#there's a time for theory and then there's a time

[icarus-suraki]

It looks better if you actually adhere to color theory

from “baths”, 1987.

[norristrii]

THAT’S NOT HER, CHAT!

You and Lando had been keeping your relationship hidden from the public eye. But all it took was one accidental appearance on his stream to change everything. After that, there was no going back.

pairing. Lando Norris x Verstappen! fem! reader.

warnings. chaos, fluff, comedy.

DATING LANDO HAD BEEN EXCITING, exhilarating even, but it also came with its fair share of complications—ones you had been aware of from the start.

Two months in, things still felt new, still carried that fresh spark of discovery, of late-night conversations and shared laughter that felt just a little more intimate now. The way he looked at you, the way he reached for your hand absentmindedly, like it was second nature—those moments were yours, tucked away, safe from the outside world. But while the relationship itself was thriving behind closed doors, taking it online was an entirely different story.

You had your reasons—solid, unshakable ones that kept you cautious.

First, you were Max Verstappen’s sister. That alone made things complicated. The championship fight had put your family in the center of attention in ways that went beyond just racing, and adding your relationship into the mix? It would inevitably fuel speculation, opinions, and unwanted scrutiny. People would have theories, analyze dynamics, question loyalties—none of which you wanted to deal with.

Second—well, Lando’s fans were intense. Not all of them, obviously, but enough to make you wary of putting too much of your personal life on display. You had seen how they dissected his every move, how they speculated about things that didn’t even exist, how quickly narratives could spiral out of control. The thought of people analyzing every interaction, every glance, every post—it was exhausting. You loved him, but you weren’t sure if you could handle what came with loving him publicly.

For now, the secrecy wasn’t a burden—it was a protection. A way to preserve something that felt fragile, something you weren’t ready to hand over to the chaos of the internet.

You spent so much time at Lando’s place that, at this point, it felt less like visiting and more like home. Your things had slowly integrated into his space—your clothes hung in his closet, your favorite snacks filled his kitchen cabinets, and the couch had practically molded itself to fit your preferred spot.

And you adored every bit of it.

The quiet mornings where the two of you lazily made breakfast, the way he’d pull you into his antics without hesitation, the soft moments where words weren’t needed—just existing together was enough.

But there was one unspoken rule.

When Lando was streaming, you knew not to walk into his room. Not because he didn’t want you there—quite the opposite. But because the two of you had made a choice, a silent agreement to keep your relationship yours for now. Away from the internet, away from prying eyes and endless speculation.

He was too quiet. So quiet that you had convinced yourself he wasn’t streaming, that you could casually walk in and drop off the food without a second thought.

So, naturally, without hesitation, you pushed open the door, plate in hand, ready to deliver his food like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.

And that’s when the panic set in.

“I’m streaming, I’m streaming, wait!” Lando practically jumped in his chair, hands flying up in frantic urgency, his voice tight with alarm.

You froze in place, gripping the plate a little tighter, your heart immediately racing. Your mind scrambled—had the camera caught you? Had his chat noticed? Had you just completely blown your cover?

Lando’s eyes flicked towards his monitor, then back at you, a whirlwind of chaos flashing across his face. He exhaled sharply, his fingers moving quickly as he hit pause on the stream, momentarily shutting out the thousands of people currently watching.

Only then did he turn back to you, his expression softening, his lips curling into something between amusement and exasperation.

“You can come now,” he said, his tone lighter, like he was trying not to laugh.

You let out the breath you didn’t even realize you were holding, the tension in your shoulders easing ever so slightly as you stepped fully inside, setting the plate down on his desk.

“Thank you, baby,” Lando said softly, leaning in to press a light kiss to your cheek. His tone was casual, affectionate, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

But you? You were frozen. Your eyes locked onto the chat, still rolling at an alarming speed, messages flooding in faster than you could even process.

Is that Y/n Verstappen? Y/n and Lando confirmed? Baby? Omg. NO WAYY SO THE RUMORS WERE TRUE!?? MAX’S SISTER?

Your stomach dropped as realization hit you like a freight train. Slowly, you turned to Lando, your voice careful, almost hesitant. “You didn’t pause it?”

His eyes widened, panic flashing across his face as he whipped back to his monitor. “Oh, shit!” he exclaimed, scrambling to mute the stream. But instead of fixing the situation, he leaned into the chaos, laughing as he turned back to the camera.

“Chat, this is not Y/n Verstappen!” he shouted, his voice filled with mock urgency, his hand flying up to cover your face as you tried—and failed—to stifle your laughter.

“That’s not her, chat!” he repeated, his grin widening as he glanced at you, clearly enjoying the absurdity of the moment.

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head as you buried your face in your hands. The damage was done. The chat was already in full meltdown mode, and there was no undoing it now.

Lando, of course, was having the time of his life. And despite the chaos, you couldn’t help but laugh along with him. Because, really, what else could you do?

You couldn’t help but laugh, the entire situation spiraling into chaos before your eyes, and instead of trying to salvage it—you leaned right into it. There was no fixing this, no smooth way out, no denying the very obvious slip-up that Lando had just handed his viewers on a silver platter.

So instead of panicking, instead of shrinking away from the inevitable, you grinned and played along.

“He’s lying, chat!” you exclaimed, stepping fully into frame now, amusement bubbling in your voice as you pointed at him accusingly. “That’s me! Y/n!”

And that was it. The chat detonated all over again.

I love whatever this is. Y/N AND LANDO HARD LAUNCH BEFORE GTA6??? They’re so cute stopp

The messages flooded the screen at an alarming rate, the reactions coming in so fast it was impossible to keep up. Text flew by in all caps, people spamming emotes, sending chaos into overdrive.

Meanwhile, Lando whipped his head toward you, jaw dropping, eyes wide in sheer disbelief as if you had somehow betrayed him in the most dramatic way possible.

“Hey!” he gasped, his voice filled with exaggerated betrayal, throwing his hands up. “You’re supposed to lie along with me!”

You laughed harder, shaking your head, still grinning at him. “Oh, no, you absolutely dug your own grave with that ‘baby’ comment,” you teased, nudging him playfully. “This is your fault, Norris.”

Lando groaned dramatically, dragging his hands down his face, shoulders shaking as he tried—and failed—to suppress his laughter. He turned back to the screen, exhaling a long, exaggerated sigh before finally giving in.

Lando leaned back in his chair, dramatically throwing his hands up in surrender, accepting his fate with a grin that only made the chat more unhinged. He knew he had lost this battle before it even started, and at this point, there was no turning back.

“Okay, okay,” he said, dragging out the words for effect, voice dripping with exaggerated exasperation as he finally relented. “So chat, this is my precious girlfriend, Y/n Verstappen.”

He gestured toward you with both hands, as if he were presenting some kind of grand reveal, his mischievous expression making it clear he was fully leaning into the moment now. The fact that this wasn’t how he planned on announcing your relationship didn’t seem to bother him anymore—if anything, he was thriving in the chaos.

The chat exploded instantly.

Messages were flying so fast it was almost impossible to process them, the flood of reactions coming at an overwhelming speed. There was no stopping it now, no undoing it. You had gone from a quiet, private relationship to a full-blown hard launch in the span of seconds—and the internet was eating it up.

PRECIOUS?! What is going on!? THE WAY HE SAYS IT SO PROUDLY?? PLEASE. MAX IS ABOUT TO THROW HANDS. She’s precious, smart and beautiful… and yeah he’s also here.

You blinked at him, raising an eyebrow, arms crossing over your chest as you tilted your head slightly in mock amusement. “Oh wow, precious, huh?” you teased, a slow smirk tugging at your lips. “Didn’t know I ranked that high.”

Lando scoffed, turning to you with a playful glint in his eye. “Obviously. You should feel honored,” he shot back with an air of complete confidence, leaning closer like he was about to let you in on some grand secret. “Chat, she’s lucky I didn’t say queen.”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head, but the warmth bubbling in your chest betrayed the sarcasm in your expression.

You grinned, shaking your head slightly as you leaned into frame, playing along without hesitation.

“And that’s my Lando,” you added with a smile, eyes flickering toward him as he dramatically placed a hand over his heart, pretending to be touched by your words.

This is hard launch of the century. I JUST CAN IMAGINE MAX WATCHING THIS. THEY’RE SO IN LOVE OMGG. This stream changed me as a person.

Lando laughed, shaking his head at the chaos unraveling on his screen. “Oh, now they’re losing it,” he mused, reading the messages aloud. “Max is definitely gonna kill me.”

You grinned, resting your chin on your hand as you eyed him playfully. “Yeah, you might wanna start practicing your apology now,” you teased.

Lando exhaled heavily, straightening up and dramatically addressing the camera like he was preparing for a speech. “Alright, alright—if Max Verstappen is watching this,” he started, clearing his throat. “Just know that I am deeply, deeply sorry for exposing this relationship like an absolute idiot on stream.”

You snorted, shaking your head at him. “Wow, strong start,” you mused, crossing your arms.

Lando ignored you, pressing on. “Max, please, I beg of you—do not throw me into a wall the next time you see me,” he continued, still fully committed to the dramatics.

You shrugged innocently, crossing your arms. “Yeah, probably will,” you teased, lips twitching with amusement. “But hey, truth is, it was your mistake, not mine.”

Lando groaned, tossing his head back like he had just accepted his doomed fate. “You could have helped me cover it up, you know,” he pointed out, smirking at you.

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh, please—you called me baby and precious on stream, Norris,” you countered, shaking your head. “This was never staying a secret after that.”

Lando exhaled heavily, dragging a hand down his face, feigning defeat. “Guess we’re official now,” he muttered, laughing to himself.

You leaned in slightly, nudging his arm. “Guess we are,” you echoed, grinning.

And just like that—the world knew.

Messy, unplanned, very public—exactly the way it was always going to happen with Lando.

And honestly? You wouldn’t change a single thing.

Even if Max did come for his life later.

It would absolutely be worth it.

Every second of it.

@haniette <3

[n0tsketchyy]

Headcannon that Alfred has a secret Instagram account. He just posts about the insane household accidents at Wayne Manor with literally no context. 

His most popular post is simply captioned "Master Tim set the kitchen on fire attempting to make toast. Again."

Somehow, the account has over 500,000 followers of people growing increasingly invested.

His other popular posts include:

Muddy footprints acrross a gorgeous ceiling: “I have many questions about how Master Jason's boot prints came to be on the ceiling of the east wing corridor. He refuses to explain beyond claiming it was 'definitely Tim's fault' and that 'gravity was being unreasonable today.' Master Bruce has requested I not ask further questions.”

A photo of numerous coffee mugs hidden in bizarre locations: "The ongoing archaeological expedition to retrieve Master Tim's forgotten coffee cups continues. Today's discoveries included one inside a houseplant, two behind the grandfather clock, and one inexplicably on the chandelier."

A broken window with an arrow through it: "Master Damian's archery practice has once again violated our agreement about 'appropriate indoor activities.' Master Bruce has been informed."

A ceiling covered in colorful splatters: "Master Dick insisted his acrobatic skills would allow him to carry an entire birthday cake while performing a triple somersault. The ceiling disagrees."

An image of a completely disassembled grandfather clock with parts meticulously arranged on the floor: "Master Barbara asked for the time. Master Timothy decided the clock was 'running 0.002 seconds slow' and required immediate intervention. Dinner will be delayed until the main entrance is passable again."

The east wing covered in rubber ducks: “Master Dick claimed it was 'for science.' When pressed further, admitted it was retaliation for Master Jason's previous week's glitter bomb incident. Have scheduled additional therapy sessions for all parties involved.”

Alfred never mentions Batman or vigilante activities, but the posts are so outlandish people straight up have conspiracy theories about them.

Follower: "Time travelers. It's the only explanation for how they survive. They redo the timeline when things go wrong."

@ ManorMishaps: "If time travel were involved, I would hope they'd prevent incidents rather than merely surviving them. The toaster budget alone would benefit from such intervention."

Follower: "Alien research facility. The purple slime? The color-changing ceiling? ALIENS." 

@ ManorMishaps: "I believe you've been watching too many science fiction programs. Though I must admit the ceiling phenomenon continues to baffle our contractor."

Follower: "These are clearly stunt performers for action movies. No normal family could cause this much property damage." 

@ ManorMishaps: "An interesting theory. However, I've yet to see any of our incidents recreated in Hollywood. They lack the imagination."

Follower: "Wait, is that a BATARANG in the background of the third pic???" 

@ ManorMishaps: "I believe you're seeing the shadow of an unusually shaped serving spoon. Nothing to see here."

[communist-ojou-sama]

It's funny that On Contradiction is one of the only truly timeless works of Marxist theory but the reason why it's a timeless work of Marxist theory is because its central thesis is "communists must do the work to understand the specifics of their own time and place and develop their own new revolutionary theory and analysis for it instead of blindly clinging to decades-old theoretical works of past luminaries."

[stick-wizard]

I usually have to choose 2/3 of;

1. doing well at my job

2. maintaining my friendships and social life

3. keeping a clean house and body

I do not get to do all 3. if I go to all the birthday parties and major events and still go to work the next day, I will not manage to shower or clean my house that week. If I go out with friends and have my house clean and reliably maintain my meat suit and eat regularly, that energy and time has to come from somewhere and I'm usually taking time that I should be working to clean, and have to balance that to not do so bad that I get in trouble. if I work diligently and also keep up on my body and house maintenance, I no longer have the time or energy to talk to anyone or go places.

and I have to switch between each of these things in order to make sure none of them atrophy.

choosing to allocate spoons to hanging out and having a good time at the cost of perfectly completing all your work is not a failing it is in fact an act of survival. “too sick to work = too sick to play” is in fact ableist bullshit that you don’t have to buy into. and the fact that leisure time is treated like a privilege is a fucking travesty

[cressidagrey]

Building Blocks

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: How to parent a genius: A guide by Oscar Piastri.

Notes: Because I felt like it was very mean to just give you "half" a new piece of writing, with an edited version, here you have some fluff!

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Oscar had long since accepted that he was raising a genius.

It wasn’t the kind of genius that screamed for attention or rattled off multiplication tables at age two (though she could, and did, if she was annoyed enough). No, Bee’s genius was different—patient, precise, methodical in a way that sometimes made Oscar forget she was still learning how to tie her shoes consistently.

At the moment, she was halfway through assembling the LEGO® Technic Ferrari Daytona SP3—3,778 pieces, ages 18+, and she was building it upside down just for fun.

Oscar had found it complicated enough to need a YouTube tutorial and was now trying to attach one very specific connector piece. It was not going well.

“Papa,” Bee said gently, not even looking up from her own section, “that axle doesn’t go there. It’s a two-length, and you’re using a three. That’s why the gearbox won’t sit flat.”

Oscar blinked. “How do you see that?”

She shrugged. “I counted the ridges.”

Of course she had.

He changed the piece, and—miraculously—it clicked into place.

They were seated on the living room rug, surrounded by plastic trays of sorted bricks and half-finished subassemblies. 

Oscar had tried giving her a kid’s set once this year. Something with animals. She’d built it in seven minutes, asked him if it was a prank, and requested the Lamborghini Sián FKP 37 next.

He looked at her now—curled over her build instructions, her tongue poking out slightly in concentration, tiny fingers moving with frightening efficiency—and wondered, not for the first time:

How do you race a kid like this?

Not race in the literal sense.

 Race in the life sense.

How do you raise someone who could probably code her way into a Mars rover before she loses her first tooth?

 How do you parent brilliance?

Oscar loved her completely. That part was easy.

 But raising her… it sometimes felt like trying to build IKEA furniture with the instructions written in Latin while she translated them into quantum theory beside you.

When Bee was two, he’d brought home a simple Lego castle. The 5+ kind. Pink turrets. Smiling bricks. It had taken her twenty-four minutes. No instructions. One correction.

They moved to the 10+ sets after that. Then 12+. 16+.

Now they didn’t bother with age labels. If it didn’t come with multiple gear assemblies and at least two bags of axles, she got bored.

He leaned back, stretching out his legs as she sorted bricks with the focus of someone solving a global crisis. Her curls were pulled back in a lopsided ponytail, and she was humming to herself—some hybrid of Beethoven and the Paw Patrol theme. A mix of classical and chaos. Just like her.

And Oscar found himself smiling.

 “Do you think you’ll want to build real cars one day?”

Bee paused. Thought. “Maybe. Maybe I’ll restore cars like Mama does. I like knowing why something works. Why people make the choices they do.” She looked up at him. “I like your choices.”

Oscar’s heart stuttered in his chest.

“You do?”

She nodded. “You always come home. Even when you go far.”

He swallowed. 

Bee smiled, then reached for another piece, her tiny hands precise. “Mama said you have to go race soon.”

“Yeah. In Japan.”

She nodded. “Don’t forget my shirt.”

Oscar smiled, eyes crinkling. “Never.”

They worked in silence for a while. The only sounds were the click of Lego pieces and the distant hum of the dishwasher.

Oscar watched her move—steady, focused, brilliant. She didn’t fidget. Didn’t question herself. She just knew what she wanted to build and made it happen.

He was raising a genius.

 And not just the kind with facts in her head—though there were plenty. She had empathy. Precision. Curiosity.

And she scared the hell out of him.

 In the best way.

The thing was, Bee wasn’t just smart. Lots of kids were smart. Bee was something else entirely. Curious in a way that never stopped. Observant in ways that made you feel like she could see under your skin if she tilted her head right.

She didn’t just memorize—she understood.

She asked how DRS worked when she was two and followed up with, “But doesn’t that affect battery deployment?”

She once looked at telemetry on Oscar’s laptop and said, “Why are you lifting before Turn 9 now?” and then told him why when he didn’t answer fast enough.

And somehow, she still wanted him to sit beside her while she built things. Still curled up under his arm during movie night. Still called him Papa like it was magic.

Oscar ran a hand through his hair, watching her snap together a section of bricks like she'd been born doing it.

“How’d you get so smart?” he asked softly.

Bee didn’t even pause. “Because you and Mama never make me feel weird for asking questions.”

Oscar blinked. His throat tightened.

“You don’t get mad when I want to read the building manual instead of the storybook,” she continued, turning the model gently to check the incline. “And Mama says it’s okay to love logic and glitter.”

Oscar nodded slowly, words caught somewhere between pride and awe.

He watched her now, slotting in a gear mechanism with tiny fingers and utter focus, her brow furrowed like a seasoned engineer.

How do you raise a kid who’s already looking three steps ahead?

Who watches a race and times pit stops with a stopwatch app she downloaded herself?

 Who reads two books a week and corrects the science in children's cartoons?

You don’t try to match her, Oscar thought.

You just show up.

You sit on the floor and sort the bricks. You listen when she talks about dolphins and binary code in the same breath. You answer every question, no matter how bizarre. You fold the shirts. You build the drawer. You take her seriously, because she always takes you seriously.

“Papa?”

Oscar looked up. “Yeah?”

Bee held up a completed axle assembly, expression bright. “Do you want to click this piece into place?”

He smiled. “Will you judge me if I get it wrong again?”

“Only a little.”

“Deal.”

He snapped the piece in. She double-checked it, nodded solemnly, and handed him the next one.

Oscar didn’t know how to raise a genius.

But he was learning how to build with one.

 Moment by moment.

 Brick by brick.

[transgenderer]

math major pope but math majors are a diverse bunch. he could know very little or quite a bit. we need answers. does he know group theory. sometimes you can get away with not knowing any group theory. plus it was the 70s. has he taken a topology class....probably not. but possibly. i wonder if the math curriclum of 70s villanova university is recorded anywhere. it could be lost to time. did any of your parents go to villanova for math in the 70s. do they still have their transcript. this could be big

[pencildragons]

[rolls over to face you at the sleepover] bro do you think any of the lyctors ever used AD (alecto's dead) as a way to reference the passage of time and nearly gave john an honest to god heart attack because he thought they'd suddenly somehow remembered the christian calendar system. no hey wait stop pretending to be asleep this is important dude

[mythtakens]

well ftr since we are throwing out theories I think by the end of the season we will see in some form buddie Realizing and Knowing. there may be Moments. likely interrupted by various craziness (earthquake, alive Bobby). but it will be so clear what is happening to the audience even without verbalization. and this is ideal to me personally because then we get the knowledge all through hiatus that they are living with this (literally. living with it. in their house.) but maybe not knowing they can have it yet but we know they are going to have it. and then when the show comes back we would truly get into it and be able to see it and give it the time it deserves without time skipping over the whole beginning of it all 😌

[some-brave-apollo]

I'm sure I saw this take on Tumblr before, might even be in the many notes of this post, but this also goes for casting. A lot of casting controversies just. Wouldn't happen. If more people regularly consumed (or even kept tabs on) the theatre world.

Many people, particularly in film circles, get in such an uproar over casting (usually for bigoted reasons) that would be perfectly normal in theatre. Why should I care about Ariel being played by a black woman when the one of the biggest musicals in the world casts the founding fucking fathers as people of colour. It matters significantly less to me that some actors have horrid American accents after seeing a production of Hunchback of Notre Dame where Quasimodo has a strong Glaswegian twang, yet proved that he was incredible in the role.

And what I think proves this theory is that whenever there IS a big uproar in theatre casting, it surrounds people known in film circles. Take the recent controversy surrounding Cynthia Erivo playing Jesus in JCS. That role has been played by a woman and by a black person before, this is just the first time someone in both categories is taking the role. But now Cynthia Erivo is known to the Hollywood people through Wicked, a sorry like this suddenly gets a lot more attention from people who just don't understand the theatre world.

Hell, I'd even attribute some of the confusion over Eddie Redmayne's portrayal of the Emcee in Cabaret coming from people only knowing Joel Grey's version of the character in the movie, and only picking up on this story because Eddie Redmayne is a big name Hollywood actor.

genuinely, i think watching live theatre can improve your media literacy so much

like people who look at doctor who and are like 'lol the effects are so rubbish'

maybe watch a stage play where there's no backdrops and half the characters are played by the same three guys in different hats and maybe you will calm down

[rebelfell]

Welcome to your appointment, @wolfqueenxxx we do so hope you find it to your liking!

18+, MDNI┃1.5k

cw: workplace romance, older!eddie (implied age gap), friends to lovers, modern au (real modern, as in like…last month)

Eddie wasn’t used to having you at his place yet.

He loved you being there, don’t get him wrong, he still just sort of couldn’t believe you were?

For so long he’d only gotten to see you for fleeting moments around the office, flitting about in your professional wear or appearing at his office door sheepishly holding up your laptop for him to fix.

You had steadily given up the pretense of needing his expertise in IT as your excuse to drop in, until you were appearing before him nearly on a daily basis. Sometimes twice, if he was lucky.

Whether you were just stopping by to chat, or to let him know when there were doughnuts in the communal kitchen, or to bring him a cup of coffee from the fresh pot you just made, the times when he got to see you and share a few words quickly became the brightest spots in his day.

And yes, in the beginning, he maybe might have (definitely) had the faintest inkling of a crush. 

How could he not, you know? Just look at you.

Still, he didn’t dare entertain the notion you had any intentions beyond pure friendship. He’d been around long enough by now to know the pretty, young administrative assistant wasn’t going to be making eyes at the prehistoric barely-rockstar turned corporate computer monkey.

He wasn’t that much older than you, but he’d always been a sort of crotchety and cranky sort. Older in spirit than in actual years. Except now his age was truly showing—extra creaks and clicks in his joints, deepening lines on his face, a dusting of salt and pepper in the scruff under his jaw.

Not to mention the streaks in his dark curls that flashed silver when they caught the light.

He really was thinking about dying it one of these days. He never expected to go so gray so fast.

He was barely forty for chrissake.

It didn’t matter, though. The very idea was a non-starter. You were just being friendly. End of.

The kind of friendly where you noticed the pens he liked and ordered them regularly; where you’d switched the coffee to one he recommended, and kept his favorite flavor of creamer stocked; where you brought in potted plants to put in his window because he had the nicest, biggest one in the office and didn’t utilize in the slightest.

And he in turn was friendly back. The kind of friendly where he had upgraded the RAM on your laptop just because you mentioned it was running a little slower than usual; where he only attended the Happy Hour gatherings you organized; where he set up an automatic back-up of all your files after one hard drive failure that nearly had you crying underneath the conference table.

Friendliness. That was all it was.

And that’s all it would ever be.

He loved it best, though, when you were watching the same show. That guaranteed at least a twenty minute convo of swapping theories and analysis, excitedly talking over one another you were so eager to share your thoughts.

Shows he might never have watched or maybe abandoned after one or two episodes, he found himself watching religiously just to be able to talk with you about it the next day. And the stuff he’d seen a million times felt fresh again seeing it through your eyes.

Then you started talking about the shows you were looking forward to coming back on.

You told him how pumped you were for White Lotus to start back up, but lamented that you’d let your Max subscription lapse, so you’d have to avoid spoilers until the season was over and you could binge it with a free trial or something. Eddie commiserated, telling you how he burned through Severance on an Apple TV trial and totally screwed himself over for season two.

He laughed. Said it was funny the way you both had what the other needed. At best, he thought a simple password exchange might be in order.

But you suggested a different sort of trade.

If he came over to your place on Thursday nights for Severance, you could come over to his on Sunday nights for White Lotus.

“It’s perfect, right?” you’d asked with your head tilted sweetly, so unaware what it did to him.

Eddie coughed and sputtered like he’d swallowed one of the thumbtacks on his desk.

You in his house? Him in yours? You seeing all his tour posters and records and the weird art pieces he’s collected over the years? Him getting to look at your books and your geode collection that he’s heard so much about? Meeting the pet he’s only ever seen in the framed photos on your desk?

He tried to at least act as though his head wasn’t full-on exploding at the thought.

“Yeah, definitely,” he said, voice cracking like he was going through a second puberty at 42.

From that point on, Thursday nights were reserved for emotional devastation while your Sundays were taken up by bemusement at rich people’s antics and giggling over increasingly silly imitations of Parker Posey’s southern accent.

The visits grew longer each time, both of you getting more comfortable in the other’s space. Often you traded off making dinner and bringing a bottle of wine or the makings for a cocktail to share. He quickly learned your preferences for food and drink, filing it away in his head.

You know, just in case he ever needed to know.

But as both the shows drew to an end, he found himself despising the modern model of television. What genius decided to cut whole seasons down to a measly eight or ten episodes, anyway? 

For months, he had gotten to spend at least one night a week with you (as it turned out the shows only overlapped for a total of four episodes) and now, what? He was supposed to give it all up?

Eddie sighed as the credits rolled for the White Lotus finale, and not just because the ending had left him slightly unsatisfied. Truth was, he’d only halfway been paying attention from the moment your eyes had begun to droop and he felt the weight of your head drop onto his shoulder.

His heart pounded and his body froze, his spine as straight as if someone had jammed a steel rod down the back of his shirt. Your head was close enough for him to smell your shampoo and he could feel the warmth of your body seeping through the cotton of his paper thin shirt.

For one brain splitting second, Eddie wondered if this was some kind of move you were making. At least he did until he heard your steady, rhythmic breathing and the soft rasp of you snoring.

You didn’t stir until he reached for the remote and tried to lower the volume as the post-season interview with the creator started playing. Oddly enough, the absence of noise rousing you faster.

“Oh, shit. Did I miss it?” you mumbled sleepily as you rubbed one of your still-closed eyes.

“Yeah, kind of,” Eddie chuckled, regretting how it made his shoulders shake, thinking how it might have made you move your head.

Thankfully, you didn’t. You kept it right where it was, not making any kind of shift to get up.

“Well, I guess that’s it,” he said as he clicked off the TV, his voice laced with disappointment.

Disappointment he let himself believe he saw mirrored in your eyes as you nodded and worried your bottom lip with your teeth. Was he crazy?

Or did you not want this to be the end either?

“You know,” you started, twisting your fingers in your lap, “The Last of Us starts back in a couple weeks. Maybe we can keep it going?”

“We could…” he answered slowly and rubbed the flat side of his palm against his pant leg, trying to alleviate the sweat starting to accumulate. “Or…you could let me take you out on a real date?”

All the air in his apartment whooshed out, leaving nothing but a deafening silence in its wake. More sweat collected in the center of his palm and he swore you could see how his heart thumped.

“Is that you asking me out?” you asked, your even and nonchalant tone debilitatingly hard to read.

If you were horrified, if you felt totally violated, if you were extraordinarily creeped out—it was just about impossible for him to tell. If you were filing a report with HR in your head, he wouldn’t have the faintest idea until the pink slip hit his desk.

But he took some solace in the fact that you never lifted your head off his shoulder.

“Uh…yes,” he answered after a long pause. A long pause followed by an even longer one; a long and silent one from you during which Eddie debated defecting to the company’s Canadian office.

And then he heard it—the soft, yet unmistakable sound of you chuckling sweetly.

“About fuckin’ time, old man,” you murmured in your half-sleep, the hint of a smile curling up the corners of your mouth as you draped an arm over him and nestled fully into his embrace.

Eddie’s own arm slipped around your back, hand landing on your shoulder like he’s been dreaming of it doing since January. He pulled you into him, wrapping you up tightly and exhaling in relief.

Shit. He had to tweet Mike White now.

Thank you so much for visiting the spa, we hope your services were satisfactory 🌿

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

Glinda really had an entire musical number expounding on the theme of "success in life is not about being highly qualified or even competent, but manipulating people's superficial perception of you." and then she went into POLITICS. truly the #girlboss representation the world has earned

[tending-the-hearth]

going back through mockingjay and what do you MEAN clerk carmine is most likely the fiddler at annie and finnick's wedding, what do you MEAN clerk who was the one to bring lucy gray the katniss just before things fell apart and the one to raise the girl who became haymitch's reason for living what do you MEAN clerk got to see his sister and his niece's dreams come true as the hunger games are destroyed by a girl with lucy gray's fire and lenore dove's heart what do you MEAN clerk saw the arrows his friend made be part of the downfall of the capital what do you MEAN clerk lost his family but saw them live on in haymitch and katniss and peeta

[dndspellgifs]

look, I know I've talked about this essay (?) before but like,

If you ever needed a good demonstration of the quote "Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic", have I got an exercise for you.

Somebody made a small article explaining the basics of atomic theory but it's written in Anglish. Anglish is basically a made-up version of English where they remove any elements (words, prefixes, etc) that were originally borrowed from romance languages like french and latin, as well as greek and other foreign loanwords, keeping only those of germanic origin.

What happens is an english which is for the most part intelligible, but since a lot everyday english, and especially the scientific vocabulary, has has heavy latin and greek influence, they have to make up new words from the existing germanic-english vocabulary. For me it kind of reads super viking-ey.

Anyway when you read this article on atomic theory, in Anglish called Uncleftish Beholding, you get this text which kind of reads like a fantasy novel. Like in my mind it feels like it recontextualizes advanced scientific concepts to explain it to a viking audience from ancient times.

Even though you're familiar with the scientific ideas, because it bypasses the normal language we use for these concepts, you get a chance to examine these ideas as if you were a visitor from another civilization - and guess what, it does feel like it's about magic. It has a mythical quality to it, like it feels like a book about magic written during viking times. For me this has the same vibe as reading deep magic lore from a Robert Jordan book.

[fudgecake-charlie]

if only