#rectangular headlights

[carsthatnevermadeitetc]

Alfa Romeo Giulia TZ1 Prototype, 1962, by Zagato. The "Tubolare Zagato" that was presented at the Turin Motor Show in November 1962, designed by Ercole Spada, had rectangular headlights that were dropped on later versions of the car.

[messyemmy]

Fuck Love- Valentine's Day Grapejuice (fic) Flashbacks.

[This is part of the Grapejuice universe but can be read as a stand-alone one shot! Harry's best friend, Jack, is Y/n's younger brother.]

Premise: When your boyfriend stands you up on the most 'romantic' night of the year, Harry shows up with a sweet solution.

Grapejuice / Other Writing

Word count: 2.5k.

💗

The living room’s yellow lamps are the only lights casting through the empty house- empty other than yourself, curled up on the cosiest sofa- and it looks like it’s going to be a night of misery. 

Dressed in such a pretty tulle-draped cherry red dress, matching heels discarded at the entrance hall, you really are having a pity party. 

Being three hours late is one thing, it’s another thing to go radio-silent just as your boyfriend seems to have.

These dinner plans have been in the works since January, and even though you’ve come to expect this type of behaviour from him, hope had somehow riddled past the obvious- only to be dismissed once more. 

A year ago, you might have still been waiting in the entrance hall until your feet ached along with your heart, frantically glancing out the window at any sign of car headlights, anxiety punching you in the gut over and over until eventually, you would end up on this same sofa, mulling in sorrow. 

In the silence, you soak up sadness- only coming out of this haze when the soft sound of the front door unlocking garners your attention.

And then a mop of soft curly hair peaks round the corner, paired with the squishiest cheeks and softest smile. 

Nobody needs to know how quickly your muscles relax at the reassurance of no longer being alone- even if that company happens to be your extremely annoying and antagonistic brother’s equally annoying and antagonistic best friend, Harry Styles. 

Dressed in comfy dark grey sweatpants and his favourite navy hoodie, Harry looks so comfortable as he slips out of his scuffed trainers and neatly toes them off into the shoe pile. 

He carefully sets down a pastel pink rectangular box on the nearest side table and offers no formal greeting as he meanders over to your wallowing figure. 

There’s a thick coat of sympathy painting his stare- the type that you can see from afar, and it has your fists clenching at the thought of him feeling sorry for you. What a low blow. 

His shoes stop just before the sofa and he peers down at you knowingly.

Though Harry’s face shows no sign of pity, it’s his words that have you wishing the earth would swallow him whole, 

“Did he stand you up again?” 

“Don't rub it in.” You warn, and his features instantly soften apologetically. 

“Didn't mean any offence, Clutz.” 

Harry cautiously sits on the arm of the couch, watching tentatively as your furrowed brows turn from one of frustration to one of hurt. 

The type of face he rarely sees- and when he does, it scrunches his body with something he can’t quite find the word for.

All he knows is that he wants to do anything it takes to make things better, or at the least soothe that adorable frown decorating your glowing features. 

The palm of your hand greets your forehead with a forceful press of disappointment, and for some reason, you can’t stop your head from shaking, nor can you stop the words suddenly whispering his way,

“I should've known.” 

Now it’s Harry’s turn to furrow in bewilderment, he certainly can't understand how you’re the one to blame for any of this.

Is this truly how you see things- that you’re in the wrong for having expectations?

“You shouldn't have to assume everything will end in disappointment.” 

He plops down on the sofa with a soft thump, shifting himself comfortably to face you. It's a totally defensive reaction when your stare snaps and shocks his own, eyes squinting,

“And you should find a girlfriend you can prove that to.” 

“I'd ask you if you weren't taken.” Harry shrugs off your dismissal like a pro, incapable of dimming his boyishness to pure darkness. 

Perhaps it works, because your face is washed of all prior feelings of upset, and it looks like you’re fighting a fearsome battle against a smile peaking at the corner of your lips. 

But just as easy as it was to settle, it’s just as easy to spiral, and now you’re a jumble of thoughts all surrounding Harry’s current intentions, suspiciously crossing your arms along your chest, 

“What are you doing here? Thought Jack was out with Millie?” 

“He is. ‘M just lonely.”  Harry shrugs off the small sting of vulnerability,

“And I figured you might be here, feeling the same.” 

“ I am not lonely, Harry.”

“Alone, then… On February fourteenth.”

Harry has his foot in his mouth and he doesn’t even know it- no clue that every word he utters is like venom in your veins, and you’re mere seconds away from taking out every ounce of hurt on him. 

Hurt doesn't begin to cover it. This ‘relationship’ of yours is three and a half years past a fling- deep in the depths of a complicated, disconnected companionship that more often than not left you a tearful, insecure mess. 

Your heart- and head- know that the relationship is fading, but security and closeness are not something you can find in just anyone- the threat of going from a duet back to a single 23-year-old is rather daunting.  

Harry strolled his way right into the line of fire with his misguided attempts to express that he understands how you feel- that he knows you. Instead, it’s coming out like he enjoys the notion that this is how you spend your Friday night. 

And he’s looking at you with those big clueless emerald eyes, practically begging to be lashed out at. His wish is your command,

‘Can you stop being so negative about my relationship?” 

Harry’s shoulders stiffen in puzzled suspense. He knows he shouldn't be surprised or offended by your mood this evening- hell, his mood is no better, it’s just another year of pining over his wanting for you- but he hadn’t expected your anger to be fully directed his way. 

He can feel the air between your bodies thickening with anger, and chooses his next words with great caution, 

“I was just stating the facts.”

“Well, thank you Harry for rubbing it in that my boyfriend doesn't care enough about me to even show up for Valentine's Day.” 

Your voice is louder than he likes, harsh and loaded with hurt. Pain that is clearly caused by his choice of words, and all in an instant, the realisation of how badly he has miscommunicated his desire to bond with you, 

“I'm sorry.” He’s earnest, “I didn't think of it that way-”

“You never think, do you?” 

“Alright, I deserved that one.” 

Harry concedes with shame, hoping that the steaming anger spewing from your cutely flaring nostrils will soon fade, and it is fading, because that all too familiar fear of cruelty comes rushing back, convincing you that there’s no right to be upset- even if your feelings are hurt.

“Just… there's no need to pity me, alright?” 

And you know he means no harm- he hardly ever does- how could Harry know the insides of your relationship if he’s never been in a serious one himself?

He should know better than to poke a grumpy bear, even in an attempt to be kind. He'll certainly know now, 

It’s all you can ask of him, and Harry feels his mouth dry up at the implication that he sees you as anything less than perfect. How the hell can he make that clear? 

“I don't pity you. I pity the man who chooses to be anywhere other than near you.” He’s watching for your reaction, “You'd have to be insane.” 

“Tell him that.” You scoff with incredulity. 

“I will. Give me your phone.”

“Absolutely not.” Suddenly Harry’s lurching for you, hands playfully roaming as he jovially searches for your phone.

And you’re arms are flailing, trying to swat him away in between exasperated giggles and gasps, “Harry!” 

He stops his prodding, body leaning close enough that his senses are surrounded by your sweet jasmine perfume, and all you can do to stay sane under his hold, scolding, 

“You’re a menace.”

Harry’s the picture of enjoyment as his entire face scrunches into an even greater smile- if possible- as he rides the high of your heartwarming laughter, willing to do anything to keep that gorgeous giggle playing on repeat, 

“‘M gonna say, ‘Hey dickhead, open your eyes!’ And then I’ll whisk you away on a date.”

“You’ve got it all planned out, then.” How can you ignore the fondness you feel for Harry’s romantic valiance? 

“Hold on a sec.”

Harry has a strike of genius, removing himself from your shared bubble with such sudden disregard that a shock of disappointment rattles your spine. 

Your gaze trails his lanky figure as he heads for the entrance hall, quickly retrieving the mystery box from earlier.

With surprising relief at his haste, Harry removes the cardboard lid and sinks back down into the sofa cushions. 

He shuffles closer until the searing brush of his cotton-clad knee makes contact with your now crisscrossed calf, and thank the heavens that the box he presents you is alluring enough to dismiss the rush of excitement his closeness evokes. 

A container housing the most mouthwatering stack of thickly chocolate-drizzled brownies. Enough brownies to put your frazzled being into a comatose state.

Eyes oozing with hungry desire, Harry hides his pride well and offers the box your way,

“Here we go.”

To avoid almost snatching the box and needily digging in, you eye him up suspiciously, pondering the origin of these suspiciously alluring treats, 

“Who were these meant for?”

“Me.” He states simply. 

“Ah, one of your many suitors, or… suitress?” 

“Curious, hm?” When you scoff shyly, Harry softly chuckles and clarifies, “From ‘m mum.”

“She’s the best.”

“No, they’re yours.”

Exhaling fondly, Harry carefully shakes the box like he’s offering a treat to a well-behaved puppy. You can only offer a bashful refusal, 

Harry chuckles deeply and sets the brownies down on his lap before he picks one from the top of the pile and dramatically parts his puckered lips, letting his tongue and teeth lazily engulf the dense fudgy cake.

He moans filthily, chewing a couple of times before coaxing through bites,

“Oh, c’mon, you know you want one… Can see you eyeing them.”

“Shush.”

“C’monnnn Y/n, you know you wanna.” 

Harry’s cutely tempting coos are almost too much to resist. Your eyes are darting from the brownies begging to be devoured, and the devious smile stretching across his entire face, 

“I don’t want to indulge in anything Valentine's related.”

“Fuck love, you say?”

“Fine.” Harry agrees casually, because, of course, he already has a solution for this dilemma,

“These aren’t Valentine's brownies. They’re ‘fuck love’ brownies.”

That’s all the permission you need to soothe your sorrows with a sugary overload of chocolate comfort as you reach over with pathetic haste and grab ahold of the nearest brownie. 

“Atta girl.” He praises.

The dessert disappears into your mouth with such momentum that Harry almost misses the entire thing.

But when he sees your ruby-stained lips coated in sweet chocolate and you continue to chew contently, Harry is a mess of all-encompassing love.

He embraces the love he has for you, as he has time and time before, and it always feels like the very first time he realised that he had been falling in love with you his entire life. 

The two of you share a couple more brownies in pleasant silence, while Harry sneaks glances and observes curiously as your brows constantly shift from frustration to satiation- You can’t settle on sorrow or satisfaction. 

But how can Harry say it aloud in a way that would make sense to either of you?

Because if it were so simple, he would profess it over and over, and perhaps you would be sitting here overjoyed instead of so overwhelmed with disappointment. 

Harry’s going in for number three and your gloomy gaze is glued to your hand, still cradling a half-consumed brownie and presenting your new theory, 

“I’m starting to think love is some cruel form of punishment.”

“Maybe you’re right.” 

Harry thinks being in love with you can be as painful as it is rewarding. Watching your heart lose hope more with each day, he feels a type of hurt that he imagines you must be experiencing with each disappointment. 

And he can’t help that it makes him spiteful, and jealous, and perhaps he’s secretly praying for your relationship's downfall.

Which has him constantly riddled with guilt, but that fades in rare moments like these, when he gets a taste of what life loving you would entail. 

Perhaps you don’t notice how normal- natural- it feels to spend time with Harry one-on-one because the dull ache in your chest has yet to subside, even with the warm comfort of Harry and chocolate dessert, it’s impossible to dismiss your heartbreak. 

All you can muster is a disappointed sigh before finishing off the rest of your brownie, halfheartedly dusting the crumbs from your fingers and concluding, 

“Fuck love, yeah?”

“Fuck love.”

Harry agrees- for your sake, and perhaps his own. But as the words are leaving his lips, bitter betrayal of the heart harshly burns his tongue, and if he doesn’t deter this moodiness soon, he risks throwing up all his honesty about loving you, as well as the brownies. 

Chocolate was the first step in making up for a rough start to the evening, the second was to create a worthy distraction, and though he would prefer doing that with just his company, Harry fears he might further provoke your mood. 

Harry’s about to spend the next couple of hours scorched beneath your bare soles, one palm resting along your ankle, desperately resisting the urge to caress the other along the slopes of your calves. 

The safer bet is to suggest turning on the telly, which guarantees an avid nod from yours truly, reaching out for the remote.

He puts the remaining brownies on the coffee table, his breath hitching as your legs carelessly and comfortably stretch out and rest atop his mid-thigh. 

Comfortable familiarity embraced you as soon as his hand wrapped around your exposed skin, and you began aimlessly scrolling, tilting your head to garner Harry’s attention, 

“What should we watch?”

“You’ve got mail-”

“No romance.”

Harry won’t argue with you on that one- if pretending to be part of the ‘I hate love’ club will soothe you right now, he’ll do it. Even if it twists his insides with treachery.

“Right. Fuck love.”

The two of you continue debating over the perfect choice, and it’s a quick consensus to select the most action-packed thriller that any streaming service has to offer. 

As the intro music fills the room with a foreboding melody, you try your hardest to ignore how easily you'll accept your boyfriend's apology tomorrow, and Harry tries even harder to pretend he isn’t so consumed with loving you that he’ll wait patiently when you do.

💗

Hope you enjoy it! Part 5 coming soon! - Emmy. xo 💞

[deanbrainrotwritings]

— SUNBURN

SUMMARY : you're the wedding planner for sam's wedding, it's at the beach and… well, dean at the beach

PAIRING : dean winchester x fem!reader

CHARACTERS : sam winchester, jessica moore

WARNINGS/TAGS : explicit(18+), fluff, some suggestiveness, shy!reader (lmaoo, or awkward, if you'd like), angst if you squint

WORD COUNT : 1.8k

A/N : title is a muse song. part of the @alphabetquest beach party prompt and the @jacklesversebingo square wedding planner au. y'all, this was new to me, but I liked embarrassing the reader and making her embarrassing and shy xx

You felt slightly guilty for not telling Sam about you and Dean.

To be fair, you didn't know they were related when you met Dean. 

You met him at a local cafe, had your laptop in front of you, a couple of notes scribbled on photographs and other sheets of colourful paper strewn over the table besides a warm cup of coffee from your third refill, and a slice of pecan pie that was quickly getting colder and colder. 

Dean came in when you were been busy arguing with the local florist over the phone about what Jessica wanted the flower arrangement to look like. The florist wanted to give his opinion, as if it even mattered. It wasn't his wedding, it was Jessica's. 

You started to stress over having to consider calling a different florist. 

Phone calls just weren't your thing despite all the work and phone calls you take due to your job, but it's still the one thing you're always nervous about doing. 

You buried your fingers in your hair and nervously rubbed your fingers against the strands between your fingers as you looked through the checklist for something you'd much rather focus on. 

"Careful there, sweetheart," Dean's voice turned your attention away from the screen of your laptop. "You'll pull your pretty hair out." You stared up at him, that flirty smirk on his lips made you smile subconsciously, and you turned hot with embarrassment. 

You untangled your fingers from your hair to hold your wrist over the table and brushed your fingertips nervously over photographs of the beach Jessica was interested in. 

You stared into his green eyes, his expenctant face made you freeze. He was smiling—tightly now, and began chewing on his lip the longer you stared like a deer caught in headlights, the amusement in his eyes dimmed, and he suddenly appeared unsure.

"Sorry, am I botherin' you?" 

"No! I-" you cleared your throat, hoping the blaze in your cheeks would cease. "I was just… distracted." He smiled and looked down at the small cup of coffee in his large hands. You bit your lip to calm yourself, but then he looked up at you again, and all the words you were forming in your mind for a sentence, suddenly vanished. 

"Alright," he murmured shyly, then reached into his black jacket, and pulled out a small card. "I'm gonna be straightforward here and say that you're cute." He stared down at the small rectangular paper between his fingers and placed it above the pile of papers. You blinked up at him dumbly, turning hotter and hotter. "Call me when you're not… distracted," he teased, biting his lip before stepping away and leaving the cafe. 

You blinked down at the business card he left for you, his name was printed in black, his number. He was a mechanic from Kansas. A sexy one. And he thought you were cute. 

And that was really what started this whole secret of yours. 

You met him, not knowing he was Sam's older brother until a few days after. Days after you anxiously called his number to give him your name and plan a date. Days after you'd already had a date with him. Days after you'd both already made out heavily in his car. 

You found out Dean was Sam's brother when Jessica had begged you to have dinner with them. 

You were happy that she liked you that much, half-shocked and half-uncomfortable with getting closer to a client than professionally required, but you couldn't help being drawn to Jessica and her friendship after all the months that had passed. 

When you got to their home, after nervously navigating through Google Maps, you'd entered to find Sam smacking Dean over the head with a rolled-up wedding magazine because he'd dozed off on the couch with a half-empty beer. 

You and Dean stared at each other across the table as the four of you ate, slowly and stupidly putting the pieces together. 

Dean left Kansas to come to California for Sam and Jessica's wedding. He was staying for a month before returning to Kansas as you prepared everything for the special day. You weren't sure what you were expecting, but this was definitely not it. 

Of course, after your initial shock, Dean quickly became more comfortable around you. 

And you were half-sure Jessica was trying to set you up with Dean while Sam tried to sway you away from his brother. 

To say the least, it was a mess. One that Dean was loving. 

It made you cringe to remember the day you met him, but Dean made a point to remind you as much as he could about how it happened, whenever he deemed it the right moment. 

It never was the right moment to you. 

To him, the right moment was whenever anyone asked how you and Dean met. You'd freeze up and be vague about it, or you'd lie and say it was through Sam and Jessica, but Dean would wait for them to leave before reminding you how it actually happened. 

You came to find that with Dean, it was nearly impossible to keep something quiet.

He was so…

Well, he stole kisses whenever he had the chance, reached out to touch you whenever he could, and whispered things to you knowing he wouldn't get caught.

He wouldn't get caught. 

But you, you were obvious. It was impossible to hide the way he made you feel, and really, you hated your body for betraying you that way. 

You swallowed your pride and fumed internally for being so… fucking shy. 

Now, here you were. 

Finally, on Sam and Jessica's wedding.

Jessica had insisted that you enjoy yourself now that the main part was over. She was glowing and absolutely beautiful. 

Jessica found out about you and Dean not long after, when he thought he could get away with making out with you in the hallway of Jessica's house after you'd innocently exited the restroom. 

He'd surprised you, waiting a few feet away from the door. You lifted a brow at the way he casually leaned against the wall. When you stood closer, he'd turned to you, grabbed your jaw, and kissed you until you almost couldn't breathe. And Jessica had gone up to check on you and found… well, that: Dean leaning over you with his tongue shoved in your mouth while you clung desperately to his soft flannel with his fingers pressed carefully into your cheeks as he led the kiss. 

At that point, you were convinced the universe enjoyed putting you in embarrassing situations. 

You only dreaded the beach party, the reception that Jessica had insisted you relax and enjoy after all your hard work. 

The dread wasn't really because of Dean, it was because of you. The way he made you feel so… shy. It was annoying. 

What happened to the way you couldn't shut up when someone pissed you off? What happened to the way you stood your ground and held a man's gaze whenever he flirted with you? 

Of course that may be because Dean was Dean, he was hot, and he was funny, and he was smart, and he was kind, and he was confident, and he was sweet, and he was romantic. Basically, it was because you liked him, but you begged the universe to tell you why you had to get tongue-tied and turn scarlet in his presence. Even after all the time that had passed. Why couldn't you just get used to it?

You couldn't really complain. Seeing Dean… almost naked… with those fucking shorts hanging low on his hips. His toned stomach and the trail of light, fine hair leading downwards… 

You were thirsty. 

You took a sip of your cool piña colada. 

Jessica and her bridesmaids continued to gush about weddings, romance, their boyfriends, and their future dreams. 

All you could do was focus on Dean. You almost didn't want to think about what they were talking about and associate it with Dean…

He was excited.

About the sand crunching beneath his feet, about the salty breeze that stuck to his skin and tousled his brown hair, about the kiss of bright sunlight against his gorgeous freckled skin.

It made you smile and like him even more.

Eventually, Jessica and her bridesmaids got drunk enough that they started to dance and sing with each other. 

And you'd found yourself falling into Dean's gravity. 

He held you in his arms and swayed slightly to the song playing on the speakers, his beer hung loosely in his hands behind you. He seemed sober as he gazed down at you, arousing that stupid hot blush on your cheeks. 

You huffed and looked at the waves as they rolled and swayed, away and towards you. 

You heard the dull glass thump of his mostly-empty beer bottle hitting the sand. One of his hands was warm and the other was cool as they moved up your back. You sivered at his touch and bit your lip, smilling to yourself as your gaze moved up towards the horizon.

"You okay?" He asked quietly, playing with the thin strap of your bikini. Your breath hitched when his fingers suddenly crossed over your shoulder to graze the side of your breast. 

"Huh?" You stared up at him.

His intuituve green eyes looked into you. Instead of repeating the question, which took you a few moments to process anyway, Dean took your hand, and gently kissed your salty wrist. You clenched your hand tightly, your heartbeat thudded loudly at his affection, and you bashfully pulled your hand out of his grasp.

He was sneaky and brought his other hand to your cheek. His thumb brushed over your cheekbone, his fingers tangled lightly in you knotted hair. 

"You're beautiful," he murmured, stepping so close to you, flashes of hotter images of being this pressed up against him flooded your mind. 

You uttered his name quietly, hoping that no one was watching you. The water lapped at your feet, cooling you down and urging you to give in. 

You didn't know if the small waves were making you dizzy or if it was Dean who tenderly brought you closer to his lips. 

He kissed you slowly, breathed you in deeply, and mumbled against your parted mouth, "do you want me to stay?"

In an instant, you imagined morning and evenings with him. You imagined visitng the beach more often, getting older, kissing more, loving more of him. He kissed you as you pictured the life you could have if he decided to leave his entire life behind in Kansas and move to California with you. 

Would he regret it? Would you?

Dean pulled away from your mouth and licked the taste of you from his plump, pink lips. You smiled and hid your face by looking down at his freckled chest, tracing a random path of freckles with your eyes and fingers. "I'd like it if you stayed, Dean. Just know… I'd go anywhere with you, too, if it's what you want."

Dean chuckled softly, his calloused hands cupped your hot cheeks, and he kissed your forehead. He held you close, placed his chin on top of your head, and mumbled, "Yeah, we still have time to figure it out."

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[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1969 Shelby Mustang GT500 Fastback

1969 was, effectively, the final year for the Shelby Mustang. By now assembly had shifted in Michigan from California where it was contracted out to A.O. Smith Corporation. Smith, an established Motor City contractor, had brought a level of serious manufacturing skill, supplier management, procedure and standards never seen at Shelby’s facility where LAX met the vibrant (and sometimes extreme) subculture of Venice, California.

Now largely designed and specified by Ford staffers, the 1969 Shelby Mustang was drastically different visually from the standard Mustangs, with a completely different nose and grille, a wide rectangular opening with blacked out grille flanked by 7” headlights and with Shelby’s characteristic driving lights now smaller rectangular pieces below the attractive, but largely ineffective, bumper. The special Shelby hood had five ducts, three NACA-style surface ducts replaced the complicated but entertaining shaker hoods of years gone by to supply cold air directly to the engine air intake and two extractors at the back of the hood relieving underhood pressure and exhausting heated air in front of the windshield.

A surface duct behind the headlights and a scoop behind the door and in front of the rear wheel arch that was ducted to the rear brakes continued the performance theme. The rear panel was completely different from the Mustang, housing a set of 1965 Thunderbird sequential taillights with the rear license plate placed between them and including a small ducktail spoiler. The area under the bumper where standard Mustangs carried their license plate contained two rectangular outlets for the Shelby’s dual exhaust system. Standard wheels were unique 5-spoke Mag Stars with alloy centers and chrome steel rims.

Under the hood lay the 428 Cobra Jet which had powered the ’68 Shelby GT500KR. Both Ford and Shelby recognized the superiority of the high performance CJ and made it the standard engine for 1969’s Shelby Mustangs. 

At the end of the 1969 model year 789 Shelby Mustangs were in-process at A.O. Smith. They were visually updated with black hood stripes and a chin spoiler and given new VINs. Otherwise the 1970s were exactly the same as the ‘69s making these two years essentially identical examples of the end of the Shelby Mustang series which had begun only a scant six years before.

Avidly sought by collectors and obsessively documented by the Shelby American Automobile Club, most Shelby Mustangs are well known and have well known histories. Occasionally, however, a example appears which has been out of sight for years. Even more rarely it turns out to have been little used and continuously maintained by a thoughtful and caring single owner for nearly forty years.

The Black Jade 1969 Shelby Mustang GT500 Sportsroof fastback offered here is one of those rare and highly desirable cars. It was delivered new to Ford’s dealer in Yokohama, Japan, Marubeni Motors K.K., and was sold thereafter to its first, and only, owner in Japan. It has been repainted in the original color once but is otherwise completely original, as delivered and has only 84,941km on its metric-calibrated export speedometer (52,779 miles.) Its sympathetic maintenance and care shows throughout in its clean, straight, rust-free condition.

Power of course comes from the 428 cubic inch Cobra Jet Ram Air V-8 engine which Ford and Shelby conservatively rated at 335 horsepower at 5,200rpm and a gut-wrenching 440 lb-ft torque at 3,400rpm. It puts the power through Ford’s highly regarded C-6 automatic transmission and Traction-Lok differential with high speed 3.00:1 gearing that takes full advantage of the CJ engine’s torque. In addition to the highly desirable drivetrain specification it is loaded with options including the Visibility Group, Goodyear white letter tires, Sport Deck folding rear seat, power front disc brakes, power steering, tilt steering column, Selectaire air conditioning, AM/8-track stereo radio, tinted glass, deluxe belts, tachometer and trip odometer.

It is finished in one of the Shelby Mustang’s most attractive colors, Black Jade. The interior and high back buckets seats are upholstered in black Clarion Knit/Corinthian vinyl that complements with Black Jade exterior.

It returned to the U.S. in 2006 but has never been titled by its current owner so it remains a one-owner car. Its absolutely clear history, one-owner provenance, highly original condition with known mileage and extensive options list are attributes shared by few Shelby Mustangs of this age. This is a rare opportunity for an astute collector to acquire a particularly significant, unmolested Shelby Mustang from the last, and most highly developed, series.

1969 Shelby Mustang GT500 Fastback

Powered by a 428ci V8 engine mated to a C6 automatic transmission, this beauty includes the original #Shelby owner card, a copy of the Shelby work order and Window Sticker.

1969 Shelby Mustang GT500 Fastback

1969 Shelby Mustang GT500 Fastback

[xxbobbykennedyxx]

It was whatever o'clock on whocaresday in the Digital Circus, and Caine had gathered the Gang into the main hall.

"Goooood morning, my Trifling Triffids! I hope you all had a refreshing sleep!!"

The Gang grumbled and murmured in response, but Caine pressed on, exuberant as always. He stretched his arms over to the Suggestion Box and wrenched it from the wall - though this time black slime oozed out from the wall instead of the gushing water of before. Without hesitation, Bubble plugged the viscous substance up using his long pink tongue.

Caine rummaged noisily around in the Box, his eyes cast upward towards the ceiling, humming a little disjointed tune that almost sounded like a modem dialling-up.

Zooble tapped their sproingy foot and sighed deeply.

"Just tell us what the adventure is so we can get it over with..." Zooble knew better than to refuse another outing, considering Caine's little episode last time...

"AHA!" The Ringmaster in question triumphantly yanked out a small scrap of yellowed, musty paper and read it aloud.

"TODAY'S ADVENTURE IS...WE ALL SIT AT THE TABLE AND EAT BRITISH DINNER TOGETHER!!"

The Gang collectively expressed their dismay at this horrifying prospect - WE HAVE TO EAT BRITISH FOOD?! WHY?! WHO WOULD SUGGEST SUCH AN EVIL THING?!

Caine rubbed his "chin" thoughtfully, scanning his memory banks

"I suppose only Kinger would remember who Rover was..."

Kinger had an expression like a deer in headlights, until Jax "helpfully" put a bucket over his head, to get him to remember.

"Oh yes! Rover...he was that English guy that had the yellow dog avatar! He always talked about missing his home back in South London..." His voice was tinny and muffled. Ragatha removed the bucket from his head before Jax could strike it with the baseball bat that he had pulled from his seemingly-infinite front pocket.

Kinger paused for a few seconds

"I always wonder what happened to him..."

Pomni's eyes narrowed as she looked out of the vast window space behind her. The Sun swam into view and met her eyes with a wide, murderous grin.

"Caine...it's too early for dinner"

"Nonsense Pomni! You just gotta - " he twirled his cane and struck a pose "BELIEVE!!"

Day suddenly turned to evening, and the Sun was rudely shoved out of the sky by her sister, the Moon.

"Oh Caine! You couldn't wait to see me again!" She purred, looming closer to the tent.

Caine looked flustered and ushered the Gang into the Dining Hall

"Our Head Bubble Chef will take over now - I gotta fend off the Moon before her gravitational pull flips the Circus upside down!"

Bubble, spatula and knife in "hand", floated above the long rectangular dining table that was heaving with all kinds of British "delicacies".

"Dig in!!" he cried, as the Gang morosely took their seats...

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note: I had this funny idea that the gang each try a British foodstuff - for some reason, I want to share the horrors of British "cuisine" with the rest of the world, and give some information on the dishes.

I also wrote a little bit of Fanfiction too, as I haven't done it in a while and I felt like exercising an old muscle!

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[hogmilked]

what's ur process for identifying cars? like what features do u look at and so on?

oh hell yeah i assume you’ve seen my other blog lol, yeah a lot of it is just years of paying attention to them and design trends, so i can usually place a general era and brand based on what logos i see, what some companies design languages were at different times, body styles, stuff like that. so even if i can’t identify an exact model, i can look at a big long boxy sedan in usually rather muted colors with a long hood but sleek profile with rectangular headlights and a specific hood emblem and know it’s a cadillac from the 70s or 80s. if i don’t know more than a brand and general era i’ll usually have to do a bit of googling but just having that preliminary knowledge helps narrow it down.

for a lot of relatively common or newer cars i usually just recognize them, i’ve hyperfixated on cars for almost 20 years, used to get tons of car enthusiast magazines and still engage with a lot of enthusiast media, so i kind of just know a shit ton of them. then it’s usually just googling to check my work/intuition and get an exact year or range of years. like i identified a toyota 4runner and specific generation of it in a video where a lot of the more obvious identifying features were only visible for a second, but in that second i recognized it even at a glimpse because i am just somebody who could recognize a car from a taillight in the dark when i was like 9. or in cases where it’s a closeup shot, like the toyota highlander from the daffy duck fish sticker post, all i had was a cut off bit of the text and the bottom of a taillight, but i know the highlander model and could estimate the general era of car based on the shape and moulding of the body contours and taillights, and narrowed it down further based on differences in the tail light housings between generations

i know that was a long explanation that probably made only so much sense but the tl;dr is autism :3

[disco-archetypes]

YOU - Run your finger across the aluminium.

DAMAGED LEDGER - The surface is interrupted by a silvery *sticker*. It's rectangular, sparkling with iridescence. You don't know how you didn't notice it before...

LOGIC - It is similar to the RCM watermark on your blazer the lieutenant mentioned. Didn't he say something about the headlights of his motor carriage? That you can read these there?

YOU - "Lieutenant, is this one of the *hologram watermarks* you mentioned?" (Point to the sticker.)

KIM KITSURAGI - "What?" He is lost in his own notes. It takes a moment for him to see it. "Yes, a halogen watermark used for adding information to RCM property."

YOU - "Interesting. What kind of information?"

KIM KITSURAGI - "It depends. Aside from an anti-counterfeiting stamp, mine has my station number and address. The information varies by date of issue."

LOGIC - Maybe yours will have how many cases you've solved?

[mellifluouaamor]

⍣ | MOON EMBRACES THE SUN: CHAPTER 1

Synopsis. ( Gangsta AU ) One day, when you are cleaning the Italian brothers' house, you suddenly remember your past life - and Italy, who's supposed to be your closest companion, now feels like a stranger to you.

Pairing. Italy x Fem!Reader x Romano

Warnings. N/A

NAVIGATION

You blankly stared outside the window, eyes focused on nothing in particular. You had been in the middle of sweeping the floor in the dining room when a house sparrow flew near the window beside you, its gentle tweet capturing your attention. When you turned your head, the tiny bird perched itself on a lamp post, tilting its head adorably at you. You weren't sure what was so interesting about a mere sparrow, but an inexplicable force compelled you to gaze upon it, as if you were hypnotised. Even after the bird had flown away, you stayed rooted to your spot, staring ahead as unfamiliar yet familiar scenes flashed before your eyes.

There was a young girl walking down a street.

'Who is that?' you thought, knitting your eyebrows together.

She was staring at the rectangular metal object emitting light in her hand, unaware of her surroundings. She then stopped near the side of the road, where thick white stripes lead to the other side.

You watched her every movement in anticipation, gripping the broom tightly until your knuckles turned white.

The girl then looked up and proceeded to cross the road, before lowering her eyes to the object in her hand again. Unbeknownst to her, a large metal mount was speeding in her direction, seemingly disoriented with how it was swerving from side to side recklessly.

Your heart hammered against your ribcage as you mentally screamed at the girl to move. You didn't know how, but you knew, at that moment, she was going to die.

Her attention was diverted to the incoming danger far too late. She froze like a deer trapped in headlights, her pupils dilating at the truck that seemed to be getting bigger - getting closer, charging towards her like an enraged bull.

Her phone flew out of her grasp as a sickening thud resounded through the area.

A grenade suddenly exploded on one side of your body; an invisible wrecking ball of metal and glass slammed into your shoulder, tearing a scream out of your throat as you dropped on the floor. The broom slipped out of your grasp and clattered next to your writhing body, tiny diamonds of sweat beading on your forehead. You let out choked gasps as you clawed at your chest; your head was pounding, it felt as if your ribs were broken, your lungs punctured... It was so painful. You felt the agonising pain the girl in those flashbacks experienced in her final moments, and you knew the reason.

You were that girl - you had died once.

And at this moment, you're a fictional character who technically doesn't exist in the world of Hetalia, an anime with characters that are personified countries, regions and micronations. As more memories rushed in like a tidal wave, you realised that you're in the Gangsta alternate universe, a dystopian Pangea where instead of countries, there are 200 districts ruled by mobsters and represented by their representatives, with the world being a lot more punk and grunge-like.

What you had once thought was impossible turned out to be the opposite, and you were living proof of the transmigration phenomenon.

Your mind was pulled back to the present when a pair of gentle hands frantically lifted your upper body from the floor, rolling you over so that your shoulder blades rested upon their arm; you didn't even notice that somebody had rushed into the dining room after hearing your outburst. Through the tears blurring your vision, you saw a youthful face framed by short brown hair, with an odd curl lightly bouncing on the left side of his head.

"Bella, are you alright? I heard you scream from the next room!"

A man's voice. It took you a few seconds to recognise who he was, and once you did, you shakily fisted his brown waistcoat, causing a look of concern to furrow his brow.

"M-Mr Italy," you whimpered, almost whining his name. His cheeks flushed faintly at your response. Swallowing the fluttering embarrassment, he raised the hand that wasn't supporting your back to cup over yours that's clinging to him. He gently eased his digits between the gaps of your fingers, coaxing you to relax.

"It's alright," he assured you, his soft brown eyes gazing at you kindly, "I'm here." He wasn't exactly sure what had happened to you, but he could tell that you needed some comfort at the moment, especially with how you seemed to be in pain. Wrapping his fingers around your wrist, Italy brought your hand up to his mouth before gingerly planting his lips against your palm with his eyes closed. Your breathing hitched in your throat, your pulse pulsating against his lips. He then pulled away after a beat or two, smiling down at you.

Feeling your nerves calming, the mental exhaustion from your previous episode finally caught up to you and your eyelids fluttered shut. As the strength left your hand, your entire body went limp in his arms, causing panic to rise in his chest. Hugging you tightly against him, Italy turned his head to the doorway with desperation etched on his face.

"Fratello! Fratello, please help!" he cried out. As if on cue, heavy footfall approached the dining room, followed by the muttering of a grumpy Italian. He huffed as he stalked through the doorway, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

"What is it, idiot brother?! What did you-" Romano stopped abruptly, his eyes widening at the sight of your unconscious self being cradled in his younger brother's arms. After getting over his initial shock, he shuffled closer to the two of you before kneeling down, concern swirling in his hazel hues.

"What happened to the ragazza?" he asked, his voice taking on a calmer tone. Italy shook his head.

"I don't know... I heard her scream just now and when I came to check on her, she was on the floor... She looked like she was in a lot of pain," the younger brother answered quietly, sounding as if he was on the verge of tears.

With a long, drawn-out sigh, Romano carded his hair with his fingers. "Let her rest in her room... and make sure to close and lock all the windows."

Nodding, Italy wrapped an arm around your shoulders and hooked an arm under your knees, before lifting you off the floor with a surprising amount of strength. He carefully shifted you around in his arms to guide your head to his chest, and then walked past Romano to bring you to your room, where he laid you down on the bed. After tucking you in, he sat on the edge of your bed, his gaze never leaving your form. He hoped that you're alright and that you'll tell him what transpired before he found you in that state. Letting out a muted sigh, he gingerly brushed away the stray strands of hair from your forehead, resolving to stay by your side until you've woken up.

An hour later, you regained consciousness. Hearing soft snores beside you, you rolled your head to the side and lifted your eyelids to find Italy asleep next to you with his head resting atop his folded arms. One of his hands was lightly grasping yours, and it was only then did you register his warmth against your skin. When you slowly slipped your hand out of his and propped yourself on your elbows, he was stirred by the subtle movements. Eyelids fluttering open, the Italian raised his head from his arms, yawning rather cutely.

"(Y/n)?" he murmured, noticing that you're awake. His face immediately lit up, and you could have sworn you saw the curl in his hair bob up and down. "You're up! Are you okay?" He made a move to hug you but you instinctively flinched out of his reach, making him falter. He looked at you curiously, realising that you're avoiding his touch. You didn't know why you did it either; in this life, you're closer to Italy than you were to Romano, so why do you feel unfamiliar with him, like he's a stranger to you? You averted your eyes, puzzled by your own actions. You tried to remember the times Italy conjured up a sense of comfort and security when the two of you were together, but found yourself struggling. The details were vague, blurry - as if there was a mist in your mind. You held your head, your heart thumping against your chest in slight panic.

Why was it so hard to remember?

"What's the matter?" he asked, drawing you out of your thoughts, "Why won't you look at me?" His voice carried a hint of hurt which prompted your gaze to drift back to him.

"I... I'm sorry, I..." you said, trailing off. Not knowing what to say to him, your threw the blanket off your body and slid off the other side of the bed. Before Italy could stop you, you had already scampered out of the room, leaving a confused and saddened Italian behind.

"Bella...?" he softly called, hoping that you'd return through the doorway - but only silence answered him.

CHAPTER 2

[nsves]

blender lighting tutorial + tips.

requested by @thecrimsonsimmer + recommended viewing: youtube video one, two, three, and four. this post will be dealing with newer versions of blender (2.8+) and cycles since that's what i'm more familiar with + commonly used for rendering. this is coming from me as an artist with some dabbling in photography and things i've learned in college!

references and setting the mood

are you basing your render on an existing photo? study the light source and what direction it's coming from: that's what's going to tell you your set up for a similar effect. if you're not basing it on an existing piece, a good start is knowing How you want to set your subject (your sim) up - do you want them to be in the spotlight? are they in a specific environment that has neon lights? are you going for moody or something fresh, bright? definitely look up colors and their meaning (color theory, movie screencaps, etc.) to create a stronger image!

using resources to start the set up

it's always a good thing to mix your tools with different communities, such as the art community! many have lighting tools to figure out how to color their subject, such as this free-to-use head figure that depicts where the lighting source should be placed.

there's also the photography community and teaching people how to set up their lights for certain setups. video three and four linked in the beginning are from photography viewpoints.

spot? area? point? sun?

let's think of the lighting types as objects - a spot is like a plain lightbulb, area is a reflective sheet, spot is a flashlight, and the sun... well is the sun!

a spot is similar to an area light, but triangular/a cone. think of a helicopter search light, it's focused on a small area with the most light concentration. these can be used for lamps with lampshades, car headlights, or a lighthouse.

an area light is great for lighting up technology. a phone screen, tv screen, tablet, anything that's an LED screen emitting from a surface. the light is not as concentrated as a spot and is meant to cover more flatly (hence the rectangular source)

a point is best used for small pops of colors such as candlelight, lamppost, lightning bug tail, etc. a small source that has nothing covering it.

a sun covers the entire area and can be used as the overall mood setter. it can create filter over the entire render by just shifting the color like you would see in a movie. you'll be given a line with a sun light that gives the direction of where the sun is coming from. basically a spot light just on a much larger scale LOL.

power + coloring

this screenshot is mostly what you'll only use to start off with. watts is the unit of measurement and the higher you go, the brighter the light will be. examples with a white colored point light 10W-20W: general portrait lighting 30W-50W: bright source, close flashlight for example 60W+: blinding

coloring is just like the system for in game lights for ts4. shift it to whatever you want it to be (click the white bar, that's the color preview) and mess around with the vibrancy. the darker, more intense color, the less it's going to appear on the sim.

closeness and intensity

similar to what's shown in the head lighting tool shown earlier, the closer the light is, the more that specific area is lit up. go too close and your sim could be completely washed out. it helps to change the size of the light (change with the radius slider) to better imitate what you're wanting. the larger the radius, the more diffused and softer the light source will be. close + small = very clear of the light source shape, can obviously tell where it is in relation to the subject far away + large = soft lighting, more of a hazy lighting of the color you choose.

to quickly adjust the light, press "G" and hold down your middle mouse button to adjust which axis you'd like to edit along. green is the x-axis, blue is the y-axis, and red is the z-axis. you can also press "G" and type the letter of the axis you want to use. drag the mouse to change the placement on that specific axis to however you want. if you want to freely edit the placement, just press "G" to move it out of the axis bounds.

world lighting

take this step as setting your canvas color before you start painting. in order for the values to look their best, change the world color to the same hue of the color you are mostly using. for example, this is set in a red-toned environment:

this is essentially changing the cast shadow onto the sim. the default is gray and will muddy up your undertones if not changed properly. for this instance, if you were to still use the same red point light in a gray world color it'd look like this:

of course, this will be based on if you have an environment image or not that can affect your lighting overall. this post is based on the fact there is no environment image and what not! if you need a visual demonstration on how to mess with the world lighting, check out this short video.

i hope that helped anyone beginning to render or wanting to light up your own scenes! i'm no rendering expert, but here's some of the helpful tricks i've learned and collected over the years<3 if you have any other questions feel free to send an ask!

[nczaversnick]

Project Gemini Chapter 1

This is just a draft so far but it is somewhat polished. Enough to share anyway. This is kinda long so it’s below the cut. Enjoy!

Chapter 1

April 12th - 13:32

Bourne, Titania District

“And with these results that we’ve calculated, we’re able to connect the final piece in better understanding, diagnosing and healing our patients,” a masked woman dressed in charcoal gray-colored scrubs underneath a black lab coat turned and faced a frazzled, deer in headlights look in his eyes man, “Any questions?”

Caspian fiddled with his Holographic Screen Projector tablet. Despite the schoolboard’s constant bragging about the advantages of providing ‘highly sophisticated technology’ to their students, having them be the size of magazines was one of their downfalls. On one hand, they were a clumsy, rectangular shape that weren’t user-friendly enough to be held in one hand and type efficiently with the other. On the other hand, proven time and time again, the lined carbon fiber plates were the superior material to withstand any tumbles from any height. Not that he would know anything about that, but if he did, he knew he could safely count his blessings because the replacements of any AF series of the HSPs would have cost him a month’s rent, including an arm and a leg. He glanced up from his notes and noticed the waning patience on the woman’s face. He quickly looked back down and hurriedly scrolled through his curriculum.

“Sorry,” he stuttered, his cheeks reddening. He finally found what he was searching for and took a moment to peer at the list.

“What do you usually do with the outliers, the ‘critical values’?”

“Oh, yes! We have a strong fail safe system to ensure our results are as accurate as possible. We check the calibration,” she continued to prattle on as he rolled his sore shoulders around. His eyelids began to feel heavy, and his empty stomach churned and growled as another day of dense learning piled on top of him.

“So, obviously, a carbon dioxide level of 35 millimoles per liter would raise concern in doctors, and a level of 21 thousand would raise concern in police,” it was hard enough to decipher exactly what she was saying due to the thick material of her mask, but the way she quickly skimmed and bounced back and forth between topics made it near impossible. Her eyes glanced up towards the flashing digital clock illuminating the door.

“Well, I don’t want to take up too much more of your time,” the sudden change in the pitch of her voice snapped him back to reality, “I know you students have a lot to cover in your other areas, and it’s almost time for lunch anyway. I hope you took a little something out of this rotation.”

“I did, thank you so much,” he quickly shoved his tablet into his school bag and readjusted the strap on his shoulder. The masked woman’s eyes crinkled in a way that he could only guess was from a smile as she escorted him away from the laboratory and towards the elevators.

“Take care of yourself, young man.”

The doors closed and, after a few moments of silence, save for the soft whirring of the elevator at work, opened to a scene of minor chaos. Not like it was anything he wasn’t used to at this point. He carefully made his way across the room, cautious of the other medical personnel and ensuring not to run into any of them in their hustle and bustle between patient rooms.

Blip.

He tiredly swiped his badge in front of a small, wall-mounted monitor. A large glass screen above the monitor flickered to life, and a robotic voice called out:

Screen: “Greetings, Caspian Álvarez. How can I assist you?”

“Clock out for break.”

Screen: “You have chosen to clock out for break on April 12th at 13:48. Your expected clock-in is 14:33 on April 12th. Please present PIN to confirm or say ‘cancel’ to cancel.”

He held out his right wrist towards the small monitor and a faint chime soon followed:

Screen: “PIN accepted. Is there anything else I can assist you with today?”

“No, thank you.”

Screen: “Goodbye.”

The screen flickered off, leaving behind the reflection of his tired face. He sighed and dropped his arm dramatically as if going through the extra security of clocking out for lunch would be the most grueling task he would have to face for the rest of the day.

“I feel that, but you know, I think I would prefer just giving a PIN than having to go through the extra security clearances like the hospitals in Eltrax or the Aurora District in general,” a man’s deep voice suddenly spoke, “I get that it’s the capital, but having to present your PIN, registered fingerprints and an ocular scan? Could you imagine how backed up it could get? No thanks.”

A man dressed in light blue scrubs underneath a blinding, white coat approached him. Despite the intimidating appearance of his large, sculpted muscles hidden poorly beneath his uniform and his towering six foot five to Caspian’s five foot eight, he was a gentle giant with a bright smile.

“Oh, hey, Doctor Bruno.”

“How are you surviving out here?”

“Well, trying to find the balance between the rotations and your classes is a little challenging, but I made it this far.”

Bruno chuckled and gently patted his shoulder, “From what I’ve seen, I think you’re doing pretty well for yourself. Finals are just around the corner. Take advantage of the break afterward. Get some sleep.”

Caspian internally groaned as he rubbed his hands over his face as if to wipe away the permanent raccoon rings around his eyes, causing Bruno to chuckle again as the PA system above crackled to life:

PA System: Paging Doctor Bruno to room 12.

Doctor Bruno to room 12.

Bruno picked up a small device clipped to his hip, and pressed it, “Page confirmed.”

He turned to him and gave a sympathetic smile, “That’s my cue. Hang in there, Álvarez.”

Caspian waved goodbye to his professor as a faint jingle rang out from his uniform pocket. He fished out a palm-sized HSP, and fiddled with the screen. He sighed and waited patiently for his messages to load. He often considered getting his personal tablet replaced, but knowing how much it initially cost him, he figured he would milk as much as he could from it before it officially died. His messages finally pulled up, and he quickly skimmed over them. There was only one that caught his attention, and it was from one of his classmates:

Audrey: Hey, I found us a table in the

cafeteria. Hurry, though, I’m starvin’

(4/12 13:51)

He chuckled softly, slipping his tablet back into his pocket as he headed towards the doors. On his way, he couldn’t help, but take a few, fleeting glances inside the patient rooms. The rooms were pristine, although a bit on the boring side: white walls with gray baseboards with lone, hardly worn chairs pushed into the corners. Each room had a different number of machines crowding the patient, depending on the severity of their conditions, yet, despite how many there were, none of them made a peep above a soft hum. It almost felt lonesome seeing as there really was no need for physical visitors since each room had large screens bolted to the wall opposite of the patients, the surface plastered by faint, glitching images of doctors or presumably loved ones. The only other living thing in those rooms were the dusty, single photograph portraits of nature that hung on the wall. He didn’t realize he had come to a standstill until he heard another faint jingle from his tablet:

Audrey: Dude, where are you???

(4/12 13:55)

He shook his head at her impatience, and quickly exited the ward. After a few turns and more hallways, he soon approached a pair of glass doors that slid open in his presence. The vibe of the cafeteria was eerily similar to the ward: neutral facial expressions, quiet conversations with an occasional soft laughter surrounded by blank walls and dust covered portraits. His eyes quickly scanned the sea of unfamiliar faces.

“Hey, over here,” a loud voice bellowed, breaking the calm setting.

He didn’t even have to glance in the direction the voice was coming from to know who it belonged to. He soon caught sight of his eccentric classmate, standing up and waving her arms around. He internally groaned, heat rising to his cheeks as he quickly cut through the cafeteria and past the other hospital members who perked their heads up at the sudden commotion.

“Did they not teach you anything about being a ‘good representative of Utristan’ zombie while you were in basic, Private,” he smirked, keeping his voice low.

“Oh. My. God. You have no right to be pulling rank since we’re both Privates, Álvarez,” Audrey scoffed, rolling her eyes, “And right in front of my lunch, nonetheless. Those were the worst two years of my life.”

“I don’t know, I found it a little comforting, especially since I had no idea what I wanted to do after high school.”

“I thought my ASAPT scores would have been lower.”

“You’re smart, Audrey, give yourself some credit.”

“If I did, then where would I get my sympathy points from,” she grinned, sliding over two trays filled to the brim with warm, delicious-smelling food. He rolled his eyes, chuckling. His stomach growled and his mouth watered as he eyed the tray.

“I owe you one.”

“Just pay for my dinner.”

Not a moment later, he was already scarfing down his food as she calmly enjoyed hers.

“No breakfast this morning?”

“Didn’t have time. I went to bed late, so I got up late,” his words were barely audible through his full mouth.

She sighed, “Up late studying again? You’re smart, Cas. I bet you could not study for a week and still be able to pass.”

“Hah.”

“I’m serious! At this rate, you’ll burn yourself out before we even get a chance to start working. We should take a trip somewhere together after finals.”

“We only have a couple of weeks off before the summer semester.”

“Huh, but I’m not taking summer classes unless,” she trailed off.

He paused for a moment, gingerly scratching at his cheek.

“Caspian Álvarez, don’t tell me you’re taking extra classes over the summer!”

“I just want to get them out of the way.”

“You’re literally the worst,” she threw her hands in the air as she slumped down in her seat.

He hushed her and looked around at the now-staring faces of the other cafeteria patrons.

“Listen, I know I’m the worst, but you’re probably just going to be with Bruno for most of the time anyway.”

Her face slowly erupted into a crimson shade of red as she straightened up in her chair and leaned forward, keeping her voice low, “Low blow, dude.”

“With the number of times you tease me about Isaac, who is literally only a friend, might I add, I would say this is fair enough.”

“Okay, okay, but that still doesn’t excuse you from taking extra classes. You’re only in your early twenties, Cas! Enjoy your life a little. I would kill to be your age again.”

“You are literally only 28.”

“And,” she gave him a stern look as if she made a good point. The both of them knew it wasn’t a good point at all, and they erupted in loud laughter because of it, once again shattering the quiet atmosphere. The two classmates finally settled down, and used what little time they had left of their break to try and enjoy their meals and each other’s company. After their food was gone, Audrey immediately pulled her tablet from her pocket and began fidgeting with the screen as Caspian sat there and enjoyed his coffee. He pulled his tablet from his pocket to check on the time when he noticed her dissatisfied expression.

“What’s that face for,” he chuckled.

“How long have you had your tablet?”

“About three years? Give or take.”

“You ever think about upgrading?”

“Hell no. A BF-2S would cost me 20 more seols a month. That, in total, would cost me half a month’s worth of groceries. I’ll stick to the older models. I’m even thinking about returning the school’s AF-5 if that means I get my security deposit back.”

“Cas, that’s just being a cheapskate at this point.”

“Life’s worth more than pretty phones,” he shrugged, eyeing her new BF-3S. He could have sworn she just got the BF-3 last month. He shook his head, “Besides, I’m sure I can find some paper in the black market somewhere.”

She rolled her eyes, “Who knows? I heard they pay pretty well in this area. Maybe the extra money will get you to loosen up a bit.”

“Yeah,” he snorted, “Maybe for you. You have a better shot at being hired here than me.”

“Are you kidding? My grades suck so much compared to yours. You’ll definitely have a better shot.”

“If they looked past my records.”

“Oh please,” she rolled her eyes, “That was one misdemeanor, and it wasn’t even your fault. You’re great at what you do. You’re compassionate; you’re kind. You work so hard! Those are all good qualities you need in this field.”

Her kindness was always with good intentions, but he knew deep down that those ‘qualities’ wouldn’t cut it for him. Even after scoring high on the ASAPT exam and being a perfect personality match for his career path, it still took numerous recommendations from teachers and summer volunteer mentors for the school to even consider his application. Hell, he was even going to go as far as apply for out of district programs, or worse, consider continuing working for the military. He shuddered. Nonetheless, seeing her gentle smile and looking back at all the times she had been there for him, he could at least give her a slight, crooked smile and echo a hollow thanks. His tablet pinged softly, signaling that it was time to go back. He sighed and pulled his tray towards him, making a move to leave.

“Hey, Cas. Just give me a call whenever you feel like it, okay? We can get food and drinks, and have a good time, you know? I’ll even forget about the whole ‘you owing me dinner’ thing.”

He nodded, his smile brightening up slightly, “Yeah, sure.”

The rest of the day came and went in a blur. The evening shift shuffled in, and shift-to-shift handoff was exchanged. Another successful day of helpful knowledge was stuffed into his school bag as he approached the entrance.

“See you tomorrow,” a nurse called out from behind the front desk.

He gave a small wave as he and the rest of the shift’s crew shambled out of the building in zombie-like states. With each passing day, it was getting harder and harder for him to muster up the strength to make it to the transit stop. His body always threatened to crash, eyelids heavy and movements becoming more and more sluggish with each step. However, every now and then, the occasional bumping of other people’s shoulders brushing against him would jolt him awake just enough to keep going. With school taking up his weekdays and his weekends eaten up by his part-time job to keep his head above water, all he longed for was a nap.

Even a short nap would do, he yawned until something suddenly slammed into him, almost knocking him to the ground. His eyes shot open, bewildered.

“What the Hell, man,” his annoyed voice trailed off as he spotted a pair of gray eyes. Dark, stormy. They were hardened by a type of determination he had never seen before. When he finally came to and opened his mouth to say something, they vanished. He blinked and spun around, but not a single trace of them was left. All that remained were the crowds of faceless heads that bobbed along the sidewalks and a faint stench of ash. What was equally as jarring was that no one in the crowd seemed to have noticed, which made him question the authenticity of what just transpired. He craned his neck to try and peer over the group, but the increasing number of pushing pedestrians prompted him to give up on his search and keep moving forward. He sighed and readjusted his school bag, pulling out his tablet to glance at the time. He could feel his eyelids start to get heavy as he peeked at the coffee shop just across the street. The train station was only a few more minutes down the block. He was sure he could make it:

Biing-bong.

PA: “May I have your attention, please? The MPA-0312 Antiquitrain for the 17:09 CrossCountry service to Dreake will arrive shortly. For the safety of yourself and our other guests, please remain behind the turnstile until the antiquarian has come to a complete stop.”

He took a few minutes to catch his breath as the speakers continued listing off other destinations and times of departure in the background. That was the last time he messed around with time. He glanced up at one of the digital clock towers.

16:53.

Just enough time for him and several other patrons to start filing themselves in the queues. A gentle breeze fluttered past, wafting in a very faint, honey-like scent. The misplaced smell piqued his interest as he picked his head up and looked around. Nothing was too out of the ordinary, and no one in particular struck him as the type to wear such a fragrant perfume. He began to lose interest in the mysterious scent as the PA crackled to life:

Biing-bong.

PA: “May I have your attention, please? The MPA-0312 Antiquitrain for the 17:09 CrossCountry service to Dreake has arrived. Please have your PIN readily accessible to make for a smoother process for our guests.”

A silver, nine-car monorail soon came into view. The metal was clean and still new, free of any scratches or dings, and the windows were tinted nearly black, making it impossible to see inside the cars. It was faster than the previous year’s antiquitrains, and certainly more pleasant to look at than the ones closer to where he was staying. The monorail slowly came to a stop, and the doors soon opened, letting out large groups of people. Once a majority of the crowd had cleared, a loud ding chimed out, followed by a buzzer, signaling that the platform was now active. Everyone shuffled through the rotating bars one by one after pressing their wrists against the sensor on the turnstile's column. The monorail dipped ever so slightly with each passenger that boarded as it hovered above the metal rail. He set one foot onto the monorail as the scent came back. It was more potent with each passing moment as if the perfumed stranger was steadily creeping up on him. Naturally, he whipped his head up and around to scan the crowd, but to no avail. No one was advancing toward him except for a disgruntled older man who glared at him through his thick glasses.

“Hurry it up, will ya? Some of us are trying to get home.”

He frowned slightly, but quickly sniffed in the stranger’s direction just to be sure. The scent still lingered, but it was faint now. And just as it had come, it soon dissipated:

PA: “The MPA-0312 Antiquitrain for Dreake will be departing soon. Please ensure all your belongings are safely secured as the antiquitrain accelerates and decelerates at a rapid speed.”

He lazily reached up to grasp the hanging handrail as the doors slid closed, but barely missed as the monorail suddenly lurched forward. He stumbled and almost collapsed into a young woman that was sitting beside him. He quickly regained his composure and apologized profusely, his face burning red. After several more apologies, he slumped into his seat, trying to bury himself in his scrubs as a few passengers near him softly chuckled. After the embarrassment finally wore off, he decided to busy himself by scrolling through his school tablet. A few assignments weren’t due for another few days, but he figured if he got a headstart on them now, he might have more time to compose himself before his weekend shift. However, no matter how hard he tried to concentrate on the document displayed before him, he couldn’t get his brain to refocus on his assignments. His thoughts constantly drifted between school, clinical rotations, and his future before finally settling on who that stranger who ran into him was. Why was he in such a hurry? How come no one else noticed him?

“Attention, passengers of MPA-0312,” the PA softly announced in the background as he pondered his thoughts. He didn’t pay any mind to the announcement that warned the passengers of their arrival, which he would soon regret as the monorail suddenly came to a halt and launched him into the back of a now very disgruntled passenger.

Tags for general Project Gemini content(comment to be +/-):

@the-ellia-west @honeybewrites @the-letterbox-archives @the-golden-comet @athenadire @yourpenpaldee

[carsthatnevermadeitetc]

Ford Mustang Shelby GT350 Zagato, 1967 (2019). This is the fully restored Zagato prototype. Chassis No. 7T02A201813 rolled off the assembly line at the New Jersey plant on Feb. 21, 1967, before being shipped to Italy. Though the Carello rectangular headlights have been retained the wrap-over rear window of the 1967 Zagato concept has been replaced by more conventional fastback styling. Despite this the restored car has been given Zagato, ASI and FIVA certification. Pictured below is a photograph of the original car parked in front of the factory in 1967, found in the Zagato archives.

[wynellewrites]

Chaos Visits Asgard - a Roleplay Intro

The portal looked like a crisp, rectangular pane of glass, its surfaces glowing with a melange of fiery hues. Alarm touched nearly every face in Valaskjalf’s throne room at its appearance, soldiers turning their heads to face the potential threat as they gripped their weapons tighter. 

After several long moments, two female figures emerged from the threshold. 

The first through was a tall, dark-skinned woman with plain but noble features. Everything about her spoke of order: the neatly tailored navy suit jacket, the prim round glasses, textured hair severely combed into a bun at the nape of her neck, and pale brown corduroys tucked into long brown boots. She was holding up a badge that read “MAG.” Her chin was held very high; she seemed almost regal in her bearing, as if she felt every inch the authority here despite it being Odin’s throne room. 

“Citizens of Asgard!” she began with great confidence and aplomb, beginning to bow.

Another voice swiftly cut her off in a thundering bellow. “What is the meaning of this intrusion upon my hall? And by what means have you come?” 

The woman’s face grew grave. She briefly held up, then tucked away the small rectangular box she’d been holding into a side pocket.

At this, the second woman--hardly more than five feet tall--stepped out beside her, hands held up in gentle placation. Her hair was dark, with some brighter cherry-red streaks shot through it, and she wore a simple carmine dress: sweetheart neckline, lantern sleeves, long flared skirt. There was nothing subtle in the way her generous figure filled the garment. Her smile, however, was very slight, given the gravity of the situation, and there was a vague tremor in her gesture. 

“Please forgive us for the abruptness of our visit; we come in peace,” the shorter woman answered, sincere regret and reassurance in her tone. Her voice was a soft and husky alto with a bit of extra breath in it. Anxiety, perhaps? 

“Indeed,” the taller woman agreed with strength and measured volume, now giving a full and proper bow as the soldiers rushed in. She seemed utterly unruffled as the Einherjaren marched to surround them, eyes fixed unwaveringly on the king… but the smaller one’s face blanched significantly, and she fixed the soldiers with the stare of a deer in headlights. After a moment and a side glance from her colleague, the agent in red seemed to remember herself and hastily mimicked the first woman’s bow. 

Odin held up a hand to relax the soldiers, seeming to take note of the lack of apparent weapons, at least now that the first woman had tucked her device away. His expression was stern, his eyes guarded. “If your intentions are peaceful, then let them be known.” 

If she could draw herself up any straighter, the tall woman likely would have. She spoke calmly, her manner businesslike but polite. “I thank you, your majesty. King Odin of Asgard, I am Agent Morrow Smythe of the Multiversal Alliance of Guardians, or as it is colloquially called, MAG. We are an agency located outside of time and space, and our purpose is to resolve serious threats to the dimensions we monitor, one of which is yours. We have detected one such force is preparing for an assault here, in some decades’ time.”

Odin’s expression was difficult to read, but he looked somewhere between concerned and very skeptical. Decades would, after all, seem a much smaller time period to an Asgardian than a Midgardian. “Proceed,” he invited neutrally, still watchful.

Agent Smythe’s confidence reigned supreme, where many would have been cowed by his long-practiced air of overpowering authority. “After assessing our data and running our predictive models, the most personnel-efficient solution was identified to be a particular agent of ours. This is far from unheard of; in fact, it is a fairly general practice, but our selections are highly specialized.” 

Smythe gestured with open, presentative hands to the other woman, who smiled faintly, her gaze flicking from Odin to each of his family members--the youngest-looking male more briefly than the others--and back to Odin again. She appeared unsettled; unlike Smythe, she was clearly out of her depth. Though in her middle years of life, she maintained a contradictory bearing of peace and worry, in stark contrast with the towering dignity of the taller woman. Despite making an effort to mimic Smythe’s confidence, her hands were clasped, body humming with a subtle energy of sorts, as if her blood pressure would not quite settle.

Smythe continued, relentlessly matter-of-fact. “My companion here, Agent MacSimmons, is from a place which also faced invasion by this threat. Some of the people we rescued from her dimension, including herself, were touched by this threat but resistant to its call. They were able to drain as much strength as was taken from them, gaining a measure of its power and making themselves unappealing targets. Its victims who survive are thus uniquely qualified to help in countering its power under the right circumstances. 

“After extensive study, they have been found to be no danger to others as long as they are of reasonable psychological health, and not compelled to use their powers before being sufficiently educated. Only Kaztorok itself is capable of spreading its magic to its victims; it is part of the process by which it anchors its psychic digestion. It must establish a direct link, for reasons unknown to the Alliance.” 

“Kaztorok?” Odin’s eyes narrowed as he took this in. 

“Yes,” Smythe confirmed. “It is what we classify as a cosmic horror, a devourer of psychic energy. Once it gets its grip on a conscious mind, it slowly begins to consume that mind. We have not yet managed to detect a concrete or genetic pattern, but some minds appear able to absorb and reflect its chaos.” 

Odin and others glanced her way, but MacSimmons’ gaze strayed from anyone else’s in that moment, brow furrowing slightly in a hint of troubled confusion. 

“And you are one such soul?” The king addressed her directly. 

The agent blinked, startled, but eventually pulled herself together. “Yes, sir. I mean, your majesty. Sorry, there are--I--I’ve--you’re the first monarch I’ve met,” she finally managed to articulate, with the softest breath of an unsteady laugh. Her face was slightly pink, and briefly anxious. “Yes,” she answered after a heartbeat, realizing she hadn’t done so yet. “I was one of the lucky ones.”

Odin mercifully chose not to address her lapse. “What happened, then, on your world?” he questioned, firmly but not unkindly.

MacSimmons visibly flinched, but answered seriously, some of her nervous undercurrent fading in the face of bad memories. Her eyes unfocused, as if for a moment they could pierce the multiverse.   

“It… happened over decades,” she began. “More violence on my world--my version of Midgard,” she corrected somberly, “as well as more unrest. People seemed to grow more and more mad… and then finally, after thirty years or so, the weather rapidly began to change. Over that last year, nights became longer, sunrises and sunsets redder, lasting for hours. After a certain point, even the sun was the color of blood. Finally, it was dark enough for two thirds of every day that… things we hadn’t known existed began to rise from the shadows--or maybe they only came into being because--that thing had gained enough power to shape our reality. We don’t know.” 

“Likely the latter, according to our records and readings,” Morrow interjected, for the first time sounding a bit softer. 

MacSimmons swallowed hard, seeming to gather herself. Her voice was thick with emotion after all of that, and not entirely steady. She was clearly focused on remaining as detached as she could be about this. “Those of us who kept our minds watched loved ones, family, friends, and colleagues devolve into ravings. And even we found it difficult to remain calm with all the monsters roaming, haunting and eating. Those vulnerable to Kaztorok’s spell ended up believing that safety lay outside of their walls. They spread fear as much as they feasted on life, as if they were bacteria living in its stomach, helping it--digest us.” That was said with great discomfort. “Many were killed simply because someone in their shelter broke the safety of their threshold, by throwing the doors open wide for what lay in the dark.” 

“How did you survive?” Odin questioned, seeming given to trust her sincerity, though not necessarily the veracity of her organization. He did not seem unmoved. 

Pain showed in her eyes, but she pushed it away. Slightly more subdued, she continued, “I was lucky enough to find others who could push away the call. Strangely, the more normal a person was before the Blood Year, the more of a void that seemed to leave in their head for madness. That gave us something to go on in terms of whom to trust. As society disintegrated, we stayed together, fortifying compounds and surviving off of everything we could loot. Sometimes powers manifested... that helped us, though they were very hard to control and often subtle in their workings. We would make trips to abandoned factories and homes during the short hours of safety.

“In that last month, that window of daylight shrank further and further. Then MAG came, beginning to retrieve whole groups of us… many were afraid it was some kind of trap from the things that wanted to devour us, but when we found safety and companionship in their headquarters, everyone finally began to relax and believe we were saved. The time of quarantine was.. not terribly pleasant, many jabs with needles and scans; that sort of thing, but… we had one another for company. We were safe and alive.” Her smile was bittersweet as memories rose. “When the time came, many of us--such as myself--volunteered to help in other ways than with research.”

“And you are committed to doing so?” Odin queried gravely. 

“I am… certainly apprehensive about the possibility of facing even a trace of… it again,” MacSimmons said with a trace of misery, her face again pale. “However, I can’t help but trust MAG’s technology. After all, it saved my life, and many others.” 

Odin’s eyes went back to Agent Smythe. “How shall this Alliance prove itself to Asgard? How may we know that you are allies, not assassins, or invaders exploiting the downtrodden?”

Agent Smythe shrugged slightly. “Time and familiarity will hopefully make it all clear. MAG respects your sovereignty. I have my duties to return to, so I cannot remain long-term. As for Agent MacSimmons, we can establish her on Midgard with their forces if you are not comfortable with her. it is up to your majesty whether she remains, how long, and under what restrictions. You are welcome to have her watched closely at all times.”

Something like alarm flared in MacSimmons’ eyes, which were an indistinct color, not easy to identify in this light. They went quite large, and swiveled in her head to track Smythe for a moment, the rest of her not moving. Her thoughts were easy to guess: ‘Surely not even in the bathroom?!’ But she quickly rescued her gaze by staring off into the distance past the royal family, her expression carefully neutral, belying her still-wide eyes.

“Agent,” Odin addressed MacSimmons.

“Yes?” she asked with a trace of trepidation. 

“Should we offer you sanctuary here in Valaskjalf,” he began, “will you agree to be under heavy guard on every occasion in which you leave your quarters?”

“That’s fair,” she quickly agreed, looking relieved it wasn’t sounding too strict or awkward. “I’m here to help. I am willing to put in the work to show you my intentions.”  

“This is best for everyone,” Smythe commented. “No one can help your domain more than a survivor of the Red Year, but neither can anyone can help her as much as you. I must advise you that Agent MacSimmons’ home dimension was not a place of magic. While in our headquarters, she was not able to practice its use because it is a magic-nullifying zone; only prescribed methods of transport function as a means of entering those halls. At such time as you do come to trust her, you may also wish to have your wife or son assist her in learning the sorcerous arts. Regardless, you will almost certainly wish to test her capabilities and familiarize yourself with her skillset. But that is only a recommendation. I defer to your management of your own kingdom.”

“Ah, technically he hasn’t--quite accepted yet,” the woman in red chuckled, faintly apprehensive but smiling nonetheless. 

“True,” Smythe noted. “Unless you have further questions for me as the senior agent, I shall depart and allow you to assess our agent at your leisure. Agent MacSimmons can and will return to us on her own if bidden to, or request my presence if you wish more information in the future that she cannot provide.”

Odin took a long moment to consider this, not seeming bothered to make anyone wait. Similarly, Smythe showed no signs of impatience, for whatever reason. She waited stoically, seeming utterly unruffled. Only her partner showed signs of feeling as if she stood barefoot atop a pile of hot coals, needing to dissociate to avoid the pain. 

At last, Odin spoke again, to a slight flinch from the shorter agent. “You may depart, though Asgard may have need of your counsel in the future.” 

Smythe duplicated her earlier bow, which lasted a bit longer, a sign of deep respect which was likely at least a little performative, albeit also sincere to some degree. “I thank you, great Odin, for your wisdom,” she stated with a slightly brusque formality, not laying it on thick. 

Retrieving her device now, slowly so as to avoid misunderstandings, Morrow put a hand on her partner’s shoulder, speaking a few low words. MacSimmons soon donned a brave smile, nodding in response to whatever was said. A rather utilitarian hug followed, as a professor might give to a student at graduation. 

Then, without further ado, Smythe departed, leaving only one strangely-clad intruder. 

Somehow, MacSimmons looked even smaller now, though she was clearly determined not to shrink into herself. Her jaw worked, as if she was fighting for something to say, and she glanced out over the intimidating mass of Einherjaren in the throne room. Though her face was still, her eyes looked distant, as if she was coping with the tremendous crowd through a cushion of surreality while still trying to think of what to say next. 

“The evening’s banquet is upon us,” Frigga chimed in now, standing to her feet with a gracious smile, seeming to have decided from her observations of the stranger that at least for now, they would welcome her as a guest. “Shall you join, then?” 

Odin’s brow furrowed ever so slightly, some thought straying into his mind. 

Seeing his expression, MacSimmons hesitated, her smile faltering an imperceptible trifle--just briefly. “If that is acceptable, I would be delighted… but of course you can seat me wherever you like; I’m not picky,” she hastily added.

Though her pale, flushed face was not what most would call beautiful, it was interesting. There was a distinct kindness to it, and a radiance to her smile as it settled into sincerity. For a moment, her eyes lost the trace of haunted depths. The dark, wild waves framing her apple cheeks gave her a slightly chaotic appearance. Something about her gave a subtle impression of someone always trying to be tame, but unable to quite reach such a state. 

Her words seemed to placate Asgard’s monarch as she'd hoped. He nodded with the faintest trace of approval, not yet giving an answer.

As Odin’s family of five rose to their feet, the agent fell into step just a little behind the three men and two women. It was a struggle to keep up with Asgard’s long-legged royals without risking her dignity, but she was trying. It was a little easier as the Einherjaren's imposing ranks closed in, making her forget dignity in the face of anxiety.

Once she was fairly sure no one was looking, she let a little of her fear creep into her expression. Morrow had trained her well, but now it was all up to her… and here, in this possibly doomed place, she had no one. 

Focusing with all her mental strength, she pushed forward into an uncertain future. After all, the threat was far enough away, for now. This… should be the easy part. 

Somehow the thought was not as comforting as she wished.

[pharaoh-friend]

For some reason, an old history lesson about something to do with pyramids and traps pops up in the back of Bastet’s mind.

But she stays silent and watches.

Inside is a tiny room, less than four feet in length and width, and 7 or so feet in height. There's a little table on the back that holds a ton of picture frames and items.

A few decorated wineglasses, painted on in various colors and with various shapes. One is golden and orange, with squares and triangles, one is red and green, with circles and triangles, and one is purple and black, with circles and squares.

A necklace with a cartouche on it, spelling out the name "Edward" inside it.

A scrap piece of what looks like a headlight to a car, with a sticky note on it saying, "I brought your car to the shop to get this replaced Ed!!! Don't call I've made up my mind!!! >:("

A to-do list of chores with various names on it: Simon, Isaac, Alice, Elida, and Edward. Simon and Elida have all of their chores done, Isaac has 3/4ths done, and Alice and Edward haven't done any yet.

A beat-up wallet with an ID card for "Tucker Tharwat" inside, where the name has been crossed out in crude sharpie and replaced with "Edward" on its own. A similar wallet has "Isa Brennen" replaced with "Isaac".

A wooden, rectangular plate with "Mallory-Brennen" hand-engraved on it, with a sticky note on it saying "Don't let Isaac see, put it under your bed for safekeeping pls <3"

A picture of an white-looking girl with brown hair next to a girl with blonde hair, holding drawings of the Pharaoh, his fancy golden garments replaced with ratty clothes and cartoony cigarettes hanging from his mouth on both of them.

An IPhone in a tacky red case with texts open on it to show a conversation between Simon and Isaac about Edward and how they wish he would "let himself relax" and let them take care of him.

More clutter the desk and the walls- more pictures, more little accessories, more sticky notes and lists and seemingly random items with long, long stories behind them.

...

I lied by the way. I remember too much.

Sorry for showing you this. I probably shouldn't have.

...

He hangs his head and sniffles.

[elysianstarl1ght]

The Night I Lied to You

--------------------------------------------------------

"You're lying." There it is... They were expecting that. He gestured towards his bed, hidden behind a set of black silky curtains with the rectangular frame wrapped in sparkling fairy lights. "Sit."

Freminet did as they were told. What more could they do? Besides, they were not complaining. It wasn't the time to act. That adrenaline rush was long gone, leaving their bruised legs trembling to a point Freminet wasn’t so sure they could stand for much longer. It did not take long before Lyney had seated himself beside Freminet, routinely taking their hand in his own as he begun to inspect the damage done. Although unable to fully see it, the hovering presence of Lyney's hands over their bruised neck and legs didn't escape them.

"Tell me really; what happened?" Lyney questioned again, albeit with more force. Then came a different question, before Freminet could even respond to his first.

"Who, or what, did this to you?"

--------------------------------------------------------

characters : Freminet (they/them), Lyney (he/him), Lynette (she/her) (mentioned briefly)

tags : family fluff, comfort, no angst

warnings : a little major character injury (nothing severe), Lyney not-so-subtly threatening people

wordcount : 1,198

a/n : first time I've posted writing on tumblr, and also the first time I've properly written these characters so please bare with any mischaracterization!! anyway enjoy <3

https://archiveofourown.org/works/52085725

--------------------------------------------------------

Wiping the steady trickle of crimson from their mouth, the diver took a deep breath as they came to their older brother's bedroom door. The door loomed over them, decorated in red ribbons, poker cards and glittering silver coins, such a mystical appearance that for once sent a chill down their spine. How would they even begin to explain what had transpired previously, especially knowing of the magician's overprotective nature? Ah, Freminet had no idea. Thinking was a daunting task with the ringing in their ears and the fuzziness of their vision. It was only a matter of time until--

The creak of a door swinging open sent their heart plummeting to the pits of Teyvat.

Wide eyed like a deer in the headlights, Freminet stared up at those sharp lavender eyes. They didn't have time to react before they were ushered into the room, Lyney barely sparing a second at the sight of the bruised and bloodied diver. Having experienced this time and time again, they knew any moment now, the questions would come flooding.

"What happened?" Lyney whispered, taking both of Freminet's gloved hands in his. His attempts at keeping the panic in his voice at bay had been proving futile.

"I..."  shoot. What to say? "I got caught in some crossfire while diving. Just some- some hunter rays fighting." they hoped that would be enough. Judging by the look on Lyney's face though, probably not.

"You're lying." There it is... They were expecting that. He gestured towards his bed, hidden behind a set of black silky curtains with the rectangular frame wrapped in sparkling fairy lights. "Sit."

Freminet did as they were told. What more could they do? Besides, they were not complaining. It wasn't the time to act. That adrenaline rush was long gone, leaving their bruised legs trembling to a point Freminet wasn’t so sure they could stand for much longer. It did not take long before Lyney had seated himself beside Freminet, routinely taking their hand in his own as he begun to inspect the damage done. Although unable to fully see it, the hovering presence of Lyney's hands over their bruised neck and legs didn't escape them.

"Tell me really; what happened?" Lyney questioned again, albeit with more force. Then came a different question, before Freminet could even respond to his first.

"Who, or what, did this to you?"

Oh, they could hear the resentment bubbling beneath the surface of that calm tone of voice. There was no point in lying, all it would do was provoke the magician. And with a raspy voice,

"I got into a fight." Freminet confessed. The very moment they opened their mouth, the steady trickle of blood continued to ooze at the corner of their lips. This time, they couldn't be bothered to wipe it away.

The silence was crushing. Freminet didn't expect the white and red walls of the bedroom to be more suffocating than the water pressure at seafloor. All that disturbed it was the thump, thump, thump of his heartbeat, steadily increasing as seconds ticked on.

"Let’s get you patched up first." and with that, Freminet let out a breath they didn't know they were holding. At least they had time to think up some way to answer the next inevitable big question. Lyney already had reached into the med kit, digging out a variety of medical supplies to begin treatment.

The following few minutes were consistent of that same tense lack of noise between the siblings as Lyney begun treating the wounds. Freminet never would get over how cautious Lyney was whilst treating his loved ones; the way he moves so delicately, as though they were a glass antique, priceless and fragile. It was a nice contrast to the stress-inducing, pressuring events they'd had the misfortune of enduring earlier that day.

"So... Where's Lynette?"

"She's out picking up props." Lyney replied, his tone lighter than previously. "I had some new tricks planned for our next show, I want to do more, well, flashy stuff."

"By that you mean...?" Freminet tilted their head to the left, wincing as the sting of antiseptic made contact with an open cut. Through gritted teeth, they muttered, "your shows are already very... Flashy."

"Yes, but I was thinking more balance-oriented acts." now that got their interest. "Lynette and I have great balance... Well, er, moreso her than I, but you get the point. I don't know what exactly we're going to do, but you know, trial and error always gets us places."

"Right." oh, how many times had they witnessed the spectacle that is Lyney and Lynette's Trial-and-Error Shows, as the siblings call it? It ranged from anything to mesmerizing perfection, something worthy of the biggest stages on Teyvat, to an explosive disaster that leads to either injuries or broken props. But that's the fun of magic, right? Unpredictable in every way, even to the magicians performing it. "And I assume I’ll be your audience?"

"But of course!" A hand affectionately ruffled through Freminet's already messed up hair. Then, to their surprise, a set of nails begun to comb through their messy strands of light blond hair. "Your opinion is always a great help."

Their heart might as well have stopped. Just as casually as Lyney said that he changed the topic. "So, how do you feel?"

Freminet hadn't realized just how quickly Lyney had gone through the treatment process. As they felt around their bandaged neck, they, well, couldn't help but be impressed.

"Better." the world was still hazy, but they didn't want to worry Lyney more than they already had. They added swiftly, "thank you."

All that they received was a "mm-hm." and with that, their heart sunk.

"So..."

There it is.

"Who?"

Freminet bit their bottom lip. One word, spoken so innocently, but with a threat lingering underneath it. Classic Lyney. They had lied to Lyney's face so many times, but the magician always managed to see through it like Freminet were made of glass. At least, most of the time.

"It… was another diver." they murmured. Lyney didn't interject, but they could hear him tensing. "It was- it was somebody recently hired by the fishing association, but I think they got fired." Freminet paused. "And no, I didn't get a name."

"What about... An appearance?" they knew that was coming. "Any notable details?"

"I don't remember."

Seconds went by, feeling like hours to Freminet. They could feel his gaze burning daggers into them, and it was only though sheer willpower that Freminet didn't break. Lyney eventually sighed, shrugging with his hands. "Oh well, can't be helped, I suppose. Don't worry about it." a glint lit up Lyney's lavender colored eyes. "Say- how about we go catch up with Lynette? If you're feeling up to it, of course!"

Freminet knew damn well that Lynette would immediately be informed of what happened, if she didn't already know by some weird psychic identical twin thing. She always seems to know. "Sure... I guess."

Not a second was wasted before Lyney dragged poor Freminet out of the room, ushering them along with sparkling eyes.

That lie about the other diver worked like a charm, didn't it?

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

The Orbitron

The Orbitron is a custom car built by Ed Roth and feared lost until its rediscovery in Mexico in 2007

A second generation to Roth's original Beatnik Bandit, which was built in 1960, the Beatnik Bandit II features a one-of-a-kind fiberglass body with PPG lemon meringue pie paint, stylized Rat Fink designs on the sides, and chrome by Metal Masters of Salt Lake City, UT. 

Beatnik Bandit II includes many unique design features, including an electronic console which operates the digital instrument panel and other features such as a digital readout of the car's latitude and longitude. 

The lack of a rearview mirror is not a problem on this car. A "TV mirror" video monitor is mounted on the console with the actual camera mounted in the rear panel. The bubble top is also lifted electronically. 

Beatnik Bandit II was built entirely by Roth, who credits "Revelations from Father in Heaven" for his achievement. The car has been shown in major U. S. cities, including Boston, Los Angeles, Chicago and Houston, as well as in Yokohama, Japan.

The Beatnik Bandit

Ed 'Big Daddy' Roth was an artist, cartoonist, illustrator, pinstriper and custom car designer and builder who created the hot-rod icon Rat Fink and other characters. Roth was a key figure in Southern California's Kustom Kulture and hot-rod movement of the late 1950s and 1960s The Beatnik Bandit was one of his first creations from the early 1960s. It was built from a 1949 Oldsmobile, the chassis was shortened 5 feet, the Olds engine was given the classic hotrod look with GMC blower and twin carbys, everything was chromed except the blower belt. The white interior featured single joystick, that operated turning, throttle and braking. The bubble top was created using compressed air to inflate a sheet of plastic into a dome in a pizza oven. On display at the National Automobile Museum in Reno

Mysterion

Ed Roth built the Mysterion in 1963, he got the idea from the multi engine dragsters he had seen at the dragstrips. He combined two Ford engines, two transmissions, plus two welded rear ends for the foundation. It featured an offset headlight and the typical Ed Roth bubble top. On display at Galpin Auto Sports.

The Road Agent by Ed “Big Daddy” Roth.

Mysterion

Custom builder and artist Ed "Big Daddy" Roth completed the Mysterion in 1963. The bubbletopped custom featured a completely original fiberglass body and twin Ford big-block engines. The weight of the engines was too much for the frame to bear, and the Mysterion fell apart. Tribute versions have been built, including this precise replica from Galpin Auto Sports.

The Surfink

The Surfink, created by Mark Glaz as a tribute to Ed Roth and Ratfink, features a large Ratfink figure atop a surfboard complete with a blown V-8 engine.

The Orbitron

Built in 1964, the vehicle was powered by a 1955 or 1956 Chevrolet V8 and was backed by a Powerglide automatic transmission. The body was hand-laid fiberglass, hiding Roth's extensive chrome work to the chassis. The cockpit, set at the extreme rear of the vehicle in the manner of a dragster, was lined with fake fur and featured an 11-inch General Electric "1-Touch" portable television inserted in the console. Topping the cockpit was a custom-made, hydraulically operated Plexiglas bubble top. One of a series of ordinary doorbell push-button switches atop the hood activated the top from the outside.

Other mechanical features included a 1956 Chevrolet rear end, dropped Ford front axle beam, Buickbrake drums and early Ford brakes. The frame was handmade of rectangular 2x4 inch steel tubing. The engine was a leftover from one of Roth's 1955 Chevrolets, having been removed to make way for a then-new Mark IV big-block given to him by General Motors. It was one of the very few completed cars Roth deemed to be a "mistake" because he felt the car did not show well since the heavily chromed engine and most of the chassis were hidden. The Orbitron was, in fact, one of his few customs to have a hood. Reportedly, the hydraulically operated hood did not fit well due to rushed fiberglass work.

The vehicle's most distinctive feature was its asymmetrical front end with red, green and blue tinted headlamps. It was thought that the three beams when combined would produce an intense white light; the idea came from the then-new medium of color television.

By Jerry Thompson - originally posted to Flickr as 2C7O4069, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=5973582

By Jerry Thompson - originally posted to Flickr as 2C7O4066, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=5973591

The Baja Bandeeto

Custom car builder and renowned painter Fritz ‘Spritz By Fritz‘ Schenck recreated with his bubble top roadster; the Baja Bandeeto.

[identifying-cars-in-posts]

what's your favorite decade for car design?

the 1980s for SURE. i’m head over heels for those sharp angles, and my next car will likely be from the 80s. i love pop up headlights and pickups that looks like kids drawings and big rectangular sedans and boxy wagons and wedge shaped sports cars so so much

50s are a close second though, i love both ostentatious chrome-encrusted pastel american cars and graceful aerodynamic handsome european roadsters so so much