quickly and just melted on the sidewalk. he wont admit it but he has that weak spot in human form too (i want to pet him so badly this is self indulgent ok). the girl was actually gin btw. she's an animal whisperer i dont know why i dont know how but she is.

[automatic-momo-making-machine]

In Our company Healthy Enviro Solutions Pvt. Ltd. Automatic Momo making Machine used as advance technology for production of Momos in bulk. It is a best dedicated machine with the options of producing momos in various sizes and different sheet thickness. It comes with variable frequency drives. The Machine has humanized design and control panel for easy adjustment of stuffing and sizes of momos. It is suitable for Momos suppliers, quick frozen dumpling manufactures. We are the answer of Best Automatic Momo Making Machine Supplier distributor and Manufacturer of India. 

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[chefsshops]

Efficient Momo Production with the Latest Momo Making Machines

In the bustling world of culinary arts, efficiency and precision are key to maintaining quality and meeting high demand. For establishments specializing in momos, the introduction of advanced momo-making machines has revolutionized production processes. These machines not only enhance productivity but also ensure consistency and quality in every batch. Among the latest advancements, the Momo Making Machine, Momo Sheeter Machine, and Dumpling Wrapper Maker have become indispensable tools in modern kitchens.

Streamlining Momo Production

The demand for momos, whether at street stalls or high-end restaurants, has surged, prompting the need for more efficient production methods. The Momo Making Machine is at the forefront of this transformation. Designed to automate the dumpling-making process, this machine can produce hundreds of momos per hour, significantly reducing manual labor and production time. Its efficiency lies in its ability to consistently measure, mix, and fold dough with minimal human intervention.

Moreover, the Momo Making Machine ensures uniformity in size and shape, which is crucial for maintaining the quality of the final product. The precise control over dough thickness and filling placement results in perfectly crafted momos that are appealing and delicious. This level of consistency is challenging to achieve with manual methods, making the Momo Making Machine a valuable investment for any momo-centric business.

The Role of the Momo Sheeter Machine

Another crucial component in modern momo production is the Momo Sheeter Machine. This machine is designed to flatten dough into even sheets, which are then used to wrap the momo filling. The Momo Sheeter Machine offers several advantages, including adjustable thickness settings and high-speed operation. By ensuring that the dough is uniformly spread, the Momo Sheeter Machine eliminates inconsistencies that can occur with hand-rolling techniques.

In addition to improving the appearance and texture of the momos, the Momo Sheeter Machine also enhances overall production efficiency. It allows for quicker preparation of dough sheets, enabling businesses to meet high demand without compromising on quality. For establishments that produce large quantities of momos, incorporating a Momo Sheeter Machine can lead to significant time and labor savings.

Benefits of the Dumpling Wrapper Maker

The Dumpling Wrapper Maker complements the Momo Making Machine and Momo Sheeter Machine by focusing on the creation of perfect dumpling wrappers. This machine simplifies the process of making wrappers, which are essential for encasing the momo filling. With its ability to produce wrappers of consistent size and thickness, the Dumpling Wrapper Maker ensures that each momo is uniformly wrapped, which enhances the overall eating experience.

The Dumpling Wrapper Maker is particularly useful for businesses that need to produce a high volume of wrappers quickly. It reduces the manual effort involved in making wrappers by hand and helps maintain a consistent quality across all products. This machine is an excellent addition to any kitchen where efficiency and quality are top priorities.

Chefs Shop: Your Partner in Modern Momo Production

When it comes to sourcing high-quality momo-making equipment, Chefs Shop stands out as a trusted provider. They offer a range of top-of-the-line machines, including the Momo Making Machine, Momo Sheeter Machine, and Dumpling Wrapper Maker. Their commitment to quality and customer satisfaction makes them a reliable partner for businesses looking to enhance their momo production capabilities.

Chefs Shop's products are designed with the latest technology to meet the demands of modern kitchens. Their equipment is not only efficient but also durable, ensuring long-term performance and reliability. By choosing Chefs Shop, businesses can equip themselves with the tools needed to streamline their momo production process and achieve exceptional results.

Conclusion

In conclusion, the latest momo-making machines, including the Momo Making Machine, Momo Sheeter Machine, and Dumpling Wrapper Maker, play a crucial role in enhancing the efficiency of momo production. These advanced tools streamline the preparation process, ensuring consistency and quality in every batch. For businesses aiming to elevate their production capabilities, investing in these machines is a step towards achieving operational excellence. For further assistance in selecting the best equipment for your needs, consider reaching out to Chefs Shop, a leader in providing top-notch commercial kitchen equipment.

[dkniade]

🥐! for the ask game too

The ask game

🥐 ⇢ name one internet reference that will always make you laugh 

Surprisingly, nothing in particular comes to mind. But I did find this video of a failed dumpling maker funny

[drfroebindia]

Revolutionize Your Dumpling Production with Commercial Dumpling Making Machines

Dumplings are a beloved staple in many cultures, from Chinese pot stickers to Polish pierogis. But for restaurants and food businesses that specialize in dumplings, the process of making them by hand can be time-consuming and labour-intensive. That's where commercial dumpling making machines come in. These innovative machines can revolutionize your dumpling production, making it faster, easier, and more efficient. In this article, we'll explore the benefits of using a commercial dumpling making machine and how it can help your business thrive.

What is a Commercial Dumpling Making Machine?

A commercial dumpling making machine is a specialized piece of equipment designed to automate the process of making dumplings. These machines can produce a large quantity of dumplings in a short amount of time, with consistent size and shape. They come in various sizes and models, from small table top machines to larger, industrial-sized ones. Some machines can also be customized to make different types of dumplings, such as wontons or empanadas.

Increased Efficiency and Productivity

One of the most significant benefits of using a commercial dumpling making machine is the increased efficiency and productivity it offers. With a manual dumpling-making process, it can take hours to produce a large batch of dumplings. But with a machine, you can produce hundreds or even thousands of dumplings in a fraction of the time. This allows you to meet the high demand for dumplings without sacrificing quality or consistency.

Consistent Size and Shape

Another advantage of using a commercial dumpling making machine is the consistent size and shape of the dumplings it produces. Handmade dumplings can vary in size and shape, which can affect the cooking time and overall appearance of the dish. With a machine, you can ensure that each dumpling is the same size and shape, resulting in a more professional and visually appealing final product.

Easy to Use and Clean

Commercial dumpling making machines are designed to be user-friendly and easy to operate. Most machines come with clear instructions and can be easily adjusted to make different types of dumplings. They are also easy to clean, with removable parts that can be washed and sanitized after use. This makes them a convenient and hygienic option for food businesses.

Cost-Effective

While commercial dumpling making machines may seem like a significant investment, they can actually save you money in the long run. By increasing efficiency and productivity, you can produce more dumplings in less time, reducing labor costs. Additionally, the consistent size and shape of the dumplings can help reduce food waste, saving you money on ingredients.

Final Thoughts

If you're in the business of making dumplings, a commercial dumpling making machine is a game-changer. It can help you increase efficiency, productivity, and consistency, all while saving you time and money. With the right machine, you can revolutionize your dumpling production and take your business to the next level.

Have you used a commercial dumpling making machine before? Share your experience in the comments below.

Original text:

Welcome to the World of Commercial Dumpling Making Machines!

Commercial dumpling making machines are revolutionizing the way dumplings are produced in restaurants and food businesses.

In this blog post, we'll delve into the functionalities and benefits of these machines. Let's explore how they can enhance efficiency and consistency in dumpling production.

[laxmienterprises]

Momo Making Machine - International Traders Channel - Laxmi Enterprises

[kxsagi]

Good morning, kxsagi. This is my second request and time for something funny. May I request: Blue Lock boys/men serenading Reader in the middle of the night in front of her apartment after a big argument. Cue Reader's neighbors throwing various household appliances at the boys/men. Characters: Chigiri, Yukimiya, Reo, Sae.

Bonus: Who has the perfect singing voice and who sings to the tune of 'off'?

P.S: Character list also applies to my previous request.

“𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐞”

a/n: may this love find me 🧘🏻‍♀️

ft. chigiri hyoma, yukimiya kenyu, mikage reo, itoshi sae, isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, nagi seishiro, kaiser michael, karasu tabito, shidou ryusei

chigiri hyoma

he shows up in a floor-length black coat, red hair slicked back, carrying a literal violin case like he’s about to perform with the tokyo philharmonic. 

stands under your apartment window like it’s romeo and juliet and dramatically tunes his violin at 2:06 AM. 

begins playing a thousand years with the solemnity of someone who’s lived through two world wars. 

whispers up at your window between phrases: “i’m sorry i called your skincare routine ‘excessive.’ i was lashing out. your serums are divine.” 

you peek through the blinds. your neighbor across the hall opens their window, yells “IT’S NOT EVEN THURSDAY,” and throws a bag of frozen dumplings. he dodges with an elegant twirl, doesn’t miss a beat. 

finishes the song by dramatically dropping to one knee, rain (from someone’s leaky AC unit) pouring down on him like it’s a movie scene. 

“please forgive me… i moisturized for you.” 

yukimiya kenyu

shows up in a turtleneck and a beret, carrying his acoustic guitar and looking like he just stepped out of a french indie film. 

stands under your window and softly croons a love song he wrote himself, called galactic destiny. 

“our energies collided in the constellation of fate...” 

his voice is breathy. emotional. you’re 90% sure he’s crying. your cat is watching with judgment. 

“i still believe in our spiritual link… even if you said my cologne makes your eyes itch.” 

some guy on the third floor screams, “TAKE THAT WEIRD SHAKESPEARE SHIT HOME!” and hurls a half-full bottle of body wash. 

yukimiya catches it, sniffs it, and smiles. “jasmine and mint... they have taste.” 

continues playing while crouching behind a parked moped for cover. ends the song with a whisper: “we were always written in the stars.” 

mikage reo

you hear commotion outside and think it’s a delivery truck. no. it’s reo... with a hired string quartet. 

four men in tuxedos are playing a sweeping instrumental while reo stands center stage, holding a bouquet and dramatically belting just the way you are, but off-key. 

“MY LOVE! i know i said you were being dramatic, but i meant it in a cute way!” 

he steps forward for the chorus and slips on someone’s garden hose. immediately recovers with a jazz hand flourish like nothing happened. 

someone yells “GO TO BED, RICHIE RICH!” and throws a keurig machine. reo ducks. it explodes behind him. 

“STILL RICH ENOUGH TO BUY ANOTHER ONE, LOSER!” 

you scream his name from the window. he looks up, eyes sparkling. “are those tears? did i win?” 

you yell, “NO, THAT’S STEAM FROM MY INSTANT NOODLES.” 

itoshi sae

shows up holding a tiny bluetooth speaker over his head, playing baby come back on repeat. 

dressed like he was pulled out of bed – hoodie, slippers, bedhead, emotionally vacant expression. 

says nothing for the first five minutes. just stands. staring. speaker held like it’s part of a sacred ritual. 

finally mutters: “you were right. i do sleep better when you’re next to me. that’s... annoying.” 

you crack your window open, about to speak. someone from 2F yells “THIS ISN’T THE NOTEBOOK, ITOSHI” and launches a broom. 

it bonks him square in the back. he grunts. doesn’t even flinch. just adjusts his hood and says, “you done?” 

still doesn’t leave. just stands there as the song loops and loops. 

your neighbor tries throwing a slipper. sae finally looks up and mutters, “you throw like my 6-year-old cousin.” 

isagi yoichi

shows up holding an ukulele, googled chords five minutes ago. his phone is literally taped to the neck so he can read lyrics. 

“uh, i know we fought. but this is me saying i’m dumb... in music form.” 

starts strumming can’t help falling in love, and it is... so bad. you’re wondering if he’s dying or if he’s just tone-deaf. 

the guy upstairs opens his window: “YOICHI, I HAVE WORK IN THREE HOURS.” 

a sponge cake hits him in the shoulder. isagi doesn’t even blink. “this is the pain i deserve. i accept it.” 

plays the rest of the song slightly offbeat, his voice cracking like a broken recorder. 

finishes with: “please text me back. i can’t sleep. i tried cuddling my pillow and it insulted me.” 

itoshi rin

shows up with a cheap karaoke mic plugged into his phone. no backup dancers. no theatrics. just deep, painful regret. 

“this is stupid,” he mutters, then starts whisper-singing drivers license like it’s a confession in a crime drama. 

he looks physically ill trying to express emotion. “i miss you. i hate that i miss you. but i do. it sucks.” 

the old man across the street throws a half-eaten melon pan and yells, “GROW A PAIR!” 

rin stares at the pastry, then at you. “do i keep singing or do i fight him.” 

“you’re doing great,” you say, sobbing and laughing at the same time. 

“... shut up,” he mutters, cheeks pink. 

nagi seishiro

shows up in mismatched slides, pajama pants, and the hoodie you left at his place. looks like he rolled out of bed, forgot why he was outside, then remembered mid-yawn. 

brought a tiny keyboard he downloaded a piano app for five minutes ago. sets it down on the curb, squats, and starts plunking the keys like a toddler discovering sound. 

“hey... you up there? i came to… music you back into my life or whatever.” 

begins playing my heart will go on, but he only knows the first five notes. loops them. over. and over. and over. 

pauses to scratch his head. “ugh, this is so tiring. can’t you just forgive me so we can go back to sharing a blanket and eating cereal?” 

your upstairs neighbor opens her window and screams, “PLAY SOMETHING REAL OR GO HOME.” 

someone throws a remote control, which hits him directly in the forehead. he blinks. “ow.” 

lays down on the sidewalk. still pressing random piano keys while flat on his back. “baby, my head hurts. also, my soul. come down?” 

you yell, “YOU’RE NOT EVEN SINGING!” 

“i know. that’s for people who want to live. i just want you.” 

kaiser michael

brings a whole speaker setup with colored LED lights. ness is standing next to him with a mic like this is eurovision. 

kaiser opens with: “i know you’re mad, but i figured you couldn’t resist a man with this much jawline and jazz.” 

begins singing perfect by ed sheeran in german. ness harmonizes. badly. 

“baby, i’m dancing in ze dark– NESS, STAY ON KEY.” 

someone from 4B chucks a rice cooker. ness screams. kaiser DODGES and CATCHES IT ONE-HANDED. “you could’ve cracked my highlight.” 

turns back to your window, still holding the rice cooker. “was that a sign you want me to make dinner?” 

you yell, “NO, IT’S A SIGN TO SHUT UP.” 

“same thing,” he shrugs, then adds, “you still love me.” 

karasu tabito

no shirt. bluetooth speaker in hand. pants look like they were pulled on during a fire drill. is clearly mid-breakdown. 

starts playing a slow jam while doing interpretive body rolls across the sidewalk. 

“babe, i know i messed up when i said your playlist was trash, but i was TALKING OUT OF FEAR.” 

tries to moonwalk. trips over a bike. recovers by body-rolling again. 

someone flings a laundry basket. it hits him and bounces off like he’s made of rubber. “GOOD AIM, BRO,” he calls. 

to you: “please. just come downstairs. i brought strawberry gummies and emotional damage.” 

shidou ryusei

shows up in a fur coat and heart-print boxers, holding a megaphone and a rose between his teeth. 

“BABY, I’M HERE TO MAKE NOISE, BAD DECISIONS, AND WIN YOUR HEART BACK.” 

starts screaming the lyrics to bleeding love at top volume. not singing. SCREAMING. 

someone chucks a blender out the window. he catches it like a football. “DAMN, YOU GOT ARM STRENGTH. WANNA JOIN MY TEAM???” 

you stick your head out the window: “WHAT ARE YOU EVEN DOING???” 

“PROVING THAT I’D RISK BEING BLUDGEONED FOR YOUR LOVE.” 

“YOU’RE AN IDIOT.” 

“YOUR IDIOT. NOW GET YOUR SEXY ASS DOWN HERE.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

a/n #2: @store-lover made this pic and it's perfect for kaiser's

[devotedlyandrogynousyouth]

Hii I love your writing, especially your jason todd fics! I was wondering if I could get a jason todd x reader, where she has had a lot of stress on her and it’s basically just fluff with a slight bit of angst. You can do it as headcanons or a one shot, it’s up to you! Thank you and have a good rest of your day <3333

Aww ty!! Im so sorry this took so long, life has been a little hectic recently, so this is a good time for me to get back into things

Just a Crappy Night

Jason Todd x Stressed! Reader

Guys I promise I'll start posting more regularly soon😰

First, your alarm didn't go off.

It wasn't a huge deal, at first. You woke up at 6:27 AM, so you still had a bit of time to do your makeup and hair before work. But waking up almost half an hour late puts every one into a crappy mood.

Then, your car keys died on you.

Honestly, you don't think they ever have before. You didn't even have the right batteries to replace them! And, of course, it was the cold-as-balls spring Gotham weather that greeted you as soon as you walked out of your apartment building. To make things worse, all of your good sweaters were still in the back seat or trunk, so you had to walk to the nearest convenience store in a T-shirt. It was fucking cold.

You could feel it in your bones—like the kind of cold that gnaws, not just chills. The wind cut across your skin every time it blew, and by the time you made it to the convenience store, your fingers were stiff and your nose wouldn't stop running. They didn’t even have the batteries you needed. You settled for an overpriced cup of coffee that tasted like burnt disappointment and barely stayed warm in your hands.

Then the train was late. Of course it was. And when it did come, it was packed. Shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers who didn’t understand the concept of personal space, you were pretty sure someone coughed directly onto your neck. Your earbuds died halfway through your playlist, leaving you alone with the sounds of screeching rails and someone’s toddler screaming about juice for seven stops.

At work, your boss sent an “urgent” email asking for a report you’d already submitted yesterday—twice. You pointed it out. They replied with a thumbs-up emoji. No apology. No acknowledgment. Just that damn emoji.

Lunch was worse. You were looking forward to the leftovers you’d brought from last night—Jason had cooked, and it was one of those rare nights he didn’t almost burn the kitchen down. But someone stole your container out of the break room fridge. Who does that?

You ended up eating sad vending machine pretzels and a can of flat soda while trying not to cry in front of your monitor.

The rest of the afternoon dragged. Your inbox wouldn’t stop pinging. You dropped your pen three times. A coworker made a passive-aggressive comment about your “resting stress face.” By the time you finally made it home, your feet hurt, your head ached, and you were one minor inconvenience away from losing it.

Then Jason showed up.

He let himself in, all leather jacket and soft eyes, carrying takeout and smiling like the world hadn't tried to ruin you all day. You didn’t even let him speak.

You didn’t even look at him when he walked in. You heard the door open, heard the soft thud of his boots on the floor and the rustle of the takeout bag, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move. Not because you didn’t want him there, but because you didn’t know what would come out of your mouth if you opened it.

Jason’s voice was soft. “Hey. Brought that dumpling place you like.”

You scoffed under your breath. That was what did it, somehow—not the keys, not the cold, not the train or your asshole boss or the lunch thief. The dumplings.

You stood up too fast. “Are you serious right now?”

Jason blinked, confused. “Uh. Yeah? I thought—”

“No, that’s the problem, Jason. You didn’t think.” You didn’t mean to yell. But your voice cracked and your throat burned and everything that had been building all day spilled out in a hot, ugly mess. “You don’t get to waltz in here and play hero with takeout like that fixes anything.”

He set the bag down slowly. His face stayed neutral, calm—but you knew him well enough to see the flicker in his eyes. The one that said he didn’t expect this.

“I wasn’t trying to fix anything,” he said carefully. “I just thought you might want something warm. Something easy.”

“Nothing’s easy.” You spat the words like poison. “Not today. Not this week. Not—God, Jason. I’m so tired.”

His silence pressed in around you. You hated it. Hated how patient he was. How gentle. How it made you feel like the worst person alive for yelling at someone who just wanted to feed you.

But the anger didn’t go away. It stayed under your skin like a fever. It wasn’t about him, but he was here. And you couldn’t keep holding it in.

“I had to walk in the fucking freezing cold, in a goddamn T-shirt, because I couldn’t get into my own car. I got coughed on. I had to eat fucking vending machine food while that bitch from accounting laughed like a hyena at something I wrote. And now you come in like some... fix-it boyfriend with dumplings and dimples and I—” Your voice broke. “I can’t do this right now. I just can’t.”

Jason stepped back, hands half-raised like he was surrendering. “Okay. That’s okay. You don’t have to.”

You stared at him. His face was unreadable now, jaw tight but eyes still soft. That just made it worse.

“I just need space,” you muttered, voice shaking. “I need, like... an hour. I just need not to be looked at like I’m broken, or sad, or something you have to fix."

Jason nodded once. “I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

You didn’t answer. You just slipped into your room, shut the door, and collapsed onto your bed. You didn’t cry at first. You just lay there, clutching a pillow like it might hold you together.

Eventually the tears came. Silent, exhausted, hollowing. Not loud or dramatic—just the kind that made your chest hurt.

An hour later, the door creaked open. All you heard were soft footsteps. No words. Jason climbed into the bed behind you, wrapped an arm around your waist, and pulled you close before covering you with the plush comforter. You didn’t resist. He didn’t say anything. Just held you. He kept one hand on your hip, the other brushing slow lines across your arm.

“I’m sorry I yelled,” you mumbled after a long while, the sound muffled slightly by his chest.

“I know,” he whispered into your hair, pressing a barely-there kiss to the crown of your head. "You're okay, sweetheart. It's all over now."

Eventually, the silence softened.

Your tears had dried into that hollow, shaky calm that comes after a storm—eyes puffy, throat sore, body heavy. Jason didn’t move. He just stayed wrapped around you, warm and steady, letting you breathe. Letting you be.

“Are the dumplings still warm?” you mumbled into his shirt.

He let out a small breath of a laugh. “Probably not. But I can heat them up.”

You shook your head against him. “Don’t wanna move."

There was a pause. Then: “Be right back.”

He slipped out of bed and padded quietly into the kitchen. A few minutes later, he returned with the takeout bag, two sets of chopsticks, and the smell of something vaguely spicy and fried.

He sat on the edge of the bed, opened the box, and offered you the first bite like he always did.

You sat up, messy and quiet, and took it. The dumpling was warm-ish. A little soggy. But it tasted good—maybe even better than usual, because your stomach had been a clenched fist all day and now it was finally unclenching.

Jason climbed in next to you, cross-legged, holding the box between you both like it was sacred. You ate in silence, trading bites, not needing to say much. You didn’t even realize how hungry you were until the box was almost empty.

You licked chili oil off your thumb and looked at him. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For still being here.”

Jason looked at you like he always did when he wasn’t sure whether to kiss you or just hold you tighter. “You had a shitty day. That doesn’t scare me off.”

You leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder. “I was kind of an asshole.”

He shrugged gently. “You didn’t mean it. And honestly? I’ve been worse.”

You laughed quietly, and he kissed the top of your head. “You want me to clean up?”

You shook your head. “Tomorrow.”

When the last dumpling was gone and you’d both fallen into that quiet post-meal haze, Jason reached over you carefully and grabbed the empty takeout box. You watched through half-lidded eyes as he leaned past the bed and set it gently on the nightstand, chopsticks sticking out like little flags of peace.

Then he turned back to you, tugged the blanket up over your shoulder, and smoothed it down like he was sealing you in.

“You good?” he asked softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

You nodded, too tired to speak, eyes already closing.

Jason kissed your forehead, then settled in beside you again, arm snug around your waist.

Masterlist

[sowerpatch]

vending machines and rooftop basketball and bad dumplings

Paige Bueckers x Fem!OC

Summary:

“You’re, like, seven feet tall and famous.”

“Only six, actually. The other foot is charisma.” Or Paige thinks they’re flirting. Isha thinks it’s a clinical concern. It’s the same thing, really.

Word count: 4,450

Dallas Meadows Hospital was cold, but not unfamiliar.

Paige Bueckers had spent enough time in buildings like this to know the rhythm of them. The constant beep of monitors, the shuffling of rubber soles, and the way fluorescent lights hummed like a choir of disinterested bees overhead. Very familiar.

She wasn’t afraid of hospitals. Not anymore.

After her ACL tear in college, she’d practically lived in one — MRIs, surgeries, rehab appointments, physical therapies so intense it left her crying into ice packs. She knew what it was like to be the one in the gown. The one being wheeled in and out. The one learning patience when everything inside you was screaming to move.

That didn’t make it any easier to see someone else she cared about go through it.

She adjusted the stuffed blue dolphin under her arm, a relic of some team bonding prank that Nalyssa insisted on keeping. She shifted to find comfort in the plastic chair outside Recovery Room 2B.

Nalyssa Smith had gone down in practice the day before, and Paige’s stomach still flipped when she remembered the sound. That awful, taut pop, followed by silence and then screaming.

Her other teammate, Dijonai Carrington, had gone to grab coffee, swearing she’d bribe the vending machine into surrendering something caffeine-adjacent.

That left Paige alone with her thoughts, a nearly empty bag of sour candy, and the unique sensation of her hoodie absorbing every degree of chill from the chair.

She was halfway through mentally ranking which Sour Patch Kids color represented the stages of grief when a voice cut through the lull.

“You’re in my spot.”

Paige looked up. And promptly forgot how to blink.

The woman in front of her was wearing navy blue scrubs, a white coat, and an expression that hovered somewhere between ‘I’ve seen things’ and ‘I have no time for your nonsense.’

Her dark hair was tied up in a messy bun, a few stray curls escaping around her temple. The badge clipped to her hip read Dr. I. Alberts, Resident.

This, Paige thought, is what happens when a goddess takes up internal medicine.

“This one?” Paige asked, sweeping her arm across the entirely vacant row of chairs. “You sure you don’t mean the identical one on either side of me?"

Dr. Alberts didn't smile. Just tilted her head with that same flat expression. “This one has the best vantage point to eavesdrop on the nurses arguing about cafeteria meatloaf. It's tradition.”

Paige blinked. Then grinned. “You’re a drama fan. I respect that.”

The doctor said nothing. She just dropped into the seat next to Paige with the air of someone reluctantly sitting next to the only open outlet at an airport.

“You always threaten strangers with passive-aggressive seating claims, or is this my lucky day?”

“Depends. You always talk this much before noon?”

Paige held up her hands. “Fair enough. I’m Paige, by the way.”

The woman looked at her. “I know.”

“Wait, you know me?” Paige blinked.

“You’re, like, seven feet tall and famous.”

“Only six, actually. The other foot is charisma.”

That earned her the briefest twitch of lips. Not quite a smile, but Paige felt the gravitational pull of it in her chest.

“Skittles?” Paige offered, putting down the Sour Patch packet and extending the other crumpled candy bag like it was a peace treaty.

“Aren’t those mostly sugar and lies?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Dr. Alberts plucked one from the bag. A red one. Bold move.

“Isha,” she said at last.

“Nice to meet you, Isha.”

Another lip twitch.

Paige wasn’t sure what just happened, but she knew two things:

One, she had no idea if Nalyssa was out of surgery yet.

And two, she might have just met her favorite human being on Earth.

She didn't believe in love at first sight. But she was starting to believe in something awfully similar.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Over the next few days, Paige saw Isha again. And again. And again.

Sometimes in hallways. Once in the elevator. Twice while Paige was busy pretending she needed another snack from the vending machine. (She didn’t. She wanted an excuse to look like she belonged on that floor.)

Each encounter was short. A nod. A smirk. A quip. Isha was the human embodiment of a deadpan emoji.

But Paige, never one to walk away from a challenge, decided she would crack her.

It started with snacks. She began leaving little candy offerings near the nurse's station. No note. Just a different sugar delivery system each day.

Then came the post-it notes. One read: ‘I rate this floor's vending machine 2 out of 5 stars. No Twix.’

Another: ‘Tell the surgeon in Room 5B he looks like a background character in Grey's Anatomy.’

Eventually, she caught Isha reading one. And smiling. Barely. But it counted.

They finally spoke again in the staff lounge. Somehow, Paige had wrangled a key card from a good-natured nurse named Kathy, who decided that matchmaking was part of her patient-doctor care responsibilities.

"Basketball, huh?" Isha said, eyeing Paige over the rim of a terrible coffee.

"Yup. Professionally weird tall person."

"You hurt?"

"Nah. Just playing nurse for my teammate."

"You’re bad at sitting still."

"You noticed that in ten seconds? Impressive."

Isha raised an eyebrow. “I majored in noticing things.”

Paige leaned forward, chin in hand. "So… are you always this charming, or am I just special?"

Isha sipped her coffee with the focus of someone trying not to smirk.

Paige kept trying. And, slowly, she started winning.

One day, Isha caught her loitering by the vending machine again.

"Stalking me now?"

"No," Paige said, mock-offended. "I happen to have a very deep and complex emotional relationship with Sour Patch Kids."

"You're impossible."

"And yet… you're still here."

This time, Isha smiled. Not a full grin. But enough.

Paige's heart did something very irresponsible in her chest.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was a Tuesday when Paige made her move.

They were sitting on a bench outside the hospital exit, watching as a squirrel carried what looked like an entire muffin into a tree.

"Okay," Paige said. "New plan. If I beat you in HORSE, you let me take you out. Real date. Not in this building."

Isha stared at her. “Do I look like I was born yesterday?”

“You look like you haven’t slept since Friday, but that’s not the point.”

“You are a literal WNBA player.”

“And you are literally avoiding a free dinner with someone who’s offering you Sour Patch Kids on demand.”

Isha narrowed her eyes. “You get one shot. One. If I make mine and you miss, this never happened."

“Deal.”

That’s how Paige found herself carrying a portable hoop onto the hospital rooftop that evening, dragging Dijonai with her to help set it up.

“This is the worst idea you’ve ever had,” Dijonai said, wheezing from the effort.

“Oh come on, the lighting is romantic.”

“The lighting is a broken emergency exit sign.”

Still, Isha showed up. In sneakers and scrubs, looking every bit like she wanted to pretend this was ridiculous and secretly didn’t.

“You seriously brought a hoop.”

“You seriously thought I was bluffing?”

They played.

Isha made the first shot.

Paige nailed hers, then sunk the next three with the kind of ease that said, ‘I’m good, but I’m also trying very hard to look like I’m not destroying you.’

When the game ended, Isha had "HORSE" and Paige had a grin wider than the state of Texas.

"I think I sprained my dignity," Isha muttered.

"I'll kiss it better," Paige offered.

Isha stared.

"Too soon?"

“Slightly.”

They stood there under the humming rooftop lights.

And finally, finally, Isha said, “Fine. One date. But no basketball.”

Paige grinned. “That’s okay, Ma. I’m good at other sports. Like… wine drinking. Or being charming.”

“We’ll see about that.”

But her smile said she already had.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Their first official date was tacos. 

Not some candlelit, five-course ordeal — just tacos. Cheap, delicious, messy. Paige had insisted on taking Isha to her favorite hole-in-the-wall spot where the tortillas were hand-pressed and the owner called everyone ‘boss.’ 

“You brought me to a taco stand behind a gas station,” Isha said, raising an eyebrow as she examined the chipped plastic table. 

Paige beamed. “Only the finest for my favorite doctor.” 

“I’m not even your doctor.” 

“Yet.” 

They ate on the curb under a flickering streetlamp. Paige kept talking. About Minnesota winters, pregame rituals, the weird adrenaline cocktail of fear and joy that came before tipoff. Isha, to her credit, asked questions. Then more. She shared stories about her residency, about growing up in Houston with her immigrant parents, about a childhood obsession with ER that had absolutely influenced her career path despite all denials. 

“I once tried to perform CPR on my brother’s GI Joe,” she confessed. 

“That’s… weirdly adorable.” 

“He didn’t make it.” 

“Was there a funeral?” 

“A full procession. My mom cried laughing.” 

They both laughed. And kept laughing. 

After dinner, they walked to Isha’s car. Paige kept brushing their hands together as they walked, not quite holding, just teasing. Isha noticed. Didn’t pull away. 

“So,” Paige said, slowing as they reached the car, “scale of 1 to 10, how charming was that date?” 

“Eight. Points deducted for salsa on your jeans.” 

“It’s called flair.” 

Isha rolled her eyes but didn’t move to unlock the car. 

Paige leaned in slightly. “Want to know how I can earn the other two points?” 

Isha smiled, soft and curious. “How?” 

Paige gently tucked a curl behind Isha’s ear. “Second date. Slightly less taco-based. Maybe.” 

Isha hesitated just long enough to be dramatic. “Fine. But you’re not allowed to flirt through the entire thing.” 

“No promises,” Paige said, grinning. 

The next time was a museum. Then coffee. Then a shared sushi box on a bench while Paige pretended she understood abstract art and Isha critiqued brushstrokes like she’d moonlighted as a curator. And always — always — Paige tried to make her laugh. 

It became an unspoken game: who could break the other first? 

Paige won most of the time. 

They’d meet at odd hours. Late night pho after shifts, a spontaneous lunch on Paige’s off-day, a quick drive-thru to Dunkin before the sun rises.  

Paige showed up with a different compliment every time. 

“Have I told you your scrubs are my favorite color today?” 

“They’re gray.” 

“Exactly. Mysterious, like your soul.” 

“You’re ridiculous.” 

“Ridiculously into you.” 

They’d share music on long drives, Paige tapping the steering wheel to the beat, Isha sneaking glances at her when she thought she wasn’t looking.  

Once, they danced in Paige’s kitchen to a Spotify playlist labeled 'Old School Jams + Bops.' 

“You know,” Isha murmured, leaning into Paige’s arms, “you’re not as smooth as you think.” 

“I’m smoother,” Paige whispered back. 

One night, curled up beside her on the couch, Paige looked at Isha and said, “So… how does it feel to be officially dating a woman who owns more sneakers than you have pairs of socks?” 

“Deeply intimidating,” Isha murmured, tucking her feet under Paige’s legs. 

“You like it.” 

“I tolerate it.” 

But her smile said otherwise. 

Then Paige added, “Also, you now legally have to let me win all future arguments.” 

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how relationships work.” 

“It is in mine.” 

Isha kissed her cheek. “We’ll negotiate.” 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It started with silence. 

Isha didn’t answer her phone. Or her texts. Or the backup call Paige made to the nurses’ station when her stomach started to churn. Nine hours passed. Nine. With nothing. 

Paige tried not to panic. 

She failed. 

By the time she was pacing the waiting room at Dallas Meadows Hospital, she was a wreck. Baseball cap pulled low, hoodie zipped to her chin, heart hammering like it was in overtime. 

Kathy finally emerged from a side door. 

“She’s okay,” the nurse said, voice calm. “She got pulled into an emergency surgery after her attending went down. No time to check her phone.” 

Paige nearly sank into the nearest chair. 

When Isha finally walked out of the stairwell — scrubs rumpled, hair half-loose, and shadows under her eyes — Paige stood up too fast. 

“You look awful,” she blurted. 

Isha blinked. “Nice to see you too.” 

“Sorry, baby. I mean, are you okay?” 

“Alive. Barely caffeinated.” 

They stared at each other. The space between them felt thick with all the words Paige hadn’t let herself say. 

“You can’t do that to me,” she said finally, voice barely a whisper. 

“I didn’t plan — ” 

“I know. Just… don’t. Not again.” 

And then Paige crossed the room in two strides, cupped Isha’s face in both hands, and kissed her like the world had just restarted. 

Because for her, it had. 

When they finally pulled apart, Isha rested her forehead against Paige’s. 

“Sorry I scared you, darling.” she murmured. 

“You didn’t scare me,” Paige said. “You terrified me, Ma. There’s a difference.” 

Isha chuckled weakly. “Next time I’ll send a carrier pigeon.” 

“I’d accept smoke signals. Just something.” 

Paige pulled her into another hug, tighter this time. 

“I missed you like an idiot,” she whispered. 

“You’re not an idiot,” Isha whispered back. 

“Tell that to my pacing record.” 

They spent the rest of the night in Paige’s apartment. Isha fell asleep on the couch before they could even finish the movie Paige had queued. Paige covered her with a blanket, watched her chest rise and fall, and softly whispered, “You scared me because I love you.” 

Isha, half-asleep, replied, “I know. Me too.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It happened slowly. Then all at once. 

Isha moved in with very little ceremony: a weekend bag, two plants named after obscure Star Trek characters, and a kettle Paige broke within a week. 

They didn’t talk about it much. Didn’t set rules or timelines. It just made sense. 

Paige cleared out a dresser drawer. Isha filled it. 

Isha claimed the left side of the bathroom sink. Paige left little notes on the mirror with dry erase markers: ‘You’re doing great’ and ‘Refill the toilet paper pls’ and ‘You smell nice.’ 

They painted the guest room together one Sunday, arguing about whether “aloe mist” was an acceptable color name. 

“I swear this looks like toothpaste,” Paige insisted, covered in flecks of green. 

“It’s calming!” Isha protested, waving a roller. 

“Calming like a dentist’s office.” 

Isha dabbed paint onto Paige’s nose. “You’re impossible.” 

“Yet deeply lovable.” 

“You’re lucky I like your face.” 

They shared a look. Half-challenge, half-flirting. Then burst out laughing. 

Isha brought books. Paige brought takeout. They shared everything else. 

On game days, Isha packed orange slices in Paige’s duffel and pretended not to double check her water bottle. On hospital nights, Paige ordered late-night Thai and Chinese foods and stayed up so Isha wouldn’t come home to an empty apartment. 

Sometimes Paige would wait by the door with a blanket, arms open, no words needed. Isha would step into the warmth like it was her recharge station. 

“I should marry you just for the foot rubs,” Isha mumbled once, half-asleep. 

“Make me a mixtape first,” Paige replied. 

“You own a cassette player?” 

“Babe, I’m an old soul.” 

It wasn’t perfect. 

They had fights. About messes, about missed calls, about who used the last of the oat milk and didn’t replace it. But it always ended with apologies. With sleepy hugs and forehead kisses. 

With home. 

One night, wrapped in a too-small blanket, Paige whispered, “This isn’t how I thought my life would go.” 

Isha stirred. “Regrets?” 

Paige shook her head. “Just… surprised.” 

Isha smiled against her shoulder. “Good surprise?” 

Paige kissed the top of her head. “Best surprise, Ma.” 

Then, after a pause: “Also, we’re getting a better blanket. This one is a scarf.” 

“Deal.” 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

They didn’t say ‘I love you’ the way it happened in rom-coms. There was no string quartet, no artfully timed fireworks, no kiss-in-the-rain moment. It happened on a completely average Tuesday, in the middle of something as mundane as dinner prep. 

They were in the kitchen, making frozen dumplings that sizzled gently in the skillet. The Bachelorette was on in the background, muted just enough that the contestants’ frantic yelling blended into white noise.  

Isha, still in her scrubs, was ranting animatedly about a surgeon who kept calling her ‘Isabel’ despite three corrections, an email signature, and a name badge the size of a license plate. 

“It’s not even hard!” she exclaimed, grabbing a pair of tongs a little too aggressively. “It’s four letters! Two Syllables! ‘Isha’ is not a cryptic cipher!” 

Paige was only half-listening, flipping dumplings with one hand while texting Dijonai with the other. “Did you try tapping it out in Morse code?” 

Isha glared, the corner of her mouth twitching despite her best efforts to stay indignant. “Don’t tempt me. I will tape my name to my forehead.” 

Paige set her phone down, leaned against the counter casually, and said with deceptive ease, “I love you, by the way.” 

Silence fell like a feather, not heavy or jarring, but deliberate. The kind of stillness that made every breath suddenly feel louder. 

Isha blinked. “What?” 

“I said I love you,” Paige repeated, a slow smile curling at her lips. “Just figured I should say it before I burn your dinner. Which, by the way, is a very real possibility.” 

Isha’s brows lifted, stunned, as if the air had shifted. “You’re serious?” 

“Unless you’re secretly in love with that surgeon who calls you Isabel.” 

That earned a soft, incredulous laugh from Isha, who put the tongs down like they were too hot to handle. She crossed the room, every step measured but unhurried, and without a word, pulled Paige into a kiss. Gentle, warm, laced with everything she hadn’t yet said. 

When they finally parted, she whispered, forehead against Paige’s, “I love you too.” 

They didn’t speak for a long while after that. 

They didn’t need to. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Some nights just collapse around you. 

This one had teeth. 

From the very first quarter, Paige felt off. Her timing a fraction too slow, her feet stuck in invisible cement. Layups clanged off the rim. Passes went wide. Her usual fluidity felt replaced by static. She wasn’t just playing poorly. She was unraveling in real time, under the blinding lights and judgmental roar of the crowd. 

By the final buzzer, the scoreboard was a brutal punctuation mark: Wings 63, Liberty 85. A twenty-two point implosion. 

The locker room buzzed with post-game chatter, reporters like vultures, flashbulbs ready to pounce. Paige didn't wait. She slipped out the side exit, hoodie pulled low, earbuds in with no music playing. Her phone buzzed relentlessly—messages from teammates, coaches, Dijonai—but she ignored everyone. 

The ride home was a blur of headlights and guilt. 

When she stepped into the apartment, she found Isha curled up on the couch, feet tucked under her, a book open in her lap. She was already dressed in comfort clothes: leggings and Paige’s UConn T-shirt that was two sizes big on her. 

Isha looked up, took one look at Paige’s expression, and closed the book without a word. 

She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t fill the silence with platitudes. 

She simply opened her arms. 

Paige crumpled into her like an avalanche finally reaching the bottom of the mountain. Her breath hitched, shoulders tense, every failure clinging to her skin like sweat. 

“I sucked,” she mumbled, voice muffled against Isha’s shoulder. 

“You didn’t suck,” Isha murmured. “You just had a bad game.” 

“I let them down. Everyone.” 

“Not me, darling.” Isha said simply. 

And that broke something. In a good way. 

Paige shook with the effort of holding it together. “I hate this feeling. Like I’m failing. Like I’m not enough.” 

Isha pulled her tighter, one hand rubbing slow circles on her back. “You are more than enough, baby. You’re everything.” 

Time passed in slow breaths and quiet touches. No judgment. Just warmth. 

Eventually, Isha leaned back slightly. “I brought lasagna and chicken wings. Your favorites. For after you finish punching yourself emotionally.” 

A shaky laugh escaped Paige’s lips. “You really do know me.” 

“I study greatness, my love. Occupational hazard.” 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The new season roared in with the unrelenting chaos of a freight train. Media day lights, preseason scrimmages, new teammates with fresh egos, new plays that twisted Paige’s muscle memory into knots. Expectations were sky-high. The Wings were aiming for the playoffs, and every practice buzzed with the weight of it. 

But beneath it all, Paige felt... anchored. Not weighed down. Not stressed. But steady in a way she hadn’t felt in years. 

Because this time, she had Isha. 

They’d carved out a rhythm, a life tucked into the in-between hours. Morning smoothies were a ritual now, complete with Isha fussing over protein-to-fruit ratios while Paige danced to 2000s pop in fuzzy socks. Their kitchen had become a home stage. Blenders whirring, Spotify blasting, dance battles erupting mid-breakfast. 

“You’re gonna tear your ACL doing the ‘Single Ladies’ again,” Isha warned one morning as Paige spun too enthusiastically in her socks and collided with the fridge. 

“Worth it,” Paige replied, holding a banana like a microphone. “This is performance art, babe.” 

Isha just shook her head, but her laugh was warm. It always was. 

Their shared calendar was a collage of game days and night shifts, but they made space where they could: a coffee date squeezed between press conferences and surgeries, late-night pho on Paige’s balcony under fairy lights they forgot to take down after Christmas, and mid-day quick run to their favorite farmer’s market.  

They left notes in each other’s pockets too. Scribbled encouragements, crude doodles, and dumb jokes about feet (Paige’s favorite subject, apparently). 

On the day after their first big win, Paige burst through the apartment still wearing half her Wings uniform, tossed her bag aside, and shouted, “Put on shoes! You’re coming with me.” 

“What kind of shoes?” Isha asked warily, already slipping on sneakers. 

“The kind that let you climb fire escapes,” Paige grinned, grabbing her hand. 

Minutes later they were scaling the side of their building, breath puffing in clouds in the cold night air.  

When they reached the roof, Paige revealed her grand plan: a portable Bluetooth speaker, a thermos of hot cider, and a basketball she’d stuffed in her gym bag. 

“The cider was almost a disaster,” Paige confessed. “I spilled some on your calendar.” 

“I noticed. My schedule now smells like cinnamon.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

They sat on a blanket, sipping from paper cups as city lights shimmered in the distance. Paige nudged Isha’s shoulder. “You remember our first rooftop date?” 

“You mean our first highly illegal hospital trespass?” 

“Same thing.” 

Paige stood, tugged Isha to her feet, and gently spun her in place. “I’m thinking about how far we’ve come,” she whispered. “From Sour Patch peace offerings to this.” 

Isha stepped closer. “You know I hated that vending machine.” 

“But you liked me.” 

“I tolerated you.” 

Paige kissed her. Soft. Steady. Familiar. 

“I love you more than that rooftop hoop,” Paige whispered when they broke apart. “And that hoop meant everything.” 

“I know, darling.” Isha murmured, eyes glassy. “You’re it for me, too.” 

Above them, stars blinked like quiet witnesses. Below them, the city kept moving. But here, on this roof, it all stood still. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Years later, Paige found herself back in the same place she’d once waited with a blue dolphin under one arm and a racing heart in her chest. 

Dallas Meadows Hospital hadn’t changed much. 

The halls still echoed with soft footsteps and the occasional screech of a rogue gurney wheel. The walls still smelled vaguely like lemon-scented cleaner and old hope. The vending machine in the east wing still swallowed dollars with the same cruelty. Someone had finally upgraded the coffee, though. Now it tasted like burnt ambition instead of despair. 

Paige sat in her usual seat outside Recovery Room 2B, one long leg crossed over the other, a paperback on her lap, though she wasn’t reading it. She held the faded blue dolphin gently, rubbing its worn flipper absentmindedly. It had become a kind of quiet tradition. Something nostalgic, like a good luck charm she didn’t quite believe in but couldn’t let go of. 

From down the hallway, she heard the click of familiar footsteps. 

Then she saw her with her golden plate pinned on her white coat — Dr. Isha Bueckers, Attending. 

Her hair was a little shorter now, clipped at her chin in sleek curls that framed her face. Her coat fit a bit differently, a little more tailored, a little more confident. There was also something new in her eyes. Years of experience, maybe, or just the quiet strength that came from knowing you were exactly where you were meant to be. And that there was a thin and shiny gold band resting on her ring finger. 

“You’re in my spot,” Isha said, a half-smile tugging at her lips. 

“I saved it, Ma.” Paige replied, patting the seat beside her. “And brought company.” 

Isha sat, knees bumping Paige’s, and reached for the stuffed dolphin. “God, this thing’s still alive?” 

“Barely,” Paige laughed. “But it’s tougher than it looks. Like someone I know.” 

From around the corner, a young nurse’s voice floated down the hall, just a whisper: “Is that her? That’s Paige Bueckers, right?” 

Paige smiled without turning her head. “Still getting recognized.” 

“You’re a walking statue,” Isha said. “And still too tall.” 

“You still love me, though.” 

Isha turned, her face softening. “Of course I do.” 

“Tell me again.” 

“I love you,” she said. No hesitation. No pretense. Just the truth, clean and sure. 

They stayed like that for a long time. Legs tangled. Shoulders leaning together. No rush. No schedule. Just stillness and breath and memory. 

Eventually, Paige exhaled, a slow, content sigh. “You know, I didn’t believe in fate.” 

“Still don’t,” Isha replied, resting her head against Paige’s shoulder. “We built this. We chose this.” 

“Yeah,” Paige whispered, pressing a kiss to her hair. “But if I had to start it all over again, vending machines and rooftop basketball and bad dumplings and all… I’d still choose you.” 

“I know, darling.” 

And in the hum of fluorescent lights and quiet hospital chatter, they sat in the exact place they’d started. Only now, their story wasn’t beginning. 

It had already begun. 

And it was still going. 

[mcrdvcks]

congrats on 2k!!🥰

may i ask for tony stark x reader headcanons, where tony just tries to keep winning over his secretary!reader and wants to date them because he's soooo in love with them?

confession: i love tony but i only see him as a father figure. i know that sounds weird, but i think it has to do with all the irondad and peter parker x stark!reader fics i read during quarantine. this was probably my hardest request, and i'm not sure i got his character right since this is my first time writing him in a romantic sense. i hope it's okay!

send an ask for my 2,000 followers celebration!

warnings/tags: secretary!reader, tony trying to flirt, reader's not impressed, fluff

It starts with curiosity. You’re smart, efficient, immune to his charm. You don’t laugh at his jokes unless they’re actually funny. You don’t blush when he winks. You send calendar invites with exact timestamps and zero emojis.

You once told him “You have a meeting in four minutes. Stop flirting and finish your coffee.” And Tony? Swooned. He calls it “tough love.” Pepper calls it “finally someone who tells him no.”

He tries subtle flirting at first. “Is it hot in here or is it just your spreadsheet formatting?” “You type like an angel. Fast. Efficient. Slightly terrifying.” “If you wanted me to fall for you, you should’ve just said so instead of handing me that expense report.” You blink. “Sign it, Stark.”

He starts giving you nicknames. Nothing crude—just too charming for his own good. “Boss of My Life.” “The Backbone of Stark Industries.” “Miss Efficiency (and Occasionally Terrifying Grace).”

He buys you coffee every morning. From your favorite place. Exactly the way you like it. The barista starts assuming you’re the one dating him. You’re not.

He brags about you constantly. “She schedules my life with military precision.” “She shut down a hostile board member in five words.” “If I had half her focus, I’d be… well, still a genius, but a slightly better one.”

Tony tries so hard to impress you. Starts arriving to meetings on time (just for you). Tries to remember names on the call sheets (you notice). Once reprogrammed the coffee machine to say “good morning, [your name]” every time you walked in.

He lowkey panics when you don’t show up on time. “Is she sick? Did I overwork her? Did I say something wrong?” You had car trouble. He buys you a new car. You glare at him for three days. “Okay, okay. Loaner car. But it happens to be nice.”

Pepper knows. Rhodey knows. Happy definitely knows. They start placing bets on when you’ll finally give in.

You once laughed at something he said—really laughed—and he froze like he’d been electrocuted.

Eventually, he stops pretending it’s casual. One late night at the office, he walks in, sets down takeout, and says, “I know you’ve got standards, and I know I’m a mess. But I’m a mess who’s in love with you. So if you ever feel like taking a chance… I’m right here. With dumplings.”

He still flirts after that—but it’s gentler now. Real. “You make me want to show up better. Not for the company. For you.”

And you? You don’t say yes immediately. You make him wait. But one day, you take the coffee he hands you, smile just slightly, and say, “dinner tonight?” He spills half his own drink.

[oddlydescriptive]

Reset, Chapter Seventeen

Series Masterlist

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You didn’t get flown out for the final race. Didn’t get a dress code email for the prize giving ceremony. Didn’t get a hotel keycard left in an envelope at the front desk. You watched the last race of the season from your dorm, curled up on your twin bed with a plate of freezer dumplings and a laptop that buffered at least twice before the stream caught up.

Red Bull won everything, obviously. Verstappen took the final checkered flag like it was inevitable. The team celebrated in a blaze of champagne and perfectly lit content loops. You closed the window before the podium interviews even started.

No one called. No one needed anything.

And honestly, that made sense.

You’re still under contract through December 31st- still, technically, Red Bull property- but AlphaTauri’s already been announced. You’re not just development anymore. You’re not just RedBull Racing anymore. You’re forward-facing. Pipeline material. And while no one has said it aloud, the shift’s been happening for weeks.

They’re phasing you out.

Quietly. Gently. Efficiently.

Your data access had been the first thing to go- little changes, gradual redactions. You still had log-ins, but fewer dashboards showed up when you used them. Then the assignments started thinning out. Weekly reports became biweekly summaries. Dev meeting invites stopped appearing unless someone had a specific question for you. A sim anomaly. A question about a comment you had left on the braking data a few weeks ago. 

It’s not personal. It’s not even cruel. It’s just… logistics. And you got it. You get it. You do.

You’re not their girl anymore. Or, won’t be. Not in the gears-and-axles sense. You got exactly what you wanted. You’ve stopped being a cog. Now you’re something shinier. Something public. A face. A product. A name.

You’d had more access than you probably should’ve from the beginning. More control. More input. They’re only pulling back what they’d loaned in the first place.

Still.

You’d built your entire life around this place since they dumped you on the factory steps in August-  broke, jagged, desperate, hungry for anything more than the Indy career you had torched to the ground. This badge. These halls. The windowless sim rooms and bitter instant coffee and shared dorm showers. It’s become your whole ecosystem.

And now?

Now you’re bored.

Not in the casual, oh-I-have-nothing-to-do sense. Not in the Instagram scroll, maybe-I’ll-go-for-a-run way. You’re untethered. No real tasks. A measly four calendar holds before the end of the year. No Gavin- he’s traveling with the team.  No Alessandro- burning PTO like a matchbook before the winter build surge. No Danny- off wrapping up his last days with McClaren. Stuck, just like you. Stuck, right here in purgatory.

Lying on your back in a sterile little dorm room with your legs curled up like a child and your phone battery at nine percent. Watching the forced-air heating ruffle a stray paper on your desk, trying not to fall asleep before the year-end party even starts.

It’s not loneliness, exactly. You’ve survived worse. Objectively, you have zero complaints.

But it’s quiet in a way that makes your skin itch.

There are big things coming. Huge things. A race seat. Brand deals and sponsors. Points, even, if you play your cards right. But right now? Right now you’re still technically Red Bull. Still on their payroll. Still sleeping under their roof.

You’re not part of the machine you live in anymore. And the weight of that contradiction is making you feel… something. Not numb. Not sad. Not exactly.

Just unmoored. 

The day’s gotten away from you in your spiral- cold gray light stretching thin across the dorm ceiling, your phone buzzing occasionally from across the room and left unread. You should be doing something. Hair. Makeup. Picking out an outfit for this evening’s staff year end party. Anything.

Instead, you’ve just been… still.

You can’t quite name it. The feeling in your chest like a tether’s been cut. The quiet hum of weightless boredom, pressed under the skin like a bruise that never quite blooms.

You’re still training. Still working. You show up to the gym like it’s your job- because it kind of is. Because it’s the only thing that hasn’t shifted beneath your feet lately. The rhythm, the discipline, the ache. It reminds you of the summer. The purgatory of Jos’s house. The hours you carved open just to fill them with movement. With sweat. With anything that kept you from unraveling entirely.

But this has been different.

Since you got here- since the AlphaTauri shook the marrow out of your bones and left you wrung out and trembling for your life in an ice bath- you’ve been training with intention. Not just survival. Not just control. Not just maintenance. You’ve been trying to build.

For the first time in your life, the goal isn’t to disappear.

It’s to expand.

IndyCar never cared if you were strong. They cared if you were light. No driver weight minimums. Junior series, whatever flavor you drove in any given year, same thing. Lighter was faster. Coaches, engineers, principals- always asking the same questions.

How light can you get and still drive? How many days can you go without carbs before your body starts eating your reflexes?

Smaller was better. A decade of conditioning that turned your own hunger into an enemy. Every pound scrutinized. Every calorie accounted for. Racing in those worlds meant being barely there- meant learning to cut yourself down until you fit inside the mold.

The only real advantage to being a woman in that system? You were already small. Naturally lighter. It made the weight targets a little easier- sometimes. While your male teammates were scraping muscle off themselves to make weight, skipping meals and running hot just to cut grams, you were coasting in under the line. Not because it was healthy. Not because it was fair. But because being born smaller meant you starved less.

But now?

Now you’re in F1.

Now there's a minimum. A fixed number. Now it doesn’t matter if you’re naturally small- because every pound you don’t carry is another pound your competitors get to fill with power. With strength. With muscle that helps them outdrive, outmuscle, outlast you.

You’re no longer rewarded for taking up less space. You’re punished for it. So you’ve changed.

You’ve been eating like it matters. Training like it’s math- input and output, time and tension. Your body, for the first time since before you got your first period, isn’t a compromise. It’s becoming a weapon.

You sit up slowly. Peel off your clothes. One layer at a time. Hoodie, socks, leggings, tank. Until you’re just in your underwear and bra. Cotton. Soft. Familiar.

Then you reach for the full-length mirror leaning against the wall and drag it onto the bed with you. Set it up agasint your pillows so you can see yourself. All of you. Up close.

And then you look. Really look. Take stock.

Your thighs are thicker now. Solid. Corded with new muscle, the kind that moves when you shift and flexes without trying. They press together, heavy and warm and proud. They flow into hips that have grown wider, fuller, more anchored somehow. Your waist is still there- narrow, defined- but the curve from rib to hip to thigh is smooth and deep and fucking stunning.

You twist slightly, propping yourself on one arm, and turn your attention lower.

Your ass is outrageous.

You blink. Then smile. Every inch of it earned from loading squats three times a week until you might have cried with exhaustion. It lifts high and round, fuller than it’s ever been. It’s the reason most of your jeans have become… hazardous, lately. You only have a handful of pairs left that fit at all, much less well. The shape is almost surreal- like someone photoshopped you and forgot to undo it. But it’s not fake. It’s earned. It balances the line of your back, the curve of your hips, the strength in your thighs.

You shift your hips again, slowly. Watching the way everything follows. The drag of your skin, the flex and pull of muscle. And it’s not just power. It’s not just the function of it.

It’s beautiful.

There’s a sensuality to it that catches you off guard.

Not sexual. Not quite. Not the kind of thing you’d show off for someone else. This isn’t about being wanted. You haven’t been touched in months. Haven’t been kissed. Haven’t felt the pressure of someone else’s palm against your skin or the heat of a gaze that wanted this body.

And that’s okay.

Because right now, this moment isn’t for them.

It’s for you.

You look at your stomach- still lean, but no longer hollow. Muscle built up through dedication, not revealed by deprivation. Your shoulders roll back as you shift upright, and your back pulls taut, muscles threading together like ropes under skin.

And then your eyes land on your chest.

Your bra- nothing fancy, just plain cotton- stretches over you in a way it never used to. Full. Rounded. Heavy in a way that’s new. Like your body finally got the message that it’s safe to have things now. That you’re allowed to take up space.

You trail your fingers from your sternum outward. Over the shape of yourself. The dip of your waist. The rise of your hips. The flare and the fullness and the heat pooling under your skin, not from desire- but from recognition.

This is not the body you left America with.

Not the one built for hunger. Not the one that fought, that starved, that was sold in sponsorship dollars and calories just to survive. Not the same one that felt powerless and drowned and vulnerable in pits full of men with egos that outpaced their cars.

This one is yours.

All of it. The strength. The softness. The sex appeal.

And yeah, it’s probably a little vain, the way you pose. The way you tilt your chin and arch your back and stare at your own reflection with a smirk you didn’t know you still had in you. But you don’t care.

You love her.

This new shape. This new presence. This walking, breathing proof that you are here. You deserve this space. You are every inch of who you make yourself to be. 

You pull your knees up to your chest, still sitting on the bed, mirror between them, and rest your cheek on your own shoulder, watching the way your arms curve around yourself. 

It’s not lost on you how much trauma lived in the old body. In the bones that didn’t bend. In the skin that always felt too tight. In the way people looked at you like a novelty or a threat or a product.

This body isn’t for them.

It’s for you. For who you’re going to be. 

And it’s perfect.

Eventually… you move. Not quickly. Not decisively. Just… gradually. Like heat returning to numb limbs. You get up, still in your underwear, and pad barefoot across the cold dorm floor to the narrow wardrobe tucked beside your desk. It’s small, just to hold the things you can’t afford to let wrinkle. You’ve only opened it a handful of times since you got back from Brazil.

The contents aren’t much. A few basics. A pressed pair of jeans with a sharp, precise crease ironed down the front. Slacks. A simple blazer. At the right end, your suit hangs crisp in its plastic wrap, the one you wore to push your contract at Helmut, back when the words “development driver” still felt like something borrowed. 

You touch the fabric out of habit. The pants look… impossible. Maybe, if you hold your breath and pray to Sara Blakely and her Spanx gods- oh, and don’t eat all night- but honestly, you’re looking forward to the catering spread. Besides, it’s just the staff party- it’s really not that serious.

You let them hang.

Instead, you let your fingers walk a few hangers to the left. Fingers brush something soft. Velvet. Rich, forgiving, quietly festive. Not ugly sweater festive, but more like ‘yes, we are acknowledging it’s December.’ You pull it forward.

The dress is red. Not race-car red, not attention-demanding. Just… warm. A little saturated. The kind of color that makes your skin look golden and your hair a little darker in contrast. Sleeveless. High-necked. Hits just above the knee. Enough stretch to move with you. To let the body you’ve built exist without apology.

You hold it up to your chest, glance toward the mirror still propped on your bed, and nod once. Quietly. Like you’re letting yourself agree with the version of you that smiled at her own reflection twenty minutes ago. It’s not a statement dress. It’s not supposed to be. 

You pull on a pair of black nylons- semi-sheer, a soft little balance between flirtation and formality. The kind you used to wear for media days in junior formula, when you wanted to look polished but not severe. They slide up with the faintest whisper, snug but not constricting. They feel like intention.

Shoes next- your simple black pumps. Not casual, not party heels. Just clean, classic. You slip them on and they still fit the way only leather can- with loyalty. Like no matter how much the rest of you changes, these shoes will still love your feet. That feels like something. A single, stable detail in a body and world that’s otherwise brand new.

You perch on the edge of your desk to do your makeup rather than move the half-clean laundry that lives on your chair. Try not to sit in your compact while you plan your face.

Nothing heavy. Nothing loud. Just light coverage. A little shimmer. A soft sweep of blush across the apples of your cheeks that makes you look sunlit, even under factory-grade fluorescents. You gloss your lips with something pink and sheer, add a touch of mascara. Pretty. Festive. The kind of face that looks like someone you’d want to talk to at a work party without checking a credential first.

Your hair’s a little unruly from lying around until it air-dried, but it still curls easily under your hands. You twist it up in loose, polished sections, pin it in place, and finish it with a narrow ribbon tucked just above the nape of your neck. The bow is barely anything- thin, dainty. Just a little touch.

And when you finally step back from the mirror and take it all in- dress, tights, pumps, makeup, the slight shimmer on your collarbone- you don’t feel like a driver or a ghost or a PR obligation. Not really.

You feel like a girl going to a party at the end of the strangest, most transformative semester of her life. A little out of place. A little nostalgic for something that hasn’t even fully ended. Quietly proud. Quietly melancholy.

You smooth your hands down your dress once, just to feel the fabric hug your ribs. Time to say goodbye- quietly, professionally, beautifully- to the place that made you feel like someone valuable again. Even if they’re already learning how to do without you.

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The party’s better than expected.

Not flashy, not loud- just the hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, the low warmth of staff laughter echoing against the high factory walls. Someone’s strung lights across the ceiling beams, giving everything a soft golden tint. There’s music playing low from the overheads, just enough to keep the room moving. Food’s decent. Little platters of fussy fingerfoods that strike a balance between upscale and approachable. Drinks are free. Everyone’s at that perfect midpoint between polite and tipsy.

You’re leaned against a high table near the edge of the floor, nursing something red and fizzy in a plastic flute. The dress is holding up. The shoes haven’t betrayed you. And you’re laughing- real laughter, open and soft- because Ollie from dev is holding court like his life depends on it.

“I swear to God,” he’s saying, wide-eyed, one hand gesturing wildly, “the second I mentioned it, he looked at me like I’d confessed to a murder.”

Nicole’s giggling politely beside him- dark hair curling over her shoulders, dress tastefully low-cut, clearly groomed and pressed to the nine- and Ollie is doing absolutely nothing to hide the way he’s looking at her.

It’s not subtle.

He is making full, direct, devotional heart eyes every time she opens her mouth. You’re only half listening to the story at this point. Mostly you’re laughing at the sheer audacity of his infatuation. Like he doesn’t even care that you’re standing right here, clocking every stolen glance like it’s your actual job.

Ollie says something else- something about a lost data package and a RedBull fueled all nighter that left him hallucinating on his drive home- and Nicole tilts her head, clearly humoring him.

“That’s… so wild,” she says, all doe-eyed and glittery.

Ollie looks like he’s going to combust. You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing again. You sip your drink instead, cheeks warm. For the first time all day, you feel… present. A little girlish. A little like you belong. And yet, despite the comfort of that- you feel it. 

You can feel Jos moving through the room.

It’s not oppressive. Not threatening. He’s not circling like a shark, and you’re not prey. It’s just… something you’re aware of. Like tracking a storm in the distance. You always know where he is.

And honestly?

You’ve resigned yourself to it.

You know he’ll find you eventually. That’s the nature of Jos. He always does. Always appears at the edge of a moment you thought was yours, all gravel-voiced analysis and heavy handshakes and that particular brand of European proximity that makes everything feel more intimate than it should.

And you’re not exactly afraid. You never have been.

If anything- God, you almost missed him.

Jos is a lot. An exhausting amount. But he’s also sharp. Dangerous in the way only brilliant men can be. Talking to him is like fencing with live wire- strategic, quick, crackling. But you’ve never felt like the target. Not really.

You’re not sure what that makes you.

An ally, maybe.

A co-conspirator.

Because Jos doesn’t talk to you like you’re lucky to be here. He talks to you like you’re a weapon. Like you’re leverage he trusts to understand what you’re worth. Like you’re playing a game with him- and unlike with most men in this sport, with Jos, the game doesn’t end with you losing. You think. Probably. So far, at least.

Still, there’s a sliver of something colder beneath it all. A flicker of discomfort you haven’t fully looked at yet. You don’t let yourself think about that too hard. Not here. Not now.

Instead, you set your drink down and laugh again- high and bright, because Ollie has just managed to turn a telemetry error into a flirtation, and Nicole is playing along like she might just let him win. You play with the ribbon in your hair, glance sideways across the room-  And, sure enough, Jos is watching. Not close. Not obvious. Just… waiting.

You adjust the strap of your dress, smooth your hands down the velvet one more time. Your glass is nearly empty. Nicole’s laughing again, Ollie’s blushing so hard it’s a health concern, and somewhere across the room, Jos Verstappen is waiting for you.

So you decide- fuck it.

If he’s going to find you anyway- if he’s already watching- you might as well meet him on your terms. Even if those terms are flimsy. Even if they exist mostly as a way to keep your spine straight and your voice level and your heart from pounding through your ribs.

You slip away from the table, leaving Ollie mid-laugh and Nicole mid-smile. Neither of them notices you go.

You push off the table and cross the floor without fanfare. Slow, steady, unbothered. Your heels click softly against the concrete. The lights above throw gold over your shoulders, and you hold your posture just right. Not stiff. Not girlish. Just composed. Whole.

You don’t know what compels you, exactly. It’s not submission. It’s not allegiance. It’s something quieter. Resignation, maybe. Or- God, maybe curiosity. You’ve danced around this enough times to know it’s coming. He’ll find you eventually. Might as well see what happens when you make the first move.

Jos tracks you the whole way. He’ss standing near the back, half-shadowed by a pillar and positioned with surgical precision- close enough to be in the mix, far enough that no one casually wanders into his orbit. He’s talking to someone from powertrains, nodding along like he’s interested, but his eyes flick toward you the moment you cross the floor.

Not obviously. Not openly. Just with the kind of stillness predators have right before they strike. Arms folded. Drink untouched. He shifts his weight once, almost imperceptibly, like he can’t believe his luck but is already plotting how to use it.

You keep your shoulders relaxed. You walk like you have nowhere in particular to be.

Jos smiles when you reach him. It doesn’t quite touch his eyes.His gaze flicks over you once- just once- but it’s loaded. Evaluating. Not lecherous, but not empty either. Like he’s cataloging the value of your appearance for some unseen ledger.

“There she is,” he says, low and pleased. “I was wondering when you’d come say hello.”

You smile. Easy. Controlled. “Thought I’d save the best for last.”

He laughs once, a short sound, dry and amused. “I like the dress.”

You resist the urge to fidget. “Thanks. Needed something that fit.”

Jos’s eyes flash at that- just a brief glint of approval, the kind that makes your skin feel seen in a way that’s not quite comfortable. Not inappropriate. Just intentional.

You sip your drink- what’s left of it- and let a small silence settle between you. The music hums along in the background. Conversation rolls across the room like static. You glance over your shoulder once, scan the space like you’re keeping track of exits. Then turn back.

And with practiced casualness, you say, “You hear about anything running this winter?”

Jos’s attention sharpens, just slightly. Barely a twitch in his jaw. But he clocks it. You keep your eyes on the middle distance and take a sip of your drink- mostly for the pause it offers- and then, casually, like you’re mentioning the weather: “I’ve been a little bored.”

Jos tilts his head. Interested. “Is that so?”

“Just... stir-crazy.” You keep your tone light. Bright. “Haven’t been in a real car since they flew Max in for brake testing.”

He gives nothing away. Just waits.

You glance out over the room like it doesn’t matter, like you’re not carefully placing each word. “I was thinking- if anything came up. A testing slot. A rally drive. Anything like that.” There. Gentle. Palatable. No pressure. Not desperation. Not even an ask, really. Just a statement. A floating suggestion.

Your voice doesn’t shift. Your shoulders stay easy. But your stomach coils tight. Because even now- even with this new body, this new deal, this new version of you- there’s still something about asking that feels like folding. Like peeling open your ribs.

Jos’s mouth twitches. Just the corner. “Hm.” That’s it. Just that. But you know him well enough to catch it. That sound- small, smug, delighted. It’s the sound of a trap closing.

Because you came to him. Because you asked.

No matter how subtle. No matter how casual. You asked. And it thrills him. Because Jos Verstappen lives for this.

He hides it well- he always does- but it’s there. The faint shift of weight toward you. The satisfied tilt of his head. The way his eyes sharpen just slightly, like the game he’s been playing has finally started to swing in his favor.

“You want me to make a call?” he asks, smooth and quiet, like it costs him nothing.

You lift a shoulder. “Only if it’s not a headache.”

He hums, looking away for a moment, already flipping through names, contacts, favors- building the scaffolding in his mind. He lets the silence stretch just long enough to prove he holds the reins. Only then does he speak.

“It wouldn’t be a single-seater,” he says finally. “Rally, most likely. Scandinavia. Snow. Cold. Not much exposure. Barely any pay.”

You don’t hesitate. “Send my paycheck straight back to the team,” you say. “Call it a sponsorship. I don’t care what it is.”

That gets his attention.

Jos studies you, eyes narrowing just slightly. Not with suspicion. With curiosity. Like he’s just thrown a line out, expecting it to hang in the water for a while- and you bit down before it even landed.

It was a test. A measure of your grit. Of your desperation. Of your understanding.

And you passed.

He leans back ever so slightly, nodding once, like he’s filing something away. “That sounds like a good time, does it?” he asks, tone dry but edged with something almost amused.

You hold his gaze. Steady. “Yes. It does.”

Another beat. He looks at you for a moment longer- really looks. Like he’s trying to figure out if you’re naive or ruthless, and whether or not it matters.

Then, almost fondly: “You’re smart to ask.”

There’s no threat in it. But there is a temperature. A charge beneath the compliment. He wants you to know you’ve made the right choice. That you’re wise to seek him out. That there’s more where that came from, if you stay close.

Jos smiles again, all teeth and calculation disguised as generosity. “I’ll be in touch. Keep your gear bag packed.”

And just like that, you’ve traded yourself for a favor. You feel it settle in your ribs. Weightless. But not free. The kind of thing that won’t show up in contracts or inboxes, but that you’ll carry all the same. Jos slips away only a moment later.

One minute he’s promising to make a few calls, and the next he’s clapping someone on the back and gliding into another conversation- like he hadn’t just offered you a taste of something sharp and sweet with a leash hidden inside.

You’re left standing near the perimeter of the room, drink still in hand, blood still humming from the conversation. It's not adrenaline exactly. Not fear. Just the slow, uneasy swell of something that feels like a contract being signed without ink.

You can feel him before you hear him. The shift in temperature. The static at your back. Max. Predictable, honestly. That Jos would drop you off right in his periphery. Fitting, truly. Inevitable.

You don’t see him approach- he moves like a shadow under a locked door. Silent. Sure. Unwanted.

But this time? You’re not caught off guard. You’re not off balance. You’re not scrambling to please, or prove, or endure. You’re tired. Bone-deep tired. The kind of tired that scrapes everything polite out of your chest and leaves nothing behind but sharp teeth and sharper instincts.

And you’re not afraid of him anymore.

Max takes position just behind your left shoulder, close enough that the heat of him skims your skin without touching it. Like a dare. Like he wants you to turn.

You don’t flinch.

You just wait. He wouldn’t have stepped forward if he didn’t have something to say. Fucking say it, Max.

“You really going for the full set, huh?” he says at last, voice low and dry. Venom tucked under every syllable like it’s something elegant. “Sponsorship. Seat. Verstappen family holiday invite.”

You blink once. Slow. Unbothered. “Jesus.”

You turn your head over your shoulder- just enough to catch the line of his mouth, the cut of his eyes. The disdain’s still there, as always, but there’s something else now. Something darker coiled just behind it. “Is this your idea of a Christmas card?” you ask.

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t have to. The accusation’s already in the air between you. He’s not here to be clever. He’s here to see what you’ll do.

You inhale, sharp and silent. Then pivot on your toe, full-body now, facing him square for the first time. He’s close. Closer than you expected. Closer than anyone should be in a room full of champagne and fairy lights and factory staff pretending they aren’t watching.

You meet him at eye level. No posture. No smile. No spin.

Just you.

“I’m sorry I’m not subtle enough for you,” you say, voice steady. “But some of us don’t have the luxury of pretending we don’t need favors.”

You take a half-step forward. Not aggressive. Not passive. Just enough to reclaim the space he thought he’d filled.

“Look,” you go on, tired and clear and done with it, “I’ve got nothing to sell but my drives and my time. That’s it. So yeah, if Jos wants to hand me a favor, or a drive, or a fucking photo op, I’m going to take it. I’m going to smile, say thank you, and take everything he gives me. Because I’m not in a position to be picky.”

His jaw tightens. Barely. Just enough.

And maybe you should stop there. But you’re so fucking done. With him. With this. With the way he’s hovered all season like a storm cloud and acted like you were the one blocking the sun.

So you don’t stop.

“Seriously,” you add, biting now, “why are you standing here? Why don’t you go find another junior employee to intimidate? Do some scouting for next season. You love that shit.”

Max doesn’t blink. Doesn’t budge.

But his silence isn’t power anymore. Not to you.

In two weeks, you’re out of his factory. Out of his immediate orbit. You’re done tiptoeing through his moods like they’re weather patterns. So you lean in. A breath closer. Just to twist the knife. Just because you can.

“Or maybe,” you murmur, “you want me to yell at you again.” His expression doesn’t change. But his pupils sharpen. You see it. The flash of it. That dark, sick little thing he doesn’t want to name.

You remember it. That day in the boardroom. The way he stood there, watching you unravel like it was art. Practically licking his fucking chops in the blood of a kill. Like he’d finally pulled the right string and the whole thing came tumbling down and God, wasn’t that just so satisfying.

You raise your brows now, almost playful. “Seemed like you loved it.” The air between you tightens.

Not with fear. With something else.

Something heavier. Twisted. Threaded through with adrenaline and ego and the fact that you don’t technically need to be any nicer to him than he deserves anymore- but fuck, you’ll still take the last word.

Your drink sweats in your hand. Somewhere, someone across the room laughs too loud. A champagne cork pops. Max breathes in. Sharp. Controlled. You can see the words on his tongue. You can see the war inside him- the want to snap back. To grab. To tear. But he doesn’t.

He flicks his gaze down your body instead.

Not long. Not crude. Just one slow, scalding drag of assessment. Like he’s not even sure if he’s sizing you up or taking you in. Then he tilts his head. Just a little. Voice flat. “Careful.”

You smile. Not sweet. Not kind. Just knowing. “Or what?” you say, cool and easy. “You’ll call HR? Kick me off the team?” You let the smile grow sharp. “Oh, wait. You can’t. I’m already leaving.”

His eyes narrow- barely. He’s trying so fucking hard not to react. To be cool. Detached. Unbothered. And he almost pulls it off. Almost. Because this? This isn’t a fight.

Not yet. This is play. The sick kind.

Two wild animals circling the same patch of dirt. Teeth bared, tails twitching. Neither of you quite sure if this is about dominance or the last laugh or mutual destruction- but God, don’t you both want to find out.

You take a sip of your drink. Cool and steady.

And Max- quiet, scalding Max- just stands there. Watching.

Your phone vibrates in your clutch.

You wouldn’t normally check it in the middle of a cold war reenactment with Max Verstappen, but almost everyone on your short, carefully curated no-Do-Not-Disturb list is in this room, except your parents and-

You pull it out.

Danny Ricciardo [8:42 PM] bailing on mclaren. headed your way. party still good or should we find a pub? 20 mins out

You blink. And then you smile. It hits like a burst of light- like someone cracked open a window in a room you didn’t know was suffocating you. Danny.

Your maybe-friend. Your only safe person in the entire Red Bull ecosystem. Someone who isn’t looking at you like he’s devastated you’re leaving, or like he’ll forget your name the second the paperwork clears, or like he’s waiting for God to strike you down mid-sentence.

(Max, that last one. That look is all Max.)

You type fast.

You [8:43 PM]still rolling but up to you. everyone here keeps looking at me like a kicked puppy. wouldn’t mind a drink that doesn’t have ‘compote’ or ‘infusion’ in it.

There’s no reply for a minute.

Two.

Five.

Max, then, checks his phone beside you, his thumb hovering just a little too long. You glance at him- because you can’t not- and for the first time, he looks mildly annoyed. That makes you feel excellent. The night does have hope after all. You sip your drink just to keep from smiling.

Your phone buzzes again.

Danny Ricciardo [8:51 PM]let’s go out. I’ll text when I’m close.

You straighten, pulse skipping just once. You’re not going out in this. Not with Danny. Not to a pub. Velvet dress? Ribbon hair? Absolutely not. 

You glance at Max, who’s still scrolling, now with an expression like he’s trying to burn holes through his phone. Good. He can stay here with his bad mood and his weird dad. You’ve got plans. “Bye,” you murmur, not bothering to wait for him to look up.

You disappear through the side doors, heels clicking across tile. Up the stairs. Down the dim dorm hallway that’s somehow still home even when it’s already starting to forget you.

Inside your room, you move fast. Dress peeled off in one motion. You keep the nylons- they add a little warmth, and they make you feel like your legs have a little secret armor- and pull on a pair of shredded black jeans. High-rise, frayed knees, familiar as a favorite memory. A memory that is a little tight over the ass, but it’ll do.

A sleeveless top. Tighter. Cropped just enough to make your waist look like something sculpted- enough that it just barely kisses the waistband of your jeans. Black, because of course it is, but with a slight sheen that catches the dorm light.

You let your hair down. Shake it out. Pin the bow back in, low at the base of your skull.

Quick check in the mirror- yeah. That’ll do. Cute. Sharp. A little youthful. A little fuck-you. A little fuck-me. 

Exactly right.

You grab your jacket. Lip gloss. Your phone. And when you leave this time, it’s not with a sense of something ending. It’s with a thrill in your chest like maybe- finally- something is about to begin. The all black is fitting- like Danny’s come to save you from your own funeral. 

You’re practically skipping by the time you spot the rental SUV idling just past the front doors.

Factory lights still gleam overhead, pooling muted white against the cold pavement. You’re flushed from the party, from the hallway sprint, from the stupid quiet thrill of knowing someone actually wants to see you.

You wave once, already grinning.

Danny rolls the window down, half laughing already. “There she is! Backseat, Hollywood.”

You stop short. “What?”

He grins wider, too casual. “You’ve got the back.”

You blink. There’s a half-second- maybe less- where your brain tries to find a joke there, or context, or anything to make that sentence mean what you want it to mean.

But then you round the side and open the door- 

Oh.

Okay.

That’s fine.

This is fine.

Max is in the passenger seat, half-turned toward the window, jacket collar flipped up like he’s shielding himself from the entire world. He doesn’t even look at you. Your brain tries to recalibrate.

Because you’d assumed. Of course you did. Danny texted you. Danny said let’s go out. Danny is your friend. And for a few fragile minutes, you let yourself believe that meant just you and him. That it would be easy. Familiar. Comforting.

And now- 

Now you’re crawling into the backseat behind the same man you had a little verbal sparring match with not seven minutes ago. Perfect. 

You clamber awkwardly across the console, half-kneeling on the leather, and stretch your arms around Danny in the world’s least ergonomic side hug.

He laughs, warm and immediate. “That’s one way to say hi.”

“You’re lucky I’m flexible,” you mutter, chin nearly in his shoulder.

“You’re lucky you smell good,” he shoots back, arms slipping around your waist just long enough to squeeze.

You pull back, cheeks pink from wind and exertion, and slide fully into the backseat.

Danny eyes you through the rearview mirror. “You look nice.”

You roll your eyes, adjusting your seatbelt. “You say that like you’re surprised.”

“No, I’m saying it like you’re trouble.”

From the front, Max shifts. Says nothing.

You glance at the back of his head. His silence is louder than the engine.

Great.

This is going to be fun.

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

You’re practically folded over the center console, laughing about something stupid- Danny said a phrase wrong, or you did, and now the two of you are tangled in some inside joke Max doesn’t understand and doesn’t want to. You’re taking up space like you live there- laughing, leaning in too close to Danny, warm in a way Max hasn’t seen from you in weeks. Maybe ever.

And it’s not just the posture. It’s the presentation.

Your hair spills over your shoulder, catching the light from the streetlamps overhead. Loose. Shiny. Feminine in a way that makes his throat tighten.

Your shirt rides up slightly at the back, just enough to reveal the soft curve of waist where the jeans cling a little too perfectly- black denim, snug in all the places that would make anyone stare, especially now, with your new body- louder, prouder, stronger than the one Max last saw at a weigh-in this summer. Sheer black nylons that aren’t entirely see-through, but just enough to make his eyes linger before he can snap them away. 

He doesn’t look. He shouldn’t be looking. He isn’t looking.

But he can’t stop seeing.

He tries not to. Shifts in his seat like that’ll stop his peripheral vision from functioning. Like the heat creeping under his collar isn’t his problem to deal with.

He hates this.

Because it’s not just the way you look- it’s the way Danny’s looking at you. The way you’re looking at Danny. All warm and open and lit up from the inside. Like Danny’s safe. Like he’s yours. Like he’s seen something Max hasn’t.

There’s a ribbon in your hair.

A fucking ribbon.

Tied low, trailing down the back of your neck where your curls fall loose and messy, like you meant for them to look that soft. That touchable.  But Max can’t stop looking at it. He hates that bow. He hates what it implies- what it softens. Like you’re approachable. Sweet. Like there’s anything gentle about you. 

And he hates that it works.

Danny said it first- you smell good- and Max hasn’t been able to un-smell you since. Now Max can’t stop noticing. Something soft and expensive and a little sweet, something that clings to the heater vents. Wraps around his throat. It’s subtle. Effortless. Exactly the kind of scent that doesn’t try to draw attention but does anyway. Warm. Light. Clean. A little vanilla, maybe. A little powder. Something soft and domestic and utterly disarming, soaking into the the edge of his patience with every breath. 

He wants to roll down the fucking window.

You look good. And that should be annoying. Just another fucking thing about you that takes up too much space. But it’s worse than annoying.

He hates all of it. He hates how cute it is. Not loud. Not styled to seduce. Just naturally, infuriatingly attractive. He wants to make Danny turn the car around. Wants to shout something just to ruin the mood you and Danny are building without even trying.

Because it undermines everything. The bow, the perfume, the gloss on your lips- none of it belongs on someone like you. Someone who’s clawed her way into every room, swinging elbows, spitting fire, refusing to take a single inch without drawing blood.

But now you’re in Danny’s car looking like this?

Like a girl?

Because for the first time- the first time- Max doesn’t see you as a rival, or a nuisance, or a pressure point to push until you scream.

For the first time, he sees you as a woman.

And he hates it. Hates that it’s you. That it’s now. That it's happening at all. Because you’re not supposed to be this. You’re supposed to be sharp edges and smug retorts. A storm in a Red Bull polo. Someone to fight with. Someone to prove wrong.

You’re not supposed to be cute.

You’re not supposed to be beautiful.

But you are.

And now you’re glowing in the backseat like some perfect fucking contradiction, all honeyed edges and storm-wrought eyes, and Max- 

Max can’t breathe.

Because the same power that makes him want to throw something through a wall every time you talk is the same thing that’s pulling at his nerves right now. That’s twisting under his skin like a wire.

You are so goddamn alive.

Every room you walk into, you change the temperature.

Every time you speak, you rearrange the gravity.

Max clenches his jaw. Because the worst part- the part he can’t admit, even to himself- is that this isn’t new. Not really. That presence you carry, that fire, that thing that pisses him off every time you open your mouth- that’s what this is. You’re a problem. You’ve always been a problem. 

And now he’s seeing what that problem looks like in black jeans and soft perfume and a bow tied at the back of your head like a dare. You’re not just a problem. You’re alluring. You’re dangerous. And Max is hating every single fucking second of realizing it.

When the car pulls up in front of the pub, you unclip your seatbelt with a soft click and glance between the two of them.

“I can check it out first,” you say, hand already on the door. “Make sure it’s halfway subtle. Not filled with factory staff or a Max fan club.”

Danny huffs a laugh, but you’re already slipping out- shoulders squared, leather sneakers hitting pavement with that easy, practiced rhythm that says you’ve never once considered asking permission to take up space.

You cross in front of the SUV, slicing clean through the headlights. And for a second- just a second- Max forgets to breathe.The way your hips move. The way the sheen of your tights catches the light through the ripped in the denim at the back of your thigh. The bow bouncing softly behind your hair as you go.

Danny’s eyebrows shoot up.

He’s watching, too. Staring, really. Full tilt. Blatant.

And not in the way Max is- bitter and defensive, trying to smother it before it spreads. Danny’s looking like someone genuinely pleased to see you. Someone who likes watching you walk. Someone who wouldn’t mind seeing you keep going and not come back, just so he has an excuse to follow.

And Max- 

Max hates that, too.

You disappear into the pub, shoulders back, posture casual. And the moment the door swings shut behind you, Danny exhales.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “She looks good.”

Max doesn’t respond. Doesn’t look. Tries not to. But he can feel you out there, just like he’s always been able to feel it- occupying more than your share of the air.

Danny exhales through his teeth, a little laugh catching at the end. “She always like that?”

Max flicks his eyes toward him, annoyed already. “Like what?”

Danny shrugs, eyes still tracking the door you just disappeared behind. “You know. All... that.”

Max doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have an answer. He doesn’t know what that even means. The ribbon? The legs? The presence?

Danny glances at him. A little softer now. Still watching the door, but quieter. More careful. “You knew her first, man. What’s her deal?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Max could say a dozen things.

Her deal?

Where would he even start?

He could say you are stubborn. Sharp-tongued. Obsessive. You don’t bend unless something breaks you. You’re exhausting and impressive and sometimes so fucking loud in his head it drowns out everything else.

But the truth is simpler. The truth is worse.

All Max really knows is how much it takes to break you.

That’s it.

How long you can hold your breath in the fire. How much pressure you absorb before something cracks. What your voice sounds like when you’ve been holding back a scream for hours, for weeks. What it’s like to push you into a corner until the only thing left is fight.

It’s not knowledge. It’s pathology.

And it makes him feel a little sick.

He looks away, jaw tight. “I don’t know her.” And it’s the truth, but it doesn’t feel like the right thing to say. Not when Danny’s looking at him like he wants a reason to justify feeling something warm- like he’s hoping Max can explain the thing Danny’s become infatuated with. But Danny doesn’t push. Cuts himself off as your figure comes darting back across the parking lot.

You push open the car door and duck back in, breath puffing in the cold. “It’s decent,” you report, tugging your jacket tighter. “Not a lot of quiet corners, but if we can get y’all to a table fast, there’s a good chance we can get a drink or two in before the whole town realizes Verstappen’s here for pint night.”

Danny snorts and grabs the handle. “Copy that. Deploying cover fire.”

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

The three of you head inside. It’s warm, a little cramped, but charming in that British-pub-on-a-Friday kind of way. Low ceilings, scuffed wood, red walls. A few tables of locals already deep into their second round, but no one looks up long enough to register who just walked in.

You claim a booth near the back- narrow, loud, good enough- and offer to grab the drinks. Danny rattles off his usual, Max mutters his without looking up, and you head to the bar, sharp-heeled and half-smirking as you go.

You come back balancing three pints in your hands, pushing one toward each of them and settling into the seat across from both. Max takes his without thanks. Danny gives you a soft, sideways look that you pretend not to see.

Small talk kicks up, carried mostly by Danny. Easy stuff. You all pretend for ten minutes that the last few months haven’t been a professional and emotional meat grinder. You have problems. Danny has problems. Max has problems. You talk about none of them. Instead, racing gossip. Car updates. A truly unhinged story from Danny about a team principal with food poisoning in Singapore. You didn’t need to know that much about Zak Brown, honestly, but you’re laughing anyways.

And then, half a beer in, Danny leans back. One arm stretched across the booth. His gaze lands on you.

“So.” He takes a slow sip. “Hollywood. You talked to anyone since moving?”

You blink. Oh. “Like… romantically?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Or whatever you call it when it’s mutual.”

You nearly choke on your beer. You cough once, cover your mouth, and wave a hand like it’ll clear the air. “Oh my God.”

Danny laughs immediately. “That bad?”

“That’s hilarious,” you sputter, wiping your mouth. “Genuinely. Peak comedy.”

Max shifts slightly, glass still in his hand but eyes cut sharp across the table. Maybe you shouldn’t talk about your life in front of him, but honestly, there’s nothing to tell. Not really. 

You shake your head. “Danny. I live in a dorm room above the factory. Everyone I interact with is either married, under the age of twenty, or- ” you gesture lazily, without even looking- “him.”

Danny turns to glance at Max and immediately huffs a laugh. “Right. Right.”

Max doesn’t blink. Just lifts his beer and takes a long, steady sip.

You lean back in your seat, finally grinning. “Where do you think I’m meeting people? The break room? Am I supposed to flirt with the espresso machine?”

Danny’s shoulders are shaking now, head tilted back in open laughter. “Listen, I don’t know your life.”

“No. But you should. Because it’s deeply, profoundly celibate. Probably for the best. I don’t really plan on doing the whole distance thing.”

Danny’s still grinning when he gestures with the rim of his pint toward you. “Okay. No distance. Fair enough. So, theoretically- if someone not married, not a minor, and not mean,” he says, throwing a glance at Max that’s almost too quick to track, “were to, say… express interest. Someone from F1. That’d be off the table?”

You raise an eyebrow. “From F1?” The suspicion in your voice is thick enough to chew on. Profound. Amused, because this is a joke, clearly.

He shrugs, feigning innocence. “What? We’re not all emotionally stunted.”

You snort. “Okay. Let’s break that down.”

Danny lifts his hands. “I’m just asking questions.”

“Uh-huh. Let’s fuck one of my new coworkers,” you say dryly, “whose dating pool is a puddle. Like, I have seen more water on the floor of my shower.” Danny nearly spits his beer, but you keep going. You’re on one, now. 

“Yeah, fantastic idea. Let me join the glorious tradition of passing around the same three girlfriends like a paddock carnival prize. I’ll get murdered in my sleep by a group of jealous ex-WAGs and my tombstone will just say ‘should’ve known better.’”

Danny’s howling now, and even he looks slightly ashamed about how funny he finds it. Max hasn’t said a word, but you can feel it- the bristle, the shift in his posture. That thing he does when he’s trying to stay above it and failing completely. Like he does not want to appear to be enjoying this conversation in any manner, yet can’t quite help it.

And then he speaks. Mistake. “They’re not all like that,” he says, quiet but pointed.

You both turn to look at him. Just one of those slow, synchronized movements that would be funny if it weren’t so precise. Danny raises an eyebrow. “Oh?” You just sip your beer, staring at him over the rim.

Because if Max Verstappen- the reigning king of WAG turnover- is about to defend the honor of the grid, you’re going to need another drink.

And you both wait.

And Max?

He says nothing. Because he can’t. Because his most recent ex was literally the mother of his former teammate’s child. Kelly. Kelly fucking Piquet.

She was with Daniil. Had a baby with him. Then moved on to Max like it was a change in season. And Max, to his credit- or to his utter lack of shame- never said a word. Just took what he wanted, like he always does.

The silence stretches.

Danny takes a sip of his beer. You take another.

And the look you both give him- matching, amused, pointed- is louder than anything either of you could’ve said. Max doesn’t flinch. But the muscle in his jaw ticks.

Yeah. That’s what you thought. Down, boy. 

The conversation drifts. Eventually, even Max and Danny start talking- about tire strategy, about something ridiculous Christian said in a meeting last month, about a simulator bug that made the steering rack twitch even under a full shutdown like a haunted marionette. You know the one. You had to unplug the wheel entirely each night just to keep it from scaring the shit out of you after 9 pm. 

You half-listen, sipping your beer, watching the crowd thicken near the bar. Observe the slow turn of a face or two across the room- but everyone goes back to their own beers, their own conversations.

You’re part of the table, but not the conversation. Just a warm body holding one corner down. And honestly, it feels kind of nice. To not be the one driving the story. To let your posture soften, to let your brain go quiet for a minute.

Max is talking to Danny now- something about the setup in Brazil and how god-awful the outside line was that weekend. You’re half-listening, enough to track the rise and fall of his voice, the occasional gesture of his hand, but your mind drifts.

Danny is still nodding along. Still laughing in the right places. But you notice it- once, twice, then again.

His eyes keep darting over to you.

The first glance is quick. Curious, even. The second lingers longer. Long enough that you glance up and catch it. He doesn’t look away. By the third time, he’s full-on watching you.

Like you’re the most interesting thing he’s seen in weeks. Like maybe he’s not just being polite anymore.

You glance down at your drink, the rim of your glass smudged with a faint print of gloss, and try not to fidget. It’s not romantic. Not exactly. But it’s focused. Intentional. He’s looking at you like he forgot what Max was even saying.

And Max notices.

You feel it in the fractional pause in his cadence. The way his voice flattens slightly at the edges. His story loses shape. His next sentence tapers off like he’s forgotten the punchline or just doesn’t feel like delivering it anymore.

There’s a lull- brief but open- and Danny jumps on it like he’s been waiting all night for the gap. Turns to you fully.

“You really are fun, you know that?” he says, leaning a little closer, the kind of grin on his face that usually means trouble- but not in a mean way. Somewhere between beer two and beer three, and all of him just buzzing with charm and distraction.

You blink, startled out of your haze, but smile anyway. “I hope so. Would hate to be boring on top of everything else.”

Danny’s smile softens. His voice drops half a register. “No. Not just fun. Like- bright. You glow when you’re around people you like.” That makes you pause. It’s sweet. Really sweet. And unexpected. You’re not exactly sure what to do with it.

Not in a romantic way. Not really. It’s just Danny being Danny- charming, loose around the edges, ADHD running the conversation like a DJ with a broken crossfader. You’ve gathered that he’s always this side of a flirt, especially after a couple drinks. But still, something about the way he says it lands. The way his attention keeps snapping back to you like a rubber band.

You smile, wide and sheepish. “You’re just saying that because I got the drinks,” you tease, nudging his foot under the table.

Danny laughs. “Maybe. But it’s still true.”

Max, across from both of you, exhales like he’s trying not to audibly gag. And then- because he cannot help himself- he drops the hammer. “Right,” Max says, voice flat. “Just wait ‘til you see her lose it in a meeting. Then you’ll really see her glow.”

You blink.

Danny turns.

Max sips his beer, casual. Lethal. “Full meltdown. Everyone stopped talking. I think someone apologized to her, which was insane, because she was the one yelling.”

You can feel the flush rise up your chest like a fuse.

Because how dare he. You stare at him. Stunned. Furious. You can’t even speak yet.

Because he left out everything.

He left out the weeks of poking and prodding. The whispered digs. The anonymous feedback dropped into your reports. The pointed questions in front of senior staff. The deliberate redactions in your sim notes that made you look wrong even when you weren’t.

The mother-fucking-Diet-Coke.

He left out how he made you snap. Just this. This version. You, unhinged. Overreacting. Embarrassing. And now he’s feeding it to Danny like you’re some unhinged liability who just couldn’t keep her pretty little mouth shut in a meeting.

Max takes a slow sip of his beer. God, he looks so fucking pleased with himself.

But then- Danny laughs. Hard.

You blink again, confused.

Danny’s eyebrows go up. “No way. Her? C’mon.”

He looks at you, grinning. “You? You’re the meltdown type?”

Your mouth opens, words fighting their way up your throat, then closes again. Because what are you supposed to say? That it’s true? That you did raise your voice, that you did storm out, that you did send a stack of paperwork flying over the top of Max’s head and let it rain down like confetti? 

That Max got what he wanted?

Danny leans back. “Nah. Don’t believe it. Not Hollywood. Not our girl.” He says our girl, like Max might share a claim to any part of you but your absolute contempt. 

You glance at Max. He’s still staring into his glass. But his jaw is tight now. Just slightly. Like the moment didn’t go the way he planned. Danny bumps your foot under the table again, teasing. “You’d have to be a menace to get her to snap.”

You lean forward slightly, eyes still locked on Max, voice just loud enough to cut through the hum of the pub.

“Yeah,” you say. “A real fucking menace.”

Max doesn’t flinch. But his next sip of beer is sharp, and silent. But you can’t gloat on it for long, because there’s something about the room, the bar, the energy that’s… changing. You sneak a glance over the boys.

A couple glances from across the pub. Someone nudging someone else. A phone tilted in your direction, not discreetly enough. The laughter from your table a little too loud, your faces a little too familiar.

You’re not famous-famous. Not like them. But you’ve got enough edge now that your name rings a bell. And when you’re sitting across from two men who look very much like Max Verstappen and Daniel Ricciardo on a Friday night, wearing a shirt that fits a little too well and a bow in your hair that people seem to notice more than they should- it adds up.

You clock it before either of them. So you slide your empty glass across the table and say, “Time to go.” No one argues.

Outside, the air is colder than you expect. Your breath fogs. Max shrugs into his coat without a word. Danny smiles, easy and relaxed, spinning his keys once before offering them to you.

“You good to drive? We can get a cab if we need to.”

You nod. “One beer. You guys had, what, two? Three?”

Max grunts. Danny grins, a little shrug, boyish. “I was thirsty.”

You slide into the driver’s seat. Max takes the passenger side without asking, which- yuck. Bad manners. Danny climbs in back. The plan’s simple: drop them off at the hotel. You’ll take Danny’s rental car back to the factory, bring it back to him tomorrow.

Easy.

But when you pull up to the curb, the quiet lingers just a little too long. You put the car in park. Danny leans forward between the seats, voice low and warm.

“You want to come in? Just for a drink. Hotel bar or my room- whatever’s less weird.” You blink. Not thrown off, not uncomfortable- just surprised. Max stiffens beside you. Danny’s smile doesn’t waver. “Just to hang out. You’ve been in factory jail for weeks.”

You glance at him. Then Max. Then back again. “I mean- sure,” you say, casual. “I’ll come in for a little.”

And that’s when Max says it. “I’ll come too.”

You turn.

Danny blinks.

Max’s expression doesn’t change. Still casual. Still detached. “If we’re doing a nightcap. Why not.”

Danny hesitates. Just a beat. “You literally said you were going straight to bed.”

Max shrugs. “Changed my mind.”

You stare at him. “You really don’t have to- ”

Max cuts you off. “I want to.”

And that’s it. Decision made.

You press your lips together, amused despite yourself. Danny sighs, a little dramatic. “Alright. Boys’ night plus you, then.”

You shake your head and kill the engine. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Max’s jaw ticks as he gets out. He’s already regretting all of it. But the idea of Danny and you alone- in a hotel bar with mood lighting, or on a couch, or anywhere near a bed- is worse.

If Danny falls for you, Max won’t survive it. He is not losing custody of his best friend to you.

So tonight?

He’s not letting either of you out of his sight.

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

One drink turns into four.

You’re not even sure how. One minute you’re perched on the edge of the couch in Danny’s hotel suite, shoes still on, sipping something floral and deceptively strong. The next, you’re flat on your back on the carpet, legs splayed out under the coffee table, laugh-crying into your forearm.

You can’t breathe. You cannot breathe.

Because Max- Max- is pacing the room, red-faced and animated, shouting over Danny while they argue about whose fault it was that the side of Max’s caravan sheared off halfway through their marketing stunt at the RedBull Ring five years back.

“No, no, no- you hit me!,” Max says, pointing aggressively with his gin and tonic like it's a laser pointer of truth. “You always do this- !”

“I was being cinematic!” Danny yells, already wheezing. “It was for the shot!”

“For the shot?! It was a caravan, not a drone sequence! You tipped my caravan over!”

You’re howling.

There are tears streaming down your face. Your stomach hurts. You’re half convinced you might actually piss yourself on the floor of a Milton Keynes hotel if they keep going. And you don’t know if Max is actually funny or if you’re just drunk enough to believe he is- but either way, this is the funniest thing you’ve heard in weeks.

Maybe ever.

You manage to lift your head just enough to wheeze, “Please stop talking- I can’t breathe- ”

Danny falls off the arm of the couch, landing next to you in a heap. ““I was winning!!” he gasps again, absolutely beside himself.

Max throws his hands in the air, grinning like a lunatic. “You were going to kill us!”,

You’re laughing so hard now that it’s silent- just your mouth open, body shaking, face buried in the hotel carpet.

You should not be this happy. Not here. Not now. Not with them. But God, for the first time in months, the ache behind your ribs isn’t heavy. It’s light. Not this isn’t terrible, not this is actually kind of enjoyable, but genuine, rib cracking fun. 

You can’t help but think it again, horrifyingly, as he gears up for another round of arguing with Danny. Max Verstappen- stone-faced, growling, rage-fueled Max Verstappen- might actually be funny. The world is upside-down. And you’re just drunk enough to love it.

At some point following drink four, Danny tries to scoot closer to you on the couch.

It’s not dramatic- just a lean-in, knee bumping yours, shoulder dipping slightly in your direction as he cracks open another story. You don’t really clock it. You’re still laughing, still breathless from whatever Max just said about how fucking terrible the sausages they cooked at the end were.

But Max sees it.

Max clocks it immediately.

And before Danny can even shift his weight again, Max moves- fast and thoughtless, dropping down right between you like he’s claiming a spot that was always his. “I mean, you could taste the propane,” he cuts in, reaching across you both for a half-empty can of tonic. “I think that’s when I realized I am an awful cook.”

Danny blinks. His arm is still outstretched where it was trying to find the back of the couch behind your shoulders.

Now it’s hovering awkwardly in midair behind Max’s neck.

You blink too, a little disoriented, because now Max is suddenly close- like really close- one leg pressed against yours, his shoulder brushing yours every time he gestures. He’s not even looking at you, just ranting about how Danny “none of it was the same after he left,” but the space between you has evaporated.

Danny tries again a few minutes later- after he stands to make another round of drinks, another bout of story-laugh-shouting that has you giggling into your wrist, head thrown back against the couch cushion. 

Danny drops on the arm of the couch as he hands you your drink, shifts toward you. Barely. Just trying to close the distance. Maybe bump your shoulder. Maybe nudge his knee next to yours again.

Max leans back.

Elbows wide. Legs spread. Like he’s stretching- only somehow, his stretch ends with his knee fully pressed against yours and his arm slung behind you on the couch. Not quite touching you. But close enough that the heat of him is a presence. Enough to make you stand too, vacate the space Max clearly needed to manspread into, and drop down on the far side of the couch. Max between you and Danny. Again. It’s fine. It’s better even, because you can kick your feet up.

Danny narrows his eyes. Clears his throat. Mate, you are fucking this up for me. 

Max doesn’t even glance at him. Doesn’t notice. Or rather, he pretends not to.  Just keeps sitting there.

Because as far as he’s concerned, he’s just protecting his friend. That’s all. Keeping things in check. Hogging Danny, maybe, but only because he doesn’t want him tangled up with someone who ruins everything she touches.

That’s the reason.

And it keeps happening. You’ve noticed, even through the gin haze.

Every time Danny leans in- just slightly- Max inserts himself like it’s a sport. When Danny shifts toward you on the couch, Max shifts further. When Danny makes a joke, Max cuts in before you can answer. When Danny starts a story, Max finishes it.

You’ve moved to the armrest. Then the cushion beside it. Then leaned onto the floor with your back to the couch.

Each time, Max finds you.

It’s gotten to the point where you’re halfway through a laugh and suddenly there’s a knee pressed into yours and Max is talking again, louder, sharper- about you, at you, through you.

Like just by existing, you’ve ruined something that was his.

You try to ignore it.

Try to keep drinking. Keep smiling. Talk less, if only it means trying to hang onto the little bit of joy left in the night.

But the last straw comes when Danny tosses an arm across the back of the couch, joking about some fucked up F1-themed wedding he saw on Instagram- complete with matching helmets- and Max just has to cut in.

“Hey, maybe you can sell your wedding to SkySports,” he says, all casual menace. “Or maybe not. Wouldn’t want a public meltdown broadcasted when you go full-bridezilla.”

Your entire body stills, because what normal fucking person would ever say that? 

Danny freezes, stares at Max. You stare at Max. Danny stares at Max. You stare at Max. Danny stares like his favorite dog just shit on the floor of the White House. And for a long moment, the room is just… quiet.

Then, you turn your head. Slowly. You speak. Too sweet. “Max?”

He glances over, cocky as hell.

You smile. Bright. Lethal. “I would rather lick the inside of a fucking racing boot than sit next to you for one more minute.”

Danny chokes on his drink. You stand, grab your phone, and type out a rideshare request in record time.

Max shrugs, already halfway smug. “I’m just-.”

You cut whatever bullshit he had loaded up off at the knees. “-you were just shutting the fuck up, thanks.”

You don’t even wait for a reply. Just turn to Danny- softening your expression, letting the warmth return. “Thanks for tonight,” you say, and mean it. “I had fun. I’ll see you around.”

And then you’re gone. Door swinging gently shut behind you.

Danny stares at it. Still holding his lowball glass of ice. Still seated on the couch, still half stuck in the dream where he was supposed to be the one walking you out. Getting a real date set. Maybe a kiss, if he’s being wishful. At the very least, not ending the night like this.

Max exhales. “You’re welcome.”

Danny turns slowly. “Sorry?”

Max shrugs. “You were about to make a mistake. I saved you.”

Danny just stares. “You think she’s a mistake?”

“I know she is.”

“Right.” Danny nods, lets it hang for a moment. “Cool. Cool cool cool.”

Silence.

Max sits back like it’s a game he just won. Like he didn’t just gut the night with a single, well-placed knife between her ribs.

“I liked her,” Danny says, finally. Quiet. Not for sympathy. Just the truth.

Max doesn’t say anything. Because he could see Danny liked you, at least a little. And he did fuck it up. On purpose. He watched Danny lean in- watched him light up like you were something precious- and he couldn’t let it happen.

Not because he wanted you. But because Danny did. And something about that felt too threatening. Too unstable. Too real. So he ruined it.

And he’s still not sorry.

Because in Max’s mind, he didn’t sabotage Danny’s shot with a good thing- he saved him from a bomb that hadn’t gone off yet. He just doesn’t know how to explain that in a way that doesn’t make him sound like the jealous asshole he refuses to believe he is.

So instead, he leans back. Folds his arms. And lets the disappointment settle between them, thin and quiet and heavy as sleep.

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

Series Masterlist

A/N: Back from the dead with a 31 pager! Definitely struggling a little bit recently, and I hate that feeling of being 'in debt' to you guys with chapters, so I am going to try to make a push for a few releases this week, don't hate me if it doesn't go accordingly.

On my hands and knees begging for feedback and your commentary on the story as it quite literally is my only mental reward for the hours I am putting in. It makes my little ADHD brain go brrrr

[deathofacupid]

how do the jujutsu-kaisen men help you through a burnout?

gojo transforms into a sugar-fueled, chaos-wielding distraction machine. he views your stress as a personal affront to the universe's inherent fun-ness. his motto, delivered with a wink and a truly unsettling amount of sincerity, is, "stressed backwards is dessert!"

which explains the everest-sized piles of candy, chocolate, and enough novelty-shaped gummies to give a dentist a heart attack, now dominating your shared bed. you're pretty sure you saw a gummy bear wearing a tiny fedora. he's also trying to teach you a "stress-relieving" dance involving interpretive flossing and a kazoo. it's… a lot.

geto goes full-on spa day commando. he marches you directly into the bathroom, where a battalion of face masks, scented candles that smell suspiciously like expensive incense, and fluffy towels await. "darling," he'll purr, "the first step to looking like a celestial being is feeling like one."

he then proceeds to give you a facial that involves more cucumber slices than a salad bar, and a scalp massage that makes you question if you've ever truly felt anything before. it's so luxurious, you almost forget you're stressed — until you realize he's also trying to convince you to try a "snake venom" face cream.

nanami approaches the situation with the precision of a swiss watchmaker. he calmly assesses the situation, asking pointed questions like, "is this a systemic issue, or a temporary lapse in productivity?"

he'll help you dissect the problem, dismantling it with the clinical efficiency of a surgeon removing a particularly stubborn splinter. once the root cause is identified and neutralized (usually with a spreadsheet and a sternly worded email), he'll produce a tray of freshly baked pastries, each one a masterpiece of buttery perfection, and pull you into a hug that feels like coming home.

if the problem is unsolvable, he'll simply hold you, his quiet strength a comforting anchor in the storm. the weight of his arms around you feels like a promise that even in the face of the impossible, you're not alone. it's so tender, you might just cry.

choso, bless his heart, is utterly bewildered by the concept of burnout. he stares at you with the concerned expression of a puppy watching a magic trick gone wrong. he remembers his brothers, how they found joy in… well, mostly brutal combat and shared blood rituals. realizing that's probably not your thing, he embarks on a frantic google search, his brow furrowed in concentration. the search history is a bizarre mix of "how to make human happy" and "best blood-based stress relief."

eventually, he sits you down, and with a voice full of gentle sincerity, asks you to just… talk. and as you pour out your worries, he listens with an intensity that makes you feel like your words are the most important thing in the universe. by the end, you feel lighter, as if a weight has been lifted.

toji decides the only solution is a culinary apocalypse. he doesn't ask questions; he simply orders enough takeout to feed a small army, and then some. we're talking mountains of sushi, enough noodles to fill a swimming pool, and a pizza that could double as a coffee table.

"food makes everything better," he grunts, shoving a fistful of dumplings into his mouth. he's not wrong, exactly. the sheer volume of food is so overwhelming, you can't help but laugh, and for a moment, the stress fades away. it's a chaotic, greasy, glorious mess.

sukuna initially assumes someone has dared to offend you. his first instinct is to unleash a torrent of threats so creatively violent, even demons would shudder. after fifteen minutes of apocalyptic pronouncements, he finally notices the exhaustion etched on your face. he's as clueless as choso, but instead of google, he tries to mimic your own comfort rituals. he drags you under the covers, surprisingly gentle, and even lets you be the big spoon—a concession so monumental, it's practically a declaration of war on his own ego.

he runs his fingers through your hair, a surprisingly soothing gesture, and rambles about his day, his voice a low, rumbling murmur. he traces patterns on your leg, the one draped over him, and as your breathing evens out, a rare, almost tender expression softens his features. he feels a strange sense of peace as you drift off, and the rhythm of your sleep lulls him into a surprisingly restful slumber. you’re the only thing that can make him feel like he isn’t constantly at war, and he treasures that, even if he’d never admit it.

[chefsshops]

Why Every Momo Maker Needs a Reliable Momo Wrapper Machine

In the bustling world of food preparation, efficiency and consistency are key, especially when it comes to crafting delicate and delectable momos. Whether you're a seasoned restaurant owner or a home cook with a passion for dumplings, having the right equipment can make all the difference. Among the essential tools for any momo maker is the Momo Wrapper Machine. This machine not only simplifies the process but also ensures that each momo wrapper is uniform and high-quality.

The Importance of a Momo Wrapper Machine

A Momo Wrapper Machine is a game-changer for anyone involved in the preparation of momos. Traditionally, making momo wrappers involves meticulous handwork, which can be both time-consuming and inconsistent. With a Momo Wrapper Machine, this process becomes much more streamlined. The machine allows for the production of perfectly shaped and sized wrappers in a fraction of the time it would take to do manually. This efficiency is crucial in a commercial setting where high volumes are required.

The Momo Wrapper Machine automates the entire process, from mixing the dough to forming the wrappers. This automation reduces the need for skilled labor and minimizes human error, leading to a more consistent product. The result is a batch of wrappers that are uniformly thin and perfectly round, ensuring that each momo cooks evenly and maintains its delightful texture.

Enhancing Efficiency with the Momo Sheeter Machine

In addition to the Momo Wrapper Machine, the Momo Sheeter Machine is another invaluable tool in the momo-making arsenal. This machine plays a critical role in the preparation process by rolling out the dough into thin sheets. The Momo Sheeter Machine ensures that the dough is evenly flattened, which is essential for creating wrappers that are both pliable and durable.

By incorporating a Momo Sheeter Machine into your workflow, you can further streamline the preparation process. The machine's precise rollers can adjust to different thicknesses, accommodating various types of wrappers and dough consistencies. This flexibility is particularly beneficial when experimenting with new recipes or adapting to different customer preferences. The result is a professional-quality product that enhances the overall eating experience.

The Role of the Dumpling Making Machine

While the Momo Wrapper Machine and Momo Sheeter Machine are pivotal, the Dumpling Making Machine deserves a mention for its role in the overall dumpling production process. This machine is designed to automate the entire dumpling-making process, from filling the wrappers to sealing them. It is particularly useful in high-volume settings where manual assembly would be impractical.

The Dumpling Making Machine complements the Momo Wrapper Machine by providing a seamless transition from wrapper production to the final assembly of momos. This integration ensures that the process remains efficient and consistent from start to finish. By using both machines, you can significantly increase your production capacity while maintaining the high standards of quality that customers expect.

Conclusion

In the competitive world of food service, the efficiency and quality of your products can set you apart from the competition. For momo makers, investing in a reliable Momo Wrapper Machine, Momo Sheeter Machine, and Dumpling Making Machine is essential. These pieces of commercial kitchen equipment not only enhance efficiency but also ensure consistency and quality in every batch of momos. Whether you're running a busy restaurant or preparing for a large event, these tools will help you deliver exceptional results that keep your customers coming back for more. Embrace the power of advanced kitchen technology and see how it can elevate your momo-making business.

[brittle-doughie]

Hello, TJOC Anon here with a simple question (about your OCs of course!) Do you think Y/N Cookie's entourage would make a nice Dungeons and Dragons (Or in this case, Cookies and Castles) group to play with? Imagine the main three and Bitter Candy all at a table playing some Cookies and Castles with Y/N Cookie as the GM

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You: “Alright, you’re in the cells. The guard outside are keeping their eyes on you, with a magic barrier keeping you in that’s too strong to break down. What would you do?”

Crowned Cupcake: “I destroy them and the barrier. I have the build necessary to do so, it’s simply unfair that I was jailed for little reason!”

Dumpling: “I choose to appeal to their own individuality. Was I really deserving to be jailed? Do they think so? Was it warranted regardless of the intentions I had? Were they simple just cogs in the machine with no choice of their own?”

Salsa: “I wait it out. Study their routines and for when the magic user Cookies comes by to recast and strengthen the barrier. Once I get a schedule down, I pick the right opportunity to strike.”

@/desperatelittledemon hi

Bitter Candy: “I try to get on their good side and ask if they need patching up! It couldn’t have been easy locking me in! They might let me go if I build a good enough trust in them! Hope they don’t mind bitter medicine!”

@/desperatelittledemon hello again

Cherry Cream: “I seduce the guard. I tell them that they don’t have to do what they had to do. That they can indulge in their own pleasures by simply following their heart. They know I’m right. They can stop being so afraid of the consequences of letting me out and let go, all they have to do..is undo the barrier……AND THAT…..is where I strike and leave smoothly.

You: “….Cherry Cream, I think you’ve brought a little too much of your job into your game character.”

Cherry Cream: “It’s what I do best, honey~”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

[drfroebindia]

Dumpling Making Machine in India

A dumpling making machine is a kitchen appliance or device used to make dumplings, a traditional dish in many Asian countries. It is designed to streamline the process of making dumplings, which can be time-consuming and labor-intensive when made by hand.

The dumpling machine usually consists of a base with a motor, a dough container, and a filling container. The dough is placed in the dough container, and the filling is placed in the filling container. The machine then mixes the dough and filling together and forms the dumplings.

To use the dumpling making machine, follow these steps:

Prepare the dough: The dough can be made using flour, water, and salt, or you can use pre-made dumpling wrappers. If you are making the dough from scratch, mix the ingredients until a smooth and elastic dough forms.

Prepare the fillings: There are many variations of dumpling fillings, but they typically include a combination of ground meat, vegetables, and spices. Make sure the filling is finely chopped and mixed well.

Assemble the machine: Place the dough container and filling container on the base of the machine. Make sure they are securely connected.

Add the dough and filling: Place the dough in the dough container and the filling in the filling container.

Start the machine: Start the machine and let it run for a few seconds to mix the dough and stuffing together.

Adjust settings: Most machines have settings to adjust the thickness and size of the dumplings. Choose the desired settings based on your preference.

Make the dumplings: Place the dough and filling mixture in the designated opening of the machine. The machine will automatically shape the dumplings and push them out through a small hole.

Repeat the process: Continue making dumplings until all the filling and dough is used up.

Cook the dumplings: Depending on the recipe and your preference, you can steam, boil or fry the dumplings.

Clean the machine: Once you're done, turn off the machine and disassemble it. Clean parts thoroughly with warm water and soap. Be sure to dry parts completely before storing.

The dumpling making machine can save your time and effort in the kitchen and produce consistent and perfect dumplings every time. With practice, you can master the machine and make delicious dumplings for your family and friends.