#this was longer than I planned

[bogos-bint3d]

Tumblr in the jurassic world universe must be crazy man. Like imagine

👽bogos-bint3d Follow

Wait what was that noise

👽bogos-bint3d

Guyss I hear a raptor outside </3

👽bogos-bint3d

SHIT is it like right underneath my window?????

#one day of peace that's all I want

6 notes 🗨🔃♥︎

🌌la-creechura Follow

PTERODACTYL

🌌la-creechura

MY FUKIGGB COMPUTET

3 notes 🗨 🔃♥︎

🧊existencebringsonlypain Follow

Hey does anyone know how to get ankylosauruses to move there's one blocking my door??? It's not really doing anything its just sleeping but I'm going to be late and its just ignoring me

#existenceunrelateds

14 notes 🗨🔃♡

🩵ultrabean Follow

Oh my gosh there's a tyrannosaurus over in the forest right now like it's just chilling omggg this is so incredible this is so cool

8 notes 🗨🔃♥︎

👽bogos-bint3d Follow

Guys. Guys why does my school have a fucking compy problem. AGAIN

[skelekins]

Scar's World Synops ;3

Cw: Death, Violence, Cannibalism, Starvation, General Horror Badtimes McGee

Scar's world is Horrortale-Inspired world. I also take some inspiration from Axetale [I enjoy the visceral horror designs/concepts, but as a heads up it is a Frans AU].

I don't have a name for Scar's particular version, or designs n shit for anyone, b/c really just fleshed this out a bit for Scar. :3

Anyway:

The Underground

Neutral Route -

Frisk fought a lot of the monsters in the ruins out of a sense of fear and self-defense despite Toriel's guidance. They have a hard time with Toriel, not just because she's a boss monster, but because it feels bad.

They turn a lot more pacifist as they journey through Snowdin and befriend Papyrus. They don't befriend Undyne though, and struggle between wanting to fight her and running away. So when Undyne faints they leave her.

This all ends with Asgore dying and then the Flowey fight. Frisk does defeat Flowey but dies in the process, and as a result all the determination in Frisk, Flowey, and the 6 human souls gets released into the underground and corrupts it.

All the save stars pop and the Core starts to malfunction.

Post-Neutral -

Undyne takes over and militarizes like Sans says in his message. The Cores malfunctioning makes energy and food difficult leading to more and more rationing and things are looking more and more bleak as it continues to fail. It regularly stalls.

Monsters start falling down but they don't dust as quickly as they should, their bodies lingering for longer. Wounds are much milkier and gooier. After some testing Alphys finds that the monsters have all contracted DT Syndrome - an effect of the ambient DT in their underground.

The amalgamates, already very hungry creatures, escape during a Core outage. Due to their ravenous frenzied hunger they devour Alphys who accepts her fate. Undyne finds her remains and loses her mind, attempting to kill the Amalgamates but they just...reassemble in crude ways. Many consider the lab cursed and New Home is cut off from the rest of the underground.

Without access to the lab, and with Alphys gone, the Core fails.

Undyne does not recover from Alphys' loss and her horrors of fighting with the amalgamates. She returns to waterfall to stalk the swampy waters. She eventually becomes a horrific beast.

Before that, however, Papyrus is distraught over the loss of his friends. Sans, knowing something is wrong, goes to check on Undyne for Papyrus [because he doesnt want Papyrus to do it]. This leads to him getting attacked by Undyne and he barely makes it back to Snowdin where Papyrus manages to keep him alive and looks after him while he recovers.

Waterfall becomes impassable, with Papyrus warning Snowdin away and in general trying to just keep Snowdin and its residents generally ok.

Things fall apart over time as the hunger takes over. Monsters physically change in response to their circumstances, and it gets worse when they fall to desperate violence fueled by the ambient DT. The combination of LV and DT Syndrome combined makes monsters beastly and easily prone to feral frenzies. Their actions get more and more horrific as time passes and their underground decays.

The monsters of Snowdin slowly separate more and more until they're essentially in family units and violent to everyone else [and even to each other].

Scar

Scar is a very close variant of Kelek so you can just...imagine regular Kelek to start with. Scar is a surface monster, a decedent of monsters that didn't get trapped underground and live in hiding on the surface.

For whatever reason he ends up falling down like the humans before [perhaps for unhappy reasons]. The ruins are completely empty when he falls and he lingers for a while primarily because he's very confused on where he is.

He eventually finds his way out but unfortunately the door locks behind him, leaving what little food was left in Toriel's home unreachable.

Since he is in his human-disguise he ends up having a confrontation with the local monsters and he gets hurt. He manages to run away terrified and ends up removing his seal to blend in. While they don't recognize his species Snowdin accepts him well enough.

Waterfall is off limits by the time he's there, and has been since a little before he actually fell. Scar stays at the Inn, helping out however he can - one way is using his comfy magic to help ease the monsters and make some objects. But it gets more and more difficult to use.

He ends up offering his unwanted meat after considering and testing the waters. He recovers from the procedure at the Inn with regular checkups with a resident Snowdin healer/doctor/whatever. This all occurs over a series of months, meaning the hunger is getting worse and worse.

To the point that Scar is betrayed at his last checkup and he loses his eye. He flees to the forest, no longer trusting others, especially after hearing whispered plans of betrayal. Paranoia festers in the underground and Scar is not spared.

He honestly figures he'll die, but he may as well try [perhaps slightly linked to the ambient DT]. Obviously he survives, starting with small shelters. He becomes stronger due to frenzies that force his hand; and as he loses his mind and becomes more beastly himself, his need to defend his territory for safety increases. He loses his left ear when he's almost blinded in a fight, and ends up scaring off his opponent.

He ate his own ear.

He rarely goes to Snowdin for desperate supply runs since it is extremely dangerous. He's gotten decent at making his own tools, and will strip twigs and things to make his own thread but he prefers spools.

He's barely surviving but has ended up fairly strong in his own right, to the point he is feared in frenzy.

His world does not have a happy ending. I imagine when Snaps showed up that Scar's world is actively dying, and Scar would certainly end up dying in the future [either to starvation, the elements, or devoured].

[djeterg19]

Ok, so I was chatting on the bird app about why I generally hate third act breakups and it kinda inspired this post. First, conflict is necessary in any drama. The issue that comes up with many third act breakups is that they are often forced or contrived. Or the response is disproportionate to whatever issue comes up. Often it's caused by a lack of communication or a miscommunication.

I'm supposed to believe these two characters are in love but won't talk with or listen to the other person when they try to explain what happened or how they are feeling? Or they see or overhear something and, without speaking with the other person, jump immediately to wanting to break up and then refuse to give them a second chance. Or, and this might be the one I hate the most, they decide they know what's best for their love interest and break up because they don't want to hold them back. You should not be deciding what is best for someone else. People are capable of deciding for themselves what to prioritize in their life. You might think that specific job or going to school is the most important thing but someone else might think a family, friends, or love is more important to them. Because there are plenty of jobs or schools but family and love are irreplaceable.

And if they are so willing to throw the entire relationship away without communicating, how am I supposed to believe that the reunion or their feelings are genuine? Did they learn or grow from the situation? Or is it just cheap conflict to make the last episode have suspense? Why am I supposed to believe they are in love when they don't try reaching out to try resolving whatever the issue is? If your answer to the first big fight or issue your relationship encounters is to dump the other person and refuse to even talk to them...it just does not work for me character wise or plot wise. I can understand yelling and fighting in the moment but I cannot understand someone taking time to think and reflect and not even trying to patch things up or make things work with someone they truly love in most circumstances. And characters and relationships can be tested without forcing the characters apart through forced drama. They can have adult conversations where they can decide that they need to work on x, y, or x but won't cut all communication because they are important to each other. It can be outside forces that cause issues that actually strengthens their bond by forcing them to work together to overcome the odds. Or maybe one of them suffers a setback or struggles with something that is the big drama but they are there for each other and help each other through whatever comes up. Honestly my absolute favorite conflict in a BL was Kawi getting sick in Be My Favorite. It's realistic. It's traumatic. It produced drama AND utilized the time travel element in a great way.

Also the timing is frustrating. Because, with BLs especially, the third act breakup doesn't even happen in the third act. It happens in episode 11 generally. One episode is not the fourth act of a 12 episode series. For it to be a third act breakup, it would need to happen around episode 9 or 10 at the latest. But it almost never does and the ending is almost never satisfying because they have to cram too much into one episode to resolve things. I personally would prefer if such drama was done earlier so that the last episode could be reserved for seeing the happy ending that most of these shows promise. I don't want to spend 12 episodes with a pairing and only have 5 minutes showing them happy at the end. That is generally not satisfying to me.

[beabodoesstuff]

It does depend on the version. Some versions give bigger father/dadmare vibes than anything. HOWEVER, in some version, he ALSO gives medieval fantasy. The idea of this king, this embodiment of negativity, who has only felt the vague warmth of love while caring for his boys(murder trio). This eldritch king, who collects and shelters, broken things and gifts them a home where they are safe and food they are assured will be warm and nutritious, falling in love with a mortal who can somehow look past all the sins and scars that litter his sludge-covered bones. A human that wishes him no ill and wishes for him to, to feel truly loved as he makes his collection of broken things feel.

(Just gonna put a thing I wrote like, 2 days ago here)

"Yes, you are terrifying, and yes, you may have a cold soul. However, something you seem to look past within your cold is that for something to be truly considered cold, there must be some semblance of heat. So let me take your cold hands in mine, and remind your heart of the warmth it's cold walls to leave."

so do people genuinely find nightmare attractive or is it a long running bit

[merrigel]

I want it back = I drag its dead weight forward

[isabellaofparma]

the cat king (ft. edwin) + text posts

[sensitiveheartless]

One Summer Day

[weewoow-2060307]

I love this sm. I am a firm believer that Mike sees Joyce as almost a second mother figure cus she stepped in where Karen didn't. And same With Jonathan, I think Jonathan is the type to so easily fill in a protective role for Will's friends when they visit and cus Mike was there most often and he was lacking in the older sibling department... Idk I love the idea of Mike feeling so at home in the Byers house because although it isn't as big and expensive it is warmer it has what Mike needs. Imagine Mike crying himself to sleep cus he misses Will and El so much but he also Misses Joyce and Jonathan (not half as much as Will or El but still)

i need mike finally gathering the courage to come out to someone (before byler happens) and that someone is joyce, because mike has been holding back and bottling in for so long and thank god it is joyce who’s next to him when everything finally fills him to the brim and pours out. and mike comes out, tells her he’s different, that he feels things a lot of people say he shouldn’t feel, that he knows love but people would scowl at it even though for mike it’s something only to smile about and to giggle and blush and feel good. and mike cries. he cries and sobs, not because he hates the fact that he’s gay, he’s accepted it and he can’t bring himself to believe it wrong anymore, not when it means he gets to be in love with will byers which is the only thing in his life that could ever make sense. no. mike cries because even though he’s accepted himself and continues to accept himself little by little every day, he still knows what being gay in this world means, and he’s scared. he’s so scared and he just needs one person that knows so they can tell him it will be okay even if it’s not true. even if mike can’t bring himself to believe it yet.

and joyce is that person of course. because of course she doesn’t care, of course her first instinct is to pull mike into a hug no matter their size difference. she wraps mike as if he was still the little kid that tailed after her the first few times he visited their house because he didn’t feel confident enough yet to wander around the house on his own. and mike shrinks inside joyce’s arms, as if she still was taller and bigger, enough to tower over him with that fierce and yet soothing presence and to shield him from the word in a way his mother never did or offered.

mike cries on joyce’s shoulder and joyce doesn’t tell him to stop, or to calm down, or to let it go. she lets him cry and holds him through his body shivering and his chest emptying on her shoulder. joyce listens and then when mike is breathing better and his eyes stop burning, she pulls away just enough to look at him in the eyes and tell him that she can’t be prouder of the person mike has become.

and mike can’t help but cry again. joyce takes him back into a hug and makes the rest of the world disappear from reach.

[feelo-fick]

it can't be too hard right?

it's easy not to think about things, he tells me i don't think all the time! wait...

—

a scene from a fic that i have no clue if ill finish, let alone post, but look i made fanart of my own thing that doesnt even exist :D

[lizkreates]

Vash the STOMPede

I wanted to go insane on his boots and did. c:

[sopuu]

little snippet of a vs witherstorm storyboard/animatic i've been working on since march!

it's kinda been put aside for a while as other projects came up, and the second half of the original thumbnails are being revamped coz i don't like it anymore lol, so i thought i'd share what i have since i have no idea when or if i'll finish it. atm i'm still very set on completing it someday tho!!

[itslilacokay]

oh would you look at that

part 1!

[musicallisto]

· · · · ♡ IF (SAINZ WIN == TRUE) (cs55)

… starring carlos sainz x f!engineer!reader ... 4.4k words ... in which carlos is an effusive, self-assured lad to every member of his team... except ferrari's head software engineer, making her wonder if he secretly hates her guts. ... based on this request ... warnings for language (minor) ... my first ever (posted) fic for carlos aaaaa (i have written A Lot More about this man because he occupies my every waking hour, but i shan't share it yet). in honor of me missing my communication networks final last week i made the reader a software engineer, but you would Never catch me willingly coding anything in c++ outside of my mandated assignments. no not even for carlos sainz jr. i have morals. this is open for part 2 if you guys enjoy it <3

He speaks the language of princes.

It's not in anything he says, no, he's much too industrious to waste time boasting, but rather in all that he doesn't. Carlos walks into the Ferrari motorhome, with that good-natured smile and that slightly disheveled hair from the morning's cycling session, and heads bow. Not out of plight, or even obligation, but mostly because it's hard not to. His warm greetings to everyone—Ciao's and even Come stai?'s to his team members strolling down the hallways before the weekend—, his keen interest in remembering little things about engineers' and photographers' lives, his nonchalant stride around the parc fermé all force camaraderie at least; reverence to most.

Wherever the red car goes, Maranello or any other corner of the world, religion follows, and though Carlos Sainz has never quite fit into the nooks they keep for their idols—their walls are carved for Monégasque shoulders—, he's at least always carried the air of a rebel leader on unforgving land.

But if Carlos is Ferrari's bastard prince, then clearly you are a subject he would not go to war for.

Or so he makes you think, once again, on that hot Singaporean afternoon.

You hadn't meant to interrupt, really, but with only one hour to go before FP1, you needed to talk to Riccardo Adami; something about the software updates, optimization of the data acquisition systems to account for Marina Bay's sweltering heat—run for half a second too long, overheat half a degree too much, and everyone's calculations would be going to hell. So of course you'd corrected it, supervised a brand new version of your code for the weekend, for that tenth of a Celsius; competition drove you. Almost just as much as those solar eyes boring into you when you walk into the room.

"Riccardo, about the softw—oh. Carlos. Hi," you timidly trail off when Carlos' eyes meet yours.

The room gets quiet, and it is only then that you notice how much space his laugh takes. Usually, you would've recognized the accent from outside the door, the boisterous voice regaling the Fifty-fives with another funny story—how could you not, when it sends shockwaves down your stomach? He seems to have been in an animated conversation with his race engineer, but as you get closer to the two men you notice the crinkles lengthening Carlos' eyes are fading with his smile. You aren't sure he's even said hi back.

"We've changed the code for acquisition, but some loops could still cause problems with overheating, particularly the engine oil temperature sensors…" you explain, though half your attention is directed to your peripheral vision, in which Carlos sways on his two feet, averting your gaze at all costs.

But you're not a college girl with a crush, you're Scuderia Ferrari's head software engineer and so you go on with your precisions to Riccardo. What to expect during free practice, how to overshoot any nonessential sensors that might fuck up the data analysis... until, mid-sentence, Carlos excuses himself awkwardly, pats Ricky on the shoulder, and walks out of the room.

You will your face into not betraying the sudden ache in your throat. How he simply acted like you weren't there... didn't even inquire about the updates. About the race. About your flight, about how much you loved Singapore's twinkling lights, about... you.

"Xavi and Charles know this already, but we really gotta test it all now before it gets cooler for FP2," you conclude with a too-hard swallow. Back firmly turned to the door Carlos just disappeared out of.

Riccardo thanks you, offers his own insight, some banalities about the risks of rain—no, you shouldn't consider them banalities. Nothing, on a Friday, is a banality anymore; yet everything is when you remember how Carlos' entire face shuts close when you're around, how his tone quietens down, how he repeatedly and stubbornly conceals all his rays of brazenness from you.

Does he hate you? Despise you? Are you not worth his effrontery?

This is ridiculous. You're not a college girl with a crush, you're a damn senior member of the team with responsibilities and he doesn't owe you anything more or less than you him—

"Riccardo," you neither ask nor plead. "Has Carlos... said anything about me?"

"About you? Like what?"

"I don't know... but you did see he just... left while I was in the middle of talking, right? And he looked annoyed as soon as I came in." And for all that's holy, try to pass this off as mere politeness and not a heartache that is eating you alive.

"Maybe he was just bored."

"So I'm boring?"

"No," Riccardo wheezes, in uncharacteristically high spirits for the conversation. "But I've worked with a ton of drivers, and you know, they're all the same. Less time discussing boring analytics is more time they spend in the sim. Or on track. What, you think he's angry at you or something?"

"I just... don't get why he's always so guarded and distant with me but so outgoing and confident with you guys. Charles isn't like that either. It makes no sense. We're a team, all of us."

The Italian looks at you for long seconds, amusement noticeable on his features, and you would shake him up and tell him to stop giving you those pity eyes if you lacked the tiniest bit of respect for the man; instead, you frown and cross your arms.

"He'll be in a good mood tonight when we top free practice," Riccardo assures you before you can ask him if he needs anything else. "and even better tomorrow after getting pole. You can talk to him then if you want."

A smile creeps its way on your lips without you conjuring it. There it is, that loyal veneration that only men and women of the Scuderia possess. Something in those southern eyes Carlos shares with legend has made you religious, too.

"I'll hold you to that... we could all use a Singapore miracle."

Singapore is a miracle.

Surely any other team would scoff at the word, bragging that a pole position has nothing to do with miracles, that it's all meticulous teamwork and endless iterations on calculators, but Ferrari is deeply supersitious at its core. You—the centenarian team, its red-hot beating heart—don't shy away from thanking divine intervention. Maybe that's the reason why it still works.

After Carlos' last pole in Monza, the whole Scuderia had dared to dream of something different, a glimmer of scarlet in the season's overwhelming orange. Of course, an uncatchable Max had put a dampen on the fervent Tifosi's mood, but the formidable hope machine had revved back to life...

and now it's roaring in Marina Bay.

Leclerc's side of the garage claps for a hard-earned P3, but it's the Spaniard's team that erupts into cheers and rushes out into the pitlane to congratulate their hero. You stare at his lap time on your monitor with a grin—1:30.984, not even a tenth faster than his teammate—as cheerful screams, in Italian and Spanish, fill the garage; they get louder when Carlos walks back inside, grinning ear to ear and not even bothering to dodge the strong-arm pats on his head and back.

"Twice in a row, cazzo!"

"And this time you won't have Verstappen underfoot!"

"Perfect lap, Carlos, that was a perfect lap..."

"Grazie a tutti," Carlos beams, fire suit down to his waist, running clammy hands through his hair—he parts the red sea as he walks deeper into the garage, close to where you are. "I think we all did a very good job today, and now we gotta finish the job tomorrow..."

He laughs with the mechanics, a sun of fire and victory casting its rays onto the tarmac, and maybe it's the euphoria of the moment, but a sudden wind of courage rushes through your blood, and you walk up to him.

"Bravo, Carlos."

Your voice hits him like the purr of an engine in the ruckus, overshadowing any other sound; he whips his head in your direction, shiny eyes colliding with yours, and for the first time you don't back off but hold them in awe, and his smile doesn't fade, but rather shifts. To surprise, or... coyness?

"You were incredible out there, we're all so so proud of you," you praise, and the more you look at him the wider your smile grows, and the quieter the rest of the world gets.

"Thank you, Y/N," he rubs the back of his neck, his free hand fiddling with the hanging sleeves of his fire suit. "We... I couldn't have done this without you. Because, you know, the overheating, or what you were saying to Ricky before? I didn't understand everything, but at least I didn't cook to death."

Coyness? In Carlos Sainz? When he's still sweaty and panting from qualifying first? What a bizarre sight, one that makes you giggle.

The way your nose scrunches up beneath sparkling eyes is so endearing, Carlos almost feels his breath hitch in his throat, almost reaches out to lightly brush your arm, hold the steady coolness of it.

"Great, that was what we were going for, pretty much," you reply, and for a second you could've sworn he wanted to touch your arm and changed his mind, but...

you bury the idea before a craving for his warmth can nestle in your chest.

"Great," he repeats. "So, I'll... see you later," and with that he leaves you there, stranded in the middle of the garage, to be lauded by the press and fans.

You'd be lying if you said his shadow disappearing out the backdoor as quickly as it had come doesn't slice a gash in your heart—always whisked away to some important obligation, and you, like everyone else, duty-bound to pick up the pieces behind him. But this time around the cut doesn't run as deep, doesn't bleed as red; because for the first time in months Carlos talked to you, joked with you, and looked the tiniest bit glad to be doing so.

If that's how good of a mood a pole puts him in... then clearly you'd better make damn sure he wins this race.

Ferrari is deeply superstitious at its core. Maybe that much is true in any sport—when victory eludes you, athletes find obscure laws to trick themselves into believing they still retain control—, but a team so old, on which glory has rained so often, does not withstand the passage of time without a few pillars of faith. And so it makes sense that Ferrari drivers, of all people, would have their pre-race traditions.

Leclerc plays the piano on Saturday nights; you hear him every time you pass by the team hotel's lounge, his melancholy tracks grounding you in a precise time and place. Now the car is out of bounds, the comfort of your object-oriented programming and optimized lines of code off-limits; now's the time for withdrawal and rest.

Typically, you like to hang out in the lounge while Charles plays, trying to distract yourself with a book or simply basking in the music. The predictable, calculated flow of Charles' arpeggios soothes you, like lines of code running one after the other. So does the Monégasque driver's easy conversation. Although it doesn't shoot butterflies in your belly like Carlos' does... but you're not supposed to play favorites.

This Grand Prix eve is just like any other, save for the unordinary trepidation that carpets the hotel. With one of their own sitting on pole, it's obvious strategists struggle more than usual to drop the words "tire management" and "pit stops". Eager to escape the nervousness, you excuse yourself from the dinner table, and make your way to the lounge.

Charles is already there, if the usual pieces echoing in the distance at dessert are any indication, and you barely even get lost in the elegant halls before you find the lounge... though there is no piano to be heard. Maybe this hotel has two music rooms—maybe Charles went to bed early—or maybe...

maybe he's sitting on the piano stool and chatting with Carlos, wet and sleepy from his evening shower.

Neither driver notices you at first, and you stop dead in your tracks, wondering if you should just leave. You wouldn't want to intrude—intrude on what, the rational part of your brain says, but with Carlos I always feel like I'm intruding on something bigger than myself, the rest of your body answers—, but you really enjoy this unspoken tradition with Charles... and, well, this is everybody's lounge, and...

"Y/N," Charles sees you eventually and beckons you over. "Sorry, I don't think there'll be a lot of music tonight, Carlos is distracting me."

"You could kick me out anytime," Carlos remarks good-naturedly, but you don't miss how he angles his body away from you ever so slightly. The sight sends a dagger through your heart. So he actually hates you then. So you didn't breach any barrier earlier at the circuit, didn't melt any ice. So he didn't look pleased and a little excited to be talking to you.

"That's okay, I'll just head to bed then—"

"Oh no no no," Charles interrupts, "come sit with us. I was trying to convince Carlos to give the piano a go, maybe you'll be more successful than me."

"Absolutely not, mate."

"Come on Carlos, it will relax you!"

"No, you're the musician, not me. One of us has to be the sportsman, no?"

Unsure, you flick between the two men, Charles' inviting face and Carlos, who's still doing everything he can to avoid looking at you in the eye. And then you decide—fuck it. You're just as much a member of the team as he is. He cannot drive you away with his... stupid cold shoulder tactics any longer.

You take a seat on the sofa opposite Carlos, and watch in half delight, half annoyance as he turns his shoulders away from you. Though his body language appears relaxed, one leg strewn across his knee and elbows hugging the backrest, he is, as usual, going to hell and beyond to not acknowledge your presence.

Charles has the merit of lightening the mood with his jokes and fan encounters of the day: some bizarre, some endearing, because he seemingly never has a boring day in the paddock. His easy laughter mixes with the distant voices down the halls when your attention drops—too fast, too soon, as always, it's irremediable—to Carlos, the soothing scent of his shampoo and the little droplets that run down his temple whenever he shakes his head in amusement... before you know it, you're staring again, eyes shining with undisclosed heartache. Something Charles sees, and recognizes very well, with a jot of curiosity.

Charles may not be the most perceptive when it comes to these things, but he is in love too, and he'd know the signs anywhere. That's why after a little while he lets silence blow his last words away like wind does the mist, and stands up from the piano stool.

"Well, I'm going to bed," he announces with an air of conniving finality, and he smiles his crooked smile at Carlos. "Gonna need all my energy to take the lead in turn 1."

This snaps you out of your reverie. Half-gone, you bid him goodnight at the same time as the Spaniard does, and you brace yourself for his own excuse... but it doesn't come. Carlos lazily watches as Charles leaves the lounge. You don't dare to move, as if your slightest sound could remind him you're there and trigger his fight.

You would've thought a tête-à-tête with you to be Carlos' worst nightmare... but he makes no sign of leaving. And sends solar flares up your chest and throat. "Whatever problem he's got with me, he'll have it sort it out with me like an adult" sounds much more intimidating when it's so plausible.

"You think he has the slightest chance of overtaking me in turn 1?" Carlos chuckles.

You look him straight in the eye and read no resentment, not even that sheepishness from before—just relaxed delight, and the slightest hint of reddened cheeks against tan, damp skin. It takes you a second, maybe even two, to realize there's no one else in the room. He's talking to you. Joking with you.

Why is the script running without error all of a sudden, even though you changed no variables?

"Maybe," you give a noncommittal shrug and a smile. "Why not? It all depends on you."

"He can lead the first lap if he wants. That will just make it more fun to cross the finish line ahead of him after."

"You better win this one, Sainz, because I..." you start, and midway through your sentence are hit by how absolutely ridiculous you're about to sound, but he's leaned in already, intrigued by your words, and his burning gaze and strong hands fiddling in his lap have you losing all notions of propriety. "I've... coded a little something for you. If you win. A surprise. It's not much, but... yeah."

Your whole face burns deep scarlet as you trail off... and the light in Carlos' eyes darkens, then goes out completely. His smile fades back to the usual professional grimace he reserves for you. Distant. Cold. He rises to his feet.

"I should get some sleep."

Terror strikes you. Incomprehension too.

"No, Carlos, wait."

He turns his head to your outstretched hand... your pleading eyes almost rip through his heart.

"Why do you dislike me so much?"

And then his shoulders slump, like crushed by an immense weariness, and he sighs, long and hard, before his gaze falls back to yours. Those big brown eyes, gentle, compassionate, and those fingers tapping against his thigh like they're waiting for an invisible cue to reach out for yours.

"... Can we talk about this after the race?" he says, shooting daggers through your stomach.

So he didn't deny it. Didn't reassure you, tell you it's all a misunderstanding, that he bears no ill will towards you, that you're imagining things as usual and that you two could be on the best of terms if you just got out of your head a little bit.

One more time, he's running away. Sweeping everything under the rug, for just one more session, one more race, hiding behind the excuse of concentration and professionalism.

But who are you to revoke him that? It's a damn good excuse. You need to win. He needs to win. Not be bothered about... interpersonal relationships while clipping walls.

"... Alright," you concede, voice and bones all broken, glistening under your frozen skin. "But if it's something I've done, then I'm sorry. I really do... enjoy your company. And you."

"It's not something you've done," he speaks quietly. Gosh, your frailty in this moment—you, so proud and unshakable on the pit wall, so dedicated and thorough on TV, so immeasurably devoted to Ferrari, to Charles, to him... "Or, well, I guess not directly..."

If he looks into your confused, imploring eyes one more second, almost brushes your arm with his one more time, then he's done for. But he thinks he knows this already.

"I don't dislike you," he starts speaking and as soon as he opens his mouth he knows there's no stopping himself now, so he blurts it all out as quickly as he can to get it over with and hopefully bury some meaning in the pits of his accent. "Not at all. In fact I really like you. I think you're gorgeous, and smart, and clever, and fun, and every day I wish I could spend more time with you outside of races and get to know you better but then I remember that can never happen and it's so frustrating and I have the hardest time concentrating. So I just avoid you. It's easier."

Silence thick as a thundercloud tethers you to one another. He runs a hand over his face, sighing deep, and you blink. Once, twice.

You've always prided yourself on your brains—not everyone gets to be in charge of all the computing for a Formula 1 car—but right now, you are all utterly lost.

"Carlos, I... I don't get it." Or maybe you do, heart thumping in your ears, but you're too scared you might be wrong.

"In any other life I would've asked you out on a date." This time he speaks more slowly, more purposefully, too. Like he's imbuing every syllable with the depth of his confession. "But it kills me that it can't be this one."

"... Why not?" you tentatively ask after an instant, feigning not to notice how his hand is now resting on the back of your sofa, right next to your ear and neck.

"Because you're a senior engineer! That would be like... like dating Ricky. Even if you're much prettier than Ricky. But you don't need to tell him that," he adds with a nervous laugh, which you mirror; though you fall silent as soon as his hand comes to rest on your shoulder, right where your collar ends, millimeters away from your skin. His body's warring with his own words... one wants to resist, the other to give in. "What if I leave Ferrari? That's a crazy conflict of interest."

"That's a silly idea, you're not leaving Ferrari anytime soon. Are you?"

"I don't know, it's... hypothetically... you know what I mean," he exhales in defeat. His hand clasps a little tighter on your shoulder, his scent dizzying, closer than ever before. Can he feel your frantic heart thumping underneath your skin? If he keeps licking his lips like this, will he sense your breathing getting more erratic?

"I do. But... the problem is I like you too, Carlos."

If embers could burn back to life, light a hearth out of nothingness... they wouldn't shine as bright as Carlos' eyes just then.

"Don't mess with me."

"I'm not messing with you. Why wouldn't I like you?"

"Because you're not supposed to have a favorite."

"I won't tell Fred if you don't."

He laughs, a brittle but adorable little thing, like a small bird taking its first flight. If you could hear the sound more often, see that bashful smile on his handsome face more every day... you wouldn't need any other prince to die in war for.

His hand runs down your arm, his thumb lightly caressing your skin through the fabric of your shirt before he grabs your shaky hand in his.

"Now's not the best time, but... I think we've got to have an important conversation after the race tomorrow," his deep, soft tone pacifying you just as much as the abstract shapes he traces on the back of your hand.

"After you win, you mean."

"Right. After I get my surprise, no?"

"After you win," you repeat with a grin, and he squeezes your hand, smiling too. Something, deep down, tells him he'll win regardless of the race result.

"Cosa diavolo sta facendo?"

Even in spite of the roaring crowd and the bellowing V8s speeding down the straight, the dumbfounded voices around the pit wall come to you clear as day.

"Russell 1.4 behind Lando," Ricky, sitting on the other side of Vasseur, speaks into his headset.

The team principal keeps quiet, eyes fixed on the cascade of numbers and brackets on your screen. He understands before the rest of the wall what his driver is doing; and as you relay all the information you get to the race engineers, you understand it too.

"Lando .8 behind, .8 behind with DRS—Russell no DRS... Copy that."

He's doing it on purpose. Keeping Norris just close enough to shield him from the Mercs while making sure he can't catch up. You'd laugh in triumph and disbelief if you weren't gritting your teeth so damn hard, heart on the verge of exploding as the last laps tick out in a blur.

Just a few more minutes. Just a few more seconds, and the night sky over Marina Bay will explode in crimson lights...

Mechanics spring to their feet and climb the wall to the track, bumping their fists in the air. Cheers, claps, exclamations, a bouquet of red roses swaying in the wind to greet its champion at the finish line. And then, the unmistakable roar of a racecar speeding past the chequered flag at three hundred kilometers an hour. Liberation.

You spring to your feet right as the fireworks go off, yelling to the sky. Carlos won. Carlos won! Your Carlos—in the middle of Red Bull's flawless season...

"¡Vamos Fred! ¡Vamos Ricky!" Flashes of red and gold pass his high spirits by, diligently braking into the first corner.

He laughs, he screams it all out, unclenching all his muscles, woozy from the G's, from the adrenaline, from the win... from you, watching him from the pit wall. From the memory of your skin against his, your adoring eyes and the formidable lightness inside his chest that has him feeling like he's the king of the world.

In a few minutes, he'll be posing with his trophy and the team in front of his P1 plaque for the group photo, and he'll drench you in champagne—your lively laughter will fill his heart with the gold of medals. And later in the evening, before the afterparty, he'll pull you aside and tell you maybe this victory has made him reckless, and he'll kiss you senselessly like a prize he fought for.

For now, though, he's nodding his head at Lando who gave him a congratulatory wave from his car when his on-board screen lights up with an unexpected message. Glowing red letters read, "Great job, smooth operator! 🌶️" Laughter escapes him as small virtual fireworks go off on his screen... and he presses the radio button on his steering wheel.

"Did she have one of these ready for Charles too?"

A few seconds of white noise, and then, your mischievous voice, dripping with joy.

"You know me, Carlos. Never play favorites."

… f1 taglist; @retvenkos @giuseppe-yuki (want to be added? send me an ask!)

[snail-noodle]

"my my my... what do we have here?"

you shivered in fear at the gigantic being before you. you and your cookie friends had tried your best to seal the rift in the tree with white lily cookie. however, your actions proved pointless. white lily cookie's powers were still too weak and your time had run out. you all watched in horror at the towering cookie grinning down from above.

"it's been so long since we've seen new faces! we were starting to get bored being by ourselves in here..." shadow milk cookie smirked as he took a look at each cookie standing before him. when his eyes had reached you, his gaze stayed far more longer on you than the others. you trembled from his piercing stare, a small whimper escaping from your lips as you backed away and hid yourself behind pure vanilla cookie.

shadow milk cookie chortled at the pathetic display. "Oh, how I have missed the faces of fear from you cookies! Never gets old!" now that the rift had opened big enough for him to pass through, shadow milk cookie stepped out of the silver tree that had kept him and the others imprisoned for so long. the smaller cookies screamed in terror as they scrambled to get out of his way. every footstep he took practically shook the earthbread beneath their feet.

"pure vanilla cookie!" fear clouded your mind as you tugged your leader's arm in desperation. "what are we going to do?!" anxiety gripped your heart when he hesitated to think of a solution. one of the most powerful beings in all of cookiekind has just been unleashed and is ready to bring chaos to the world once more. just how on earthbread will any cookie be able to stop such beasts?

before pure vanilla cookie could even think of an answer, you cried out in alarm as you were suddenly lifted into the air. the other cookies screamed your name as you watched their forms grow smaller and smaller. you gasped as you were face to face with the grinning jester.

"what a cute little cookie you are." he eagerly examined you as if he were a child that had been given a new toy, turning you this way and that. "it's been ages since i had a little pet to dote on. you'll make a fine addition to my collection!" your mind raced as you tried to understand what you have just heard. a collection? a pet to dote on? what on-?!

your thoughts were interrupted as you heard a snap of... fingers? confused, you found yourself locked inside some sort of bird cage; the bars were thick enough to keep you from escaping. shadow milk cookie cooed as he watched you attempt to break free. "no-!" you tugged and pulled at the bars keeping you in.

"no! y-you can't keep me in here! Please!" you cried out to him in desperation. shadow milk cookie only giggled and shook his head, "ah, ah, ah! you're staying right by my side, my little cookie." you shuddered in fear as he began to summon his powers once more. shadows seeped out from your surroundings and from his body. multiple cold blue eyes stared at you and the cookies still down below.

"now, my dear..." with a clap of his hands, monsters of every kind stepped out from the shadows, ready to obey their master. with a manic grin, shadow milk cookie spread his arms out in grandeur to the cookies below. with a perfect view from above, you could only watch in horror as your friends were surrounded at every side by monsters of different sizes.

"let the show begin!"

[itty-bitty-sunshine]

Hopefully, the first one of forever like this

[5577v]

#8 regret