#to me it was pretty dismal and boring

[ooc-themis-cattails]

I mentioned the song everyone was obsessed with at my late 90s high school, but when I went to look it up, it wasn't just ten, more like TWENTY years older. I'm not sure why it was a thing at my school and I also remember it was driven especially by the boys (although everyone would join in). So instead here are a few dance favorites from the actual 1990s that were popular at my school. Starting with the most 90s sounding band ever: The chic-a-cherry-cola song (I Want You, Savage Garden) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HQt6jIKNwgU I saw the sign (The Sign, Ace of Base) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iqu132vTl5Y Eyyyyyy macarena! (Macarena, Los del Rio) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LPYw3jXjd74 Some other 90s artists that were HUGE at my school: Alanis Morrissette (harsh pop rock) The Cranberries (floaty dreamy rock) No Doubt (bubblegum pop) aka Gwen Stefani's band Please feel free to add more-- for one thing, this is skewed towards what the girls were into and idek about the guys. Probably rap or R&B-- the latter was HUGE even at my mostly white school-- but I don't have any recs for that. Also obviously it's specific to where I lived etc etc so it's American white people culture but anyway that's what we had. Also remember, do NOT wear 80s fashion in the 90s. Neon is OUT, and do not wear patterns; solid colours ONLY. Nothing that looks technological or futuristic-- if you need to do sci fi in a music video, you do either all white or all black. Ideally you should be wearing all black anyway; if you are not in grunge you need to be slick and sharp. Your makeup can (and should) be a mess, but your outfit should be neat and smart-- the price tag doesn't matter anymore, this IS the grunge era, but you have to either be all grunge or differentiate from that by being extra tidy and clean and almost robotic. You and your friends will probably be going to the mall to have fun, but if you want to seem cool, you can go to coffee shops and carry a small silver cell phone (in this era, most people still speak on the telephone instead of texting). Actual time travel however is not recommended, as the culture was extremely unkind, and highly toxic by today's standards. Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to call out anyone's behaviour unless they owe you money, because you will be roasted, dressed, and served up as a mockery for caring about anyone's feelings. No lie, it really was that harsh. It's like how the 1950s had awesome fashion and industrial design, but the culture was shitty to live in? The 90s were like that in their own way.

[leclsrc]

has yet to pass ✴︎ cs55

centre image by tony belobrajdic

genre: exes to lovers, slow burn, fluff, humor, slight angst, yearning, some sexual tension

word count: 12.5k

Four years after an angry breakup, the universe is bored enough to nominate Carlos Sainz for GQ Sports’ Man of the Year and assign you to be the writer of his profile.

notes... internet translated spanish lol

auds here... requested, this fic is long! i hope you all like it apologies for the inactivity </3 exes to lovers we have a very love/hate relationship but this was a pleasure to write

You’re half sure your head is about to pop out from how annoyed you are.

At the office, mornings move slowly in the very corporate-desk-job kind of way, but today is notably slower. Your boss had called you in an hour earlier to discuss important matters, and this is your third hour waiting already. Either your boss is a dumbass, or you got the wrong email, which both essentially mean the same thing anyway.

The time on your Panthère tells you you’re curving into the three-and-a-half hour territory, and right as you’re about to get up to get a glass of water, the large wooden door swings open and your name is called through the crack in it. Suddenly the irritation dissipates into nerves, and because Jonathan didn’t specify anything in the email, you realize you could be wading into anything right now. Termination. Promotion. A brick to the head.

“Morning,” you offer once the door’s been shut behind you. 

“Sorry for the wait,” he says politely. “We’ve been in discussions with GQ Sports all day. All night last night, too. It’s all proper boring.”

You nod, remaining fairly quiet and waiting for him to break the news to you. He clears his throat, places his hands on his hips and exhales.

“Right, so this is all related to GQ, actually. They’re doing a Men of Sports segment and they asked us to assign one of our writers to an athlete. You’re our best right now, really—your article turnout last year was absolutely stellar. So, there’s, ah… there’s tennis, yeah, there’s footie, obviously, and—under usual circumstances, you’d get to choose one of either. But we actually really wanted to cover racing this year.”

The cloud above your head carrying the dreams of interviewing Leo Messi or Roger Federer pops dismally.

“Racing.” You repeat curtly.

“It’s gotten proper viral this year!” He smiles, gestures to nothing to prove his point. “Every teenage girl’s got a crush or other on a driver. Anyway, we set you up with the racing category, and the segment comes out in around six months.”

“I’ve got a tiny bit of a qualm about th—”

“So it’s decided. GQ’s going to pick out the driver for you, and you’ll be introduced at a gala next week.”

“Wait—” you laugh uncomfortably. “I’m thankful for the opportunity, and wow, thank you for choosing me, really, but do I not get to pick my own driver?” You clear your throat. “I mean, I’m spinning the story.”

“I know,” he sighs. “But this deal moved pretty quick, so a majority of the leverage goes to them. Don’t worry, though—a lot of the drivers will have great stories, I’m sure. You’ve got Lewis, you’ve got the Verstappen guy, you’ve got the Rosberg fellow…”

“Rosberg retired in 2016.”

“Oh, fuck, seriously? Well. Hit me with a brick then.”

—

The gala is a fundraiser to celebrate the season kicking off, you realize when you step outside the car and read the navy blue banner across the entrance to the carpet. It’s all fancy fonts and table placements, but One look at the watches and earrings in this place will tell you there’s more than enough funds already. You digress, anyway, walking inside to find the only one person you’re familiar with in the world of racing.

“Lewis,” you mutter when you locate him, voice dry with dread (and lack of alcohol), “kill me now.”

“On the off chance you’re serious—I’m actually willing to do so.” You slap his arm and he scowls.

“I’m supposed to meet the driver I’m writing about tonight, but the GQ guy hasn’t texted me. Christ, I hope it’s you. At least I have years’ worth of blackmail on you to really sell the profile.”

He only laughs, guiding the both of you to a champagne tower and offering you one. You down it in seconds, suffocated by nerves and the curiosity blooming inside you. “You don’t think it’s…?”

“I think they keep track of those things,” he replies, but his voice is only half-sure. “Conflict of interest and that. But Jonathan did say it was a quick deal?” You nod. “So it’s not impossible, I suppose.”

Big help, you chirp sarcastically, eyes perusing the large room. There are tables populated by celebrities, by politicians, and of course, by drivers. You keep scanning, squinting to chisel your search further, but it’s cut off by a tap of two fingers on your shoulder. 

“Hi. I’m Nick, the GQ rep, and I believe you and I have a meeting,” says the man behind you with an excited smile. “Why don’t we…?”

He gestures to the expanse of the room and you nod, falling into step beside him. He introduces the article, the concept of shadowing the athlete to achieve a more immersive piece of work as a result, something novel and innovative.

He’s right in the middle of talking about Jonathan when he stops at one of the cocktail tables and stations the two of you there. “Okay. You’re one of the biggest names in sports journalism right now, so it means a lot for you to want to represent racing. Especially because both Neymar Jr. and Nadal expressed bids to get you to write their segments!”

“They wh—”

“Right, here we are. Meet your shadow—or, subject—for the next six-ish months.” He places two hands atop your shoulders and wheels you around, so your eyes meet those of, “…Carlos Sainz Jr.!”

Yeah. This is fucking rich. 

Nick is talking but none of it falls right on your ears. Everywhere in your mind, alarm bells ring at full volume, alerting you to the danger present, almost. You plaster on a fake smile to acknowledge his presence, but his outstretched hand goes unnoticed. Clearly picking up on the tension, Nick gives a sheepish giggle and ducks out of the exchange, leaving the two of you woefully alone.

“Carlos,” you say politely. “What a nice surprise.”

There is a limited amount of phrases that are considered acceptable to say to an estranged ex of four years. There’s oh, what a surprise!, didn’t expect to see you here, you look well. It’s limited because nobody ever thinks to run into their estranged ex of four years, and even then, any sane person would do well to avoid interaction at all costs. So you’re really the luckiest son of a bitch in the world to be situated with a stuffy public interaction, under the guise of professionalism, with your ex-boyfriend.

Your history is heavy in the air. The last time you saw each other, things had been a lot different, but now you’re two professionals. Really. You really are professional.

“I refuse to be within ten metres of the guy,” you say, on your third martini. Lewis faces you with poorly hidden concern, and beside him, roped into your lovelorn matters, so does Sebastian Vettel. “Ten metres. Actually, no. Make it twenty. How can I be arsed to write an all-over-him feature about a guy I absolutely hate and haven’t seen in four years?! I had it all sussed—get assigned to Lewis, write the best feature, then restore his eighth world title.”

“—She’s joking,” coughs Lewis.

“Oh, but now? Now, it’s get assigned to my ex, write like shit, never get recognized for a good piece, and die hungry and alone on the streets of London. You know, I should just call Jonathan and tell him I don’t want this. I’d rather go back to writing normal articles.” You pry your clutch open but a hand stops you before you can.

“Don’t.” Sebastian’s voice is gentle, but firm. “This is a test of character, don’t you think? More than that—it’s a test of how good you are as a writer.”

“True,” interjects Lewis, chewing on a quiche. “If you can write a stellar profile about an ex, I mean—you’re just proper talented. But it’s also about how strong you are now, morally. Emotionally.”

“I’m perfectly fine emotions-wise, thanks,” you retort. Both men shrug, backing off, and you feel like you should be smug about it—but your mind is stuck on the topic even as the night passes.

You end up deciding when you’re kicking your heels off in your flat a few hours later, giving Jonathan a ring despite the late hour. It takes a while for the man to pick up, but he does eventually, with an excited tone colouring his voice—“How’s my star writer? Sainz, huh? Real eye candy.”

“About that…” you start, walking over to your bookshelf and chewing your lip, trying to think of the right way to decline the offer. Your eyes land on one of the several awards you’ve garnered in your profession—in fact, the very first one. Most Promising Journalist, it reads, embedded into the front’s frosty surface. 

Four years ago. And you’ve proven it since, if the crowd of glass around it is anything to go by. Why let a petty ex destroy what could potentially be one of your biggest gigs yet? Your segue outside of sports journalism?

“Earth to—yeah, hello? About what?” Jonathan’s voice breaks you out of your thought train.

“… I just, uh,” you say, nodding, “I wanted to say I’m really excited.”

— 

Carlos Sainz Jr., 27, is on the rise as one of Formula One’s most talented drivers… (add more info…) His smooth driving style and charm has led him to become one of the most popular figures in the sport, both on and off the paddock. He is also a huge, absolutely irritating, cannot for the life of him be humble!!!, SON OF A BITCH, PRICK, ASSHOLE—AND THE BIGGEST WANKER ON PLANET EAR

“The team will be here in just a minute,” says the lady who’d ushered you into this meeting room in Maranello. You half-shut your laptop in fear she’ll catch sight of your brief Word document meltdown, but she doesn’t seem to notice, setting a glass of water beside you and you stare idly at it while waiting for the rest of the room to enter. You’re expecting Nick, Carlos, Mattia—the boss—and Charles, his teammate. Jonathan’s already beside you playing Candy Crush on his phone, as per boomer law.

This meeting is pointless. You’ve already exchanged the bare minimum pleasantries with Carlos, anyway, and you cannot for the life of you decipher why there needs to be a whole new corporate clash just for this. But here you are anyway, awaiting your ex-boyfriend’s arrival into the room and back into your sweet life.

He enters with everybody else, his hair half-damp and his eyes meeting yours almost immediately. You clear your throat and turn away, standing to shake hands with Mattia. He’s pleasant about it, expressing excitement for the final output and commending your earlier work as a writer. You offer the polite small talk back, discussing plans for the article and the release date.

“Over at GQ Sports, we’re really trying to make this concept as immersive as possible. That requires the writer to shadow the athlete at almost all times, maybe taking a couple days off if needed. That might mean she gets a paddock pass, and things like that.”

“That’s no problem,” Mattia says. “Anything for the article.”

You end up being introduced to Charles, too—Charles Leclerc, who wears a contagious smile and won’t stop letting his eyes frolic in between you and Carlos, like he can sense the history. You suspect Carlos brought him up to speed, anyway, but it’s still a bit amusing. While the meeting carries on, Charles chips in with a joke. “Hey, if you find this guy irritating, you and I are going to get along.”

You laugh a bit, but remain mostly quiet for the sake of being professional. You miss the way Carlos’ eyes linger on you a second too long, focusing on the tail-end of the meeting so you can, for lack of better word, get the fuck out of here.

Of course, though, you’re stopped in the middle of the parking lot by Carlos himself, whose apologetic face is the first thing you see when you turn around with a huff. You’d already known it was him—he was calling your name loudly as he jogged over to you—but it’s still a sour surprise.

“What?”

“Let’s”—he pauses to take a breath—“talk. Listen, I know it must be an imposition for you to write about this, about me. Let me make it clear that I’m 100% okay if you choose to switch athletes. And if you needed any background information, I’ll be willing to give you that.”

“I don’t care what you’re okay with,” you say blankly. “And I’ve got Google.”

“Right.” He stares. “Um. Okay, well, let’s—can we agree, then? To be civil, for the period of time this article will be written?”

You consider the truce. As much as you’d like to be snarky with him and make your disdain all the more clear, you’re also not interested in making a scene or causing any type of fuss around his—and your—colleagues. The glass awards on your shelf flash through your mind, and you inhale softly. “Okay.”

He smiles. This seems a bit more difficult than you thought, for reasons you didn’t even consider.

“Forget anything ever happened,” he says when your hands meet. Something jolts through you.

Yeah, you’re fucked.

—

Your introduction to the actual sports part of the profile goes well, with a flurry of chaos in Bahrain.

Despite Jonathan’s texted reminder from Friday morning (Stick to Sainz the whole time), you find yourself staying in your comfort zone, ergo following Lewis around nearly the entire weekend. Granted, you are itnroduced to a few more drivers—Mick, Esteban, Alex—but also Lando, one of Carlos’ closest friends on the paddock, who makes dirty jokes from the get go.

Still, even Lewis has to remind you you have another driver to actually cover, so you reluctantly detach from him on the race day and begin your search for—

“Carlos,” you utter, breathless from exhaustion when you finally locate him inside his room at the motorhome, which you swear you checked twenty minutes ago. Either he’s avoiding you or he’s truly impossible to find. He adjusts his suit and looks at you with an unreadable expression.

“Yes?”

“I need a couple of words from you.” You smile politely, taking a seat on the couch armrest. “Like, pre-race nerves, jitters, routine. Anything?”

“I have a playlist,” he says, humming. “I like to call family, have a talk with the engineers.” He says it like en-yi-neers, but you already anticipated it. You’ve known en-yi-neers for years. You know how he talks, pronounces everything. “And I say a prayer, trust the car.”

“Trust the car?” You type the last few words onto your laptop, which you’d been toting around all day. It balances on your lap. “Any follow-ups to that, considering there’s been some chatter around the car this year and its supposed faultiness?”

“I just do what I do best,” he replies, steadfast. “The rest is a gamble I’m willing to take.”

“Perfect.” You finish. “That was a great line. Thanks so much, really.” It’s your reporter voice, the one you use for just about everyone else on the paddock. He nods in response, and the room ebbs into silence again. It’s awkward, when you excuse yourself and exit, already planning exactly how you’re going to tell this to Lewis. Halfway out the door, you purse your lips, turn, and then:

“Good luck, by the way.” Your voice falls soft. 

He looks up, momentarily surprised. “Thank you.”

You nod a little, smiling as you shut the door.

Carlos ends up getting second place—you’re beside a zealous Ferrari engineer when it happens, walking along the pit lane. Compared to your stoic smile, their reaction looks like the pinnacle of human emotion. Your turmoil is all inward, a melting pot of emotion for the driver. Would it be weird, you think, to feel proud? To feel happy? When things have ended?

Much later, when you’re wrestling for comfort in the throng of cheering Ferrari engineers, you squint to find Carlos on the podium.

You’re aware there are photographers everywhere, with high-def cameras that rival your natural eyesight, even, but still you tug your phone out and snap a few shitty zoomed-in pictures of him in second place, smiling and sprayed with champagne. You think of the profile, of the words you’ll use to capture this moment, the season kickoff. But most of all you think of the way his eyes seem to search for something specific in the mass of people, or the way you wished for them to meet yours.

—

Sainz, a self-proclaimed music lover, loads a pre-race playlist that changes every few locations. He names some of his favorite artists and songs as sources of motivation.

You climb into the passenger seat of his Golf when you finally find him, after a half hour of asking around everywhere. First, it was “in the motorhome,” then it was “in a meeting,” then it was “hanging out with Charles”—none of which ended up being true, anyway. He doesn’t question your presence (he hasn’t much, lately), just lets his eyes wander over to you briefly before you begin asking questions.

“Favorite song?” You get straight to it, stressed over the article. Jonathan has been on your ass about missing a deadline and causing the third world war in the process, or something or other. You sigh when you settle into the seat.

“Not even a hello or a buenas noches,” he says as he pulls out of the parking lot to drive the both of you to your hotel. “What’s this for?”

“You already know,” you say, humming as you sift through notes. “Listen. You did an interview before with Toro Rosso, right? Where you said your favorite artists were Muse, Kings of Leon, and The Killers. Right?”

“What the—you are a serious stalker.” He laughs out loud, eyes still on the road ahead.

“It’s kind of my job, Carlos,” you say, smiling and gritting your teeth. “Just answer.”

“Sí, sí. Yeah, I like that genre. I like rock, I guess… rock, indie, 80’s. You’d be surprised how little of an effect music has on my pre-race routine, though, even if I have a playlist.”

“Tell me more,” you muse. Your laziness to retrieve your laptop results in you scribbling soundbites onto your notebook instead. 

“Music is an escape for me, you know? I like it a lot. So as long as something gets me going, I’m good with it. It doesn’t have to be by a favorite artist, or a famous one, or a Spanish one. Though I have been listening to Shakira a lot lately.” Obsessively listens to Shakira, you write. “It’s just release. Lately, I’ve been listening to the same few ones on loop.”

“Care to share?” Music = release. Same songs looped.

He presses something onto the centre console, and music flows throughout the car right after. “This.”

Baby I’m Yours by Arctic Monkeys, you write, and then, all at once, you slowly realize exactly what you’re writing. You stare at the scrawled-on words, the song bleeding into your ears and saturating your brain. You’ve always thought of this song with a weird feeling, one in between nostalgia and hurt, and now it’s on full blast. In Carlos’ Golf, no less, which happened to be the venue for many of your listening parties back then.

Back then—when nobody knew much of this song and it hadn’t yet become an indie anthem. It was just another cover by your favorite band in 2015. It became your song, the song for kitchen dances, the song for long car rides, the song for the red lights, the song for the morning routine.

But now it’s just a song.

“Carlos,” you say. It’s supposed to sound strict, firm, even a little angry. But you’re so affected, it leaves you quietly instead, weakly almost. “Come on.”

“Do you remember when you first showed me this song?” He responds instead, the volume still loud. You allow yourself to smile a little, leaning your head back and watching the cityscape of Bahrain whir past. In a foreign city, you think, you feel more at home than ever.

“Yeah,” you profess. “On my iPhone—what was it then? iPhone 5, or something.” You both laugh a little. The dam has broken, it seems, and topics of your past relationship seem to now be open to discussion. But it doesn’t feel alien, or weird, or uncomfortable. Carlos laughs, makes fun of your old lockscreen, and all is well.

A lot of memories have unwittingly attached themselves to this song. It’s the kind of song where, even in the opening notes, you’re already stunned with the myriad of them. There are the obvious ones: first finding the song, first dancing to it. But it trickles down into the smaller, more niche ones.

The time you got a busker in London to perform it for you both, and danced like idiots at ten-thirty in the evening, while some onlooking geriatric couple watched with mild entertainment. The time you got him a vinyl record of this EP, and left it in the cab before you were supposed to give it to him, leading to you crying on his sofa while he cuddled you and fed reassurance into your ear. The time he attempted to learn the chords to it and broke the string of your decorative guitar.

Like always, Carlos drives one-handed. He’s usually responsible, but if he’s cruising, or driving at a relatively slow pace, he likes to lean back and use his left. His right lays, unmanned, on the centre console of the Golf. You don’t notice it’s there until you finish writing a sample line on your notebook and you lower your left hand absentmindedly, brushing a finger against his in the process.

Your instinct is to jerk away, but Carlos is calm, humming to the song and reading road signs. So you let it rest there, in part to show yourself you’re capable of relaxing, but—and it feels like a heavy thing to admit—also because you like the feeling.

So your hands are there, just shy of each other, barely touching. His pointer finger twitches, almost like he’s trying to hold it back from inviting yours to wrap around it. You let yours brush over them a little bit, pulling away. Then he coughs, and lifts his hand to make a right turn, so you resume writing, eyes downcast. 

—

You’d spent the Saudi weekend less with Lewis (in a bid to follow his advice) and socialized a bit more with Lando and Charles, who both proved to be pleasant company. They played table tennis with you and even shared a good chunk of grid gossip.

“Pierre and Yuki have soooo done it,” whispers Charles, scandalized, sipping a G&T from a decorative polka dot straw.

“Shut up!” You clap a hand over your mouth. “I mean, I had my suspicions. But really? They’ve shagged?”

“Oh.” He pauses dumbly, scratching his head. “I meant they’ve done marijuana.”

“Damn it, Charles,” bemoans Lando. “You’re a sodding buzzkill. We’ve all done weed, this is not news. The gay sex would’ve been.”

The afternoon progresses into night, and you seem to be on a roll with the sports component—Carlos gets to P3 in Saudi Arabia. You travel to his motorhome room after the debrief, where you hope he’ll be, and find him packing shit up inside.

“Good work out there,” you say, and when he looks up he finds himself meeting your eyes in the mirror. He fumbles with the zip of his suit and you walk a little closer.

He huffs out a polite thanks, tugging on the zipper harder. The cloth’s eaten it, a problem that’s been plaguing his race suits as of late—a problem, according to his engineer, easily solvable if he’d just be more patient with tugging it downward to loosen. A problem you’re familiar with as well, from his Toro Rosso days of ranting to you about zippers and sewing.

You lean against the wall and maintain safe distance. “I’m going to ask you about the race later.”

“Alright. What specifically?” He begins the mental Spanish-English translation in advance. 

“Whatever you can give,” you reply, nonchalant. “Maybe more on the feeling while racing. The different perspectives of P3? Sort of like—yeah, you’re on the podium, but it’s not P1.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” he laughs a little, a bit embarrassed he hasn’t fully undone the zipper yet. “Um, sure. I’ll meet you outside afterward.”

“Thanks. And—” You stop yourself in your tracks, still facing him in the mirror. His eyes find yours again, eyebrows raised from the unfinished sentence. “—Be patient with the zip.”

He chuckles, memories surfacing like bubbling lava. “Right. Bueno.” He turns and throws his hands up, looks like he’s surrendering almost. “Help me out?”

You’re incredulous—it’s a highly compromising position.

But he’s not really smiling, and he seems to be seriously asking you to please help zip him up, so you nod. Nod once then twice, walking slowly over to him and placing two fingers on the zipper. You don’t notice how shaky your grip is until you see the way your hand trembles.

Slowly, you tug. Upward, then downward, then upward again, to loosen the stubborn thing. Your eyes move until they meet his, and you realize how close together you are. From here you can see the faint pink indents on his face from the balaclava, and you wonder almost how it’d feel to stroke over it with your thumb. It twitches on the zip and you remember to yank it again.

“Just give me a second,” you say, but you’re not even paying attention to the zipper.

Just him. Just the proximity. The thoughts of what if—what if you leaned closer, right now? Closed the gap, shut your eyes, let your finger trace over the shape left behind by his balaclava, zip forgotten?

“Take your time.” His voice is deep, gentle. 

His eyes pierce yours, the tension growing in between you until you can barely breathe.

You pull and finally, it gives, unzipping the whole way. You blink, breaking eye contact and stepping backwards so fast you almost trip. “I’ll be outside.” The door is shut, the noise damning behind you as you finish an entire cup of water in what you genuinely think to be record time. 

—

“Fine. Fifty euros.”

“Fifty?! Cheap trick. Make it two hundred.” 

“If you’re in the hundred territory, might as well make it five hundred. Turn this into a serious thing.” 

“Deal.” The Brit and the Monegasque clap their hands together in a firm handshake. “Let’s talk terms.”

Charles recites his end of the bet, as clearly as he did when this was first wagered just ten minutes ago. “She and Carlos will start dating before the article is even published.”

“They’re exes, innit?” Lando laughs. “You’re wrong, Charl-ito. They will never date, ever again. Exes don’t date.”

“Unless they’re soulmates,” he reasons.

“Psh, what do you know about soulmates?” The younger raises a condescending brow. “You dated a girl and then her best friend.”

“Back off,” insists Charles petulantly, watching Lando messily write down the evidence of their wager on a small slip of paper. For proof, he’d said, before slipping it into the back of his opaque phone case. He waves it around. “We shall see.”

“You will definitely be paying me up,” Charles says proudly. “Just you wait.”

—

“Care to listen to me?” You hoist yourself onto the stool of this hotel bar, ordering yourself a martini.

“Always,” says Lewis, immediately facing you. He’s always been one of the kindest, most genuine people in your life. He’s known you forever, and he’s the only person here who really knows the extent of your history with Carlos, all the layers, all the fights, all of it.

You sigh and lean against the backrest, deflated. “Carlos and I… I don’t know if this is going to work.”

“The article?”

“Being with him.” You pause to reword it. “Around him.”

“I see. Hasn’t it been, what—four years now, though?”

“Yeah, but…” But why does it feel like you both want those four years gone? The car ride with the song, the eye contact, zip situation after Saudi. You lick over your lips and sit a little straighter.

“Lew, it’s just—and you should know this—when you break up with someone, you’re forced to unlearn all the things you knew about them.” You sigh. “All the… just all of it. The habits, the quirks, the favorite words, the way they like their toast and eggs. And if you can’t, then fine, it’s still okay, because why would you ever need it again? But I haven’t forgotten anything, and now he’s back in my life.”

Lewis stares, with eyes that convey solemnity and a little sadness. He seems to understand, watching you intently, the way your eyes are glassy with unshed tears.

“So now I see him, and it feels like he’s like”—you inhale—“this sounds… bad, but like… I’m… like he’s a lover, kind of. In disguise, a little bit. I don’t know. Like, I have to pretend I know nothing about him, like every little fun fact is a new thing for the profile… but I know everything.” And what a heavy burden it is.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. 

“No, don’t be. I’m pretty sure this is all one-sided.” You take a long sip. “That’s the price to pay for ending on bad terms, I suppose.”

“Just think,” he muses out loud. “When this is all over and you’re accepting your Pulitzer, you won’t even be thinking of him one bit.”

“Right,” you say. Carlos, Carlos, Carlos. He’s the only thing on your mind. “Right.”

You find a working title for the article later. Carlos Sainz, it reads on your Word document. On racing, gracious defeat, and life’s driving forces.

—

Like every other sport, Formula One drivers have their share of bad competition days. Sainz recalls a time his car failed and caused him to DNF—racing vernacular for “Did Not Finish,” a damning phrase for any driver on the grid.

A double kill vibrates through Carlos.

It’s a consecutive hit that’s both professional and personal, and greatly affects the momentum of the profile you’re busy writing. In Australia he’d been reserved, eyes stormy, walking alone but not angry. He’d congratulated Charles and everything, even offered a few words for the article. The last you saw of him was with a beer, brows knitted together.

Tonight you’re in Imola. He’d been okay after the race, the usual silence that comes with a bad result.

No hard feelings, he’d said. This is the business. Hugged Danny, excused himself; nobody said anything. It’s a normal response to a shit day. You spend the post-race buzz with Lewis and Sebastian this time, but you manage to congratulate Lando on the podium finish when you catch sight of him.

“Maaate!” He cries gleefully when he sees you. “Where’s the muppet?”

“Mourning,” you drone. “Reasonably so, I guess.”

“Tough crowd,” he says, kissing his teeth. “But, yeah. Hey—shots on me!”

“Tempting offer.” You eye the bunch of tequila on the table. “But I think I’ll retire early. I need to send a draft pretty early tonight.”

“All good. Have fun being a loser,” he says, watching you leave.  

The hotel, it turns out, is not nearly as fun as the party. Which is common sense.

You spend time writing and rewriting a few paragraphs of the article, stuck on the title of it and honestly wishing you were with Cuervo and vodka right now. You suppose you don’t need one just yet—they usually come to you late, anyways. Jonathan sends you three follow-up emails regarding a draft, so you send him the latest version and read over the file, reciting favorite lines under your breath.

In the middle of reading on the Bahrain P2 and a little segment on Sainz’s favorite Ferrari moments, somebody knocks on your door.

It’s a surprise—you don’t spend much time with people on the paddock, and only few of them know your room number, which leads you to narrow down the person on the other side to a select group. There’s Lewis, most likely of them all. Charles, who you’d grown much closer to as of late. Level with him is Lando. Then maybe, just maybe, Sebastian, to offer late night advice.

It could’ve been any of them, but it’s not. It’s somebody else.

“I’m sorry.” His voice threatens to break. “I didn’t know who else I could talk to.”

“Carlos?” You blink. 

You usher him in after, and you hope his mind is anxious enough that it doesn’t pay much attention to your hideous pajama situation (old hoodie, souvenir L.A. pajama pants). You end up on your balcony, both of you facing the frigid nighttime air. It freezes your cheeks, casts your hair backwards. Your eyes slide to his stoic figure, the way even his hair is blown back by the wind.

He’s quiet, but more relaxed, less stiff. “Sorry, again.”

“S’okay.”

You duck back inside and return with two cigarettes and a lighter. “Wanna?”

“Awful habit.” But he accepts it anyway, sticking it in between his lips. It bobs as he speaks, still unlit. “I need this, though.”

“I don’t do it regularly,” you defend, pressing the flame to the cig. He exhales. “Some situations call for them.”

“This definitely does. Bit of a slap to the face, you know?” You nod. “I’m sorry.” The apology carries more weight than it should, and you know why. 

Like it’s the most difficult thing in the world, you breathe a few times before you respond in a hushed tone. With your words comes a huff of smoke. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. You gave it your all, took a risk, it went to shit. But you gave it your all is what matters in the end. You put heart into it, which is something not everyone does in sports these days.”

“I feel… complimented.” You both laugh at the lack of good phrasing, so he rewords it. “I meant, I feel, how you say? Touched. It means a lot to be praised by you.”

“Does it?” Smoke again, another whiff of it.

“They only ever want to praise the podium finish, the P1, the title holder.” He lets the words fizzle. “But here you are praising a driver who finished like shit twice in a row. More people should be like you, paying thanks to the underdogs.”

It’s not the underdogs, you think. It’s just because of you. 

“More like the shit drivers,” you say instead, in a low rumbling voice. He laughs, calls you stupid in Spanish, and it’s a dead issue.

Later, before he leaves, when the room’s much darker and less bathed in moonlight, you whisper goodbye to him through a small crack in the door. He smiles a bit, and you catch it even with the lack of lighting.

“Thank you.” He says. He means it. You catch his perfume when the door swings closed. It smells like wood.

—

Sainz has off-grid hobbies, one of the most notable of which is cooking. He claims to have a good hold over the kitchen, and cooks several of his favorite dishes on the rare weekend off. Blah blaaahhhh, cooks well. Usually wears funky apron. WRITE THIS PROFILE ALREADY STOP EATING PASTA YOU DIPSHIT

Lando had invited you all to an Airbnb owned by a friend in Umbria, a two-ish hour drive from Imola.

With two free days, you’d followed a small group of drivers—Carlos included—to soak in the rest of Tuscany. Charles and Lando, however, left as soon as you arrived, to check out the last few hours of the farmer’s market. Alex had met Lily at the Eurostar station and they’d gone biking together.

This effectively left you and Carlos alone, which was not an unusual occurrence, but still proved to be a bit tense. With the kitchen free and the fridge stocked, Carlos suggested he cook for you both. Despite your best efforts, you ended up at the island writing and taste testing sauce, chicken, anything he slid over to you on a saucer with a tiny fork beside it.

“You’re going to give me cholesterol problems,” you quip. “This pasta is too good.”

“Cacio e pepe.” He twirls some onto a fork, straight off the pan, and shoves it into his mouth, a low mmmm leaving him once he gets to chewing. You laugh, a stifled sound through the noodles in your mouth at the exaggerated show of delicious food.

“Any favourite food you think is notable enough for the profile?” You type again, backspacing your harsh reminder. Makes a mean cacio e pepe (look up translation later). “Like, food you cook yourself, or even other recipes.”

“This,” he says, pointing to the pan. “This is fuel.”

“Amen.” Loves cacio e pepe.

“And it’s good with chicken.” He points to the oven, where he’s been baking chicken for a bit now. The kitchen smells of it, of the rosemary and oregano and pepper. “Oh, and put that I cook with music on. Let me connect my phone.”

Cooks w/ music. “Why do you need to mention that?”

“Ladies love a chef,” he says simply, letting a familiar song thrum into the woody kitchen. “And I love ladies.”

“Okay, slag.”

“Fuck off!” He begins shimmying all across the kitchen island, cranking open the oven mid-dance to check on the chicken, then continuing to clean the counter. Still he dances, and not very well, either—he always claimed singing was a stronger suit of his, so you allow the fool to be a fool.

Back when you two were still together, Carlos already had a preference for 70’s disco in the kitchen, saying it brought out the dancer in him. Nothing seems to have changed in that department, and you smile with mild embarrassment and amusement watching him dance across the kitchen, using the kitchen towel as a prop and swinging it around.

Loves dancing to The Communards while baking rosemary chicken. “Let me taste the chicken, by the way,” you ask when you finish typing, hopping off the stool and walking to the oven. He continues dancing, hips cocking poorly from side to side to the old song. He retrieves a fork and cuts a piece of chicken, reviewing its doneness briefly before turning with a piece of it stabbed into the utensil.

“Open,” he says. “It’s hot.”

It’s too natural, the way he slowly feeds you the piece. You don’t even realize it until you’re chewing, and by then he’s back to dancing to the song that’s now reaching its end. “It, uh,” you stutter, a bit nervous, “it’s really good.”

“Of course, I cooked it,” he says smugly. You grab a lime from the fruit bowl and throw it, hitting him in the back of the head in retaliation. He turns slowly, still dancing, lips stretched into a challenging smile.

Lando and Charles walk in ten minutes later to Carlos and you, yelping and chasing each other around the wide counter, chicken left atop it and forgotten in favor of the tag game. Charles, toting bags of fruit, faces Lando with a victorious expression. Pay up, he mouths, cocky.

—

It’s much too hot in Miami, but you appreciate the heavy beach culture and the even heavier nightlife.

You work on the profile until your fingers hurt from typing, sending Jonathan another draft for approval. Charles joins you on a cocktail taste test at the open bar until your tongue tastes like gin and your head is a bit spinny. Both Ferrari drivers end up having a shitload of pictures of you sleeping on the leather couch, enough that Lewis ends up getting ahold of them, too.

It’s a 2-3, in the end, with P1 going to Max. The latter throws a party at some place along the beach strip, invites you in one of the only conversations you’ve ever shared with the guy so far. He seems a bit unfriendly, but when you walk into the exclusive club later that night, you find him doing a handstand in front of a beer keg, so that’s that.

FUCK YEAH! Max hollers, following it with a howl so happy it reverbrates in your ears. It’s crowded everywhere, and you’re pretty sure Lewis isn’t here, so you spend a few minutes roaming around, getting a good grip on the vibe of the place.

It’s Carlos who finds you in the middle of the dance floor, nursing yet another drink to aid your lack of social skills. His voice is rough in your ear and it smells like a Jägerbomb, a low laugh escaping it right after. “All alone?”

“Unfortunately,” you tease, turning to face him. “Man, I thought guys were confident in Florida.”

“Cuidado,” he warns, smiling. “This dress is pretty difficult to resist.” His tongue’s definitely been loosened by shots, his eyes half-lidded and looking you up and down. You laugh, raising one eyebrow at the sudden flirty tone, but welcoming it nonetheless, depositing your now empty glass on whatever cocktail table is nearest. Who said you were sober? 

“Nobody’s inviting me, so why don’t you and I dance instead?”

He licks over his lips—he never seems to keep his tongue in his mouth—and winks, nodding.

And here in Miami, through the strobing purple lights of this ridiculously expensive club, you wrap your arms around his neck and dance to whatever Calvin Harris song is blaring through the bass.

His hands are all over you, loosening your stiff stature; they wring into the fabric of your obejctively too-short dress, raking it up a bit. You lean back and he leans forward, following you, drawn into you, your noses pressed together and your eyes meeting. Your breath heightens, holds, your fingers moving to his long hair and holding him close to you.

His hand moves over your ass, pulling you in. He smiles, pokes his tongue into his cheek, and you giggle, almost causing your lips to touch. Your mind is haywire from the alcohol, but you can’t really bring yourself to care. The warmth grows between you, closer and closer, the dynamic easy—

And then someone spills their drink on both your feet, causing you two to break apart and laugh off the tension instead. You’d almost fucking kissed. However you’re going to tell this to Lewis, you don’t even know.

And you’re not entirely sure, you think as you rinse whiskey and bile off the tip of your heel in the bathroom, how it sounds like to write Sainz and I almost made out in public on the GQ profile.

—

Nick emails you directly to ask if Carlos can do some test shoots in Miami for the profile cover.

You convince him to agree, even if he thinks he’s no good in front of a camera, and you two show up to a mostly empty warehouse studio. There’s a white backdrop situated toward the back and a tiny-sized crew of people working.

“Hi. Is this for GQ?” You ask the photographer. “Test shots?”

“Oh, hi.” He stands and shakes your hand. “I’m Luke. Big fan of your work, by the way. So the concept today is just plain shirt, long hair, gorgeous face, white background. Good?”

“Bueno,” Carlos says behind you with a smile.

You sit on a chair a few metres behind Luke while he works, watching the shots pop up on his screen every time the shutter clicks. As it turns out, Carlos is a brilliant liar, because every single shot—even one where he was fixing a wrinkle in his tee—looks perfectly usable anyway. Sainz is a natural stunner, you jot down.

It’s a bit awkward to admit you can’t help but stare, but his face is undeniably handsome, especially when he’s in front of the camera. Thankfully for you, and heavily owed to Carlos’ natural skill for modeling, the ordeal’s over in less than thirty minutes, and you begin preparing your stuff to leave.

“Oh, crap. I forgot I had to do a test bridal shoot for R&B’s wedding anniversary in September.” Luke sighs, clicking through the photos rapidly.

“R&B. The… music genre?” You ask, confused and toting your bag on your shoulder.

“Silly! Ryan and Blake. As in, Reynolds and Lively? They plan their photoshoots way in advance, and they always need sample poses to choose from.”

“Oh, I get it.” You smile. “Well, we’re sorry for keeping you.”

“You”—he stops both you and Carlos, pacing in front—“you two wouldn’t… mind, would you?”

“Mind… mind what, now?” Your eyes flit toward Carlos’ and you both laugh nervously.

“Being my mannequins for the bridal shoot!”

Both of you balk, making up all kinds of excuses, but as fate would have it, Luke is very convincing and you’re against the backdrop after five minutes of persuasion. He directs you into different silly, quirky poses—a piggyback ride both ways, smiling goofily, the like. Carlos can’t stop laughing every time the shutter clicks, at how silly the two of you must look. 

Luke plays some music to get you both looser, and directs you into a few mocking dance poses. Then he directs you in a partners-in-crime pose, which you love the outcome of. Okay, last one, newlyweds, he says. Carlos, why don’t you get behind her and wrap your arms around her waist?

You clear your throat, letting him do so anyway, his hands big around your frame. “Careful,” you whisper when he’s right behind you. Luke raises an inquisitive brow behind the camera, watches your chemistry unfold through the viewfinder. Your breath hitches a little, but you swallow the nerves.

Look into his eyes, Luke says. So you do, meet them, force yourself not to look away for once and just stare. It’d been easy to do this, because you could just as easily break the stare, but now it’s different. Your eyes flutter, and his stay unblinking. 

It’s like that for a minute, just staring, like all the things you want to say can communicate themselves through eye contact alone. Another twenty seconds pass before Luke coughs, breaking the moment.

“I said we were good like a minute ago, guys,” he says knowingly, packing up with a smirk.

—

Lewis advises you to avert your pent up “romantic” tension to another boy. It’s difficult, but you challenge yourself to find somebody anyway, maybe outside of racing, to use your extra paddock pass (courtesy of Mattia) on. The guys in your DMs are all skeevy, or you’ve unfortunately ghosted them, so they’re all out.

After some searching, you end up using your extra pass in Spain, and for James, a Sky Sports sound editor for streamed football games. He’s British and a huge Tottenham fan who you met during drinks with a few reporters the month prior. Not bad, but not necessarily your type; at this point, though, you’ll take anybody above the bare minimum. And James is above it—a gentleman, kind, funny in the quaint English way. He could be taller, but you find him charming enough.

Noise flows through the paddock, chatter and cheering and interviews. “This is so cool,” says James animatedly. “I feel like a regular Schumacher.”

You give a phony, flirty laugh and enter the Ferrari hospitality, raking your hair backwards. “I’m going to get something real quick, okay? Stay put…” You point at a lone chair. “Over there.”

“Alright,” he says with a smile. “I can’t roam arou—?”

“No!” You say, a tad too quickly. “I mean, sorry. Don’t. Just. I’ll be back really quickly.” Before you can even retrieve your phone charger from Carlos’ room, the owner himself walks into the area, squirting water into his mouth and furrowing his eyebrows together when he sees you standing beside a stranger.

“Hi,” Carlos says, a bit bluntly. His eyes are darting everywhere but at you, lingering a bit too distastefully on James’ timid figure. “You are?”

“Her date,” James says with a nervous laugh, pointing a thumb towards you. “James. Huge fan of you. Of the team.”

“Sure.” He offers a tight-lipped smile, hand meeting James’ outstretched one to form a polite handshake.

It’s awkward, is what it is—awkward and stuffy and Carlos won’t look at you. He clenches his jaw a little, smiles, looks up and down. “You, uh… how long have you guys been…?” He waves a finger in between the both of you, almost fearfully, like the answer will cast him into ashes.

“Not—not long, really.” James laughs again to relieve the tension that seeps across the room. “A month?”

“A month?” Carlos repeats, arms crossed.

“We haven’t even, like, had se—”

“That’s—” you cut in, sharp and apologetic, “wow, that’s plenty. Thanks, James. Could you get us some drinks? I’ll have a beer.”

“It’s one-thirty,” he says.

“Yeah,” you respond. “A beer.”

He leaves you both alone sheepishly, and you turn to face Carlos’ intense expression.

His arms are crossed and he rakes a hand through his hair—but he doesn’t say anything. Why should he, anyway, he thinks to himself, staring at you. You wore your hair in a ponytail today, so he sees more of your pretty face. Oh and so does James. Pendejo.

“Are you okay?” You ask, even if he knows you know what’s up.

“Totally. Muy bien.” He shrugs, drinking water again. “Should I not be?”

“Never said that,” you say, raising both eyebrows. 

“Okay. Well enjoy the beer.”

So he’s jealous. Fine, sue him. He’s jealous of the British gangly guy you thought was good enough to invite onto the paddock. Barely even made a lasting impression. He gives a small, phony smile and walks back, meeting Charles along the way.

“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost, mate,” says the younger, slinging an arm over his shoulder. “Maybe the ghost of James?” He flicks the guy’s forehead, laughing.

P4, it ends up being. Not nearly good enough. But James is the first to say, “Congratulations, hombre!” in a God awful accent, so it becomes ten times worse, really.

—

“Alright guys, Carlos and I here today with some members of our team, and we’re going to play some fun trivia games.” Charles’ eyes read from the signboard behind the camera, his amusement wholly unscripted as he looks from you to Andrea and back to Carlos.

You honestly don’t know why you agreed to this. It might have been Lewis’ gentle persuasion or your boss’ overenthusiastic persistent voice, or the sleepiness that’s been wearing you down and boggling your mind lately, or—and it’s probably this—the fact that James ghosted you after Spain, because you “clearly have a thing with Sainz, and I don’t wanna be a homewrecker.” Whatever it is, you’re apparently a guest on the C² Challenge segment. 

Today is a trivia game against Charles and Andrea, and you’ve all been given a general guide to what the questions entail—math, music, general knowledge, and one scripted Ferrari question at the end. The structure is fairly basic; each team member gets to answer one at a time, both contributing to overall points—and no coaching allowed, for some odd reason.

Charles is a little shit, so he’s made an off-camera bet: loser should treat winner to a round of shots at the next afterparty/get-together. And—who are you kidding, really—Carlos is also a little shit, so he’s game for the bet and has fired you both up to win, spouting Ferrari trivia in your ear should it come up.

“I got it,” you say snappily when he hasn’t stopped pestering you for five straight minutes. “I got it.”

“Oh, did you got it?” He asks sassily. “Okay. When did Ferra—”

“We’re starting in three,” says the cameraman in Spanish, Italian, then finally English.

He holds three fingers up and you hug your tiny dry erase board closer to your torso, readying your camera smile. The video—and the game—start off well enough, a quickfire competition developing between the two teams that infects you and Andrea quickly. 

“Stay calm and collected,” Carlos proclaims, lips stretched into a proud smile. “Our team motto.” He elbows your side and you roll your eyes with a smile, teasing. 

“I think it’s, ah, always—always cheat, mate,” Charles protests, pointing an accusatory finger. 

“You are soooo—tch, I propose we kick Charles for poor sportsmanship,” retorts your teammate, laughing. The force of his laughter shakes the stool he sits on and you bite back a smile, remaining relatively quiet like you’ve been since the start of the video.

The remainder of the game passes with Carlos and Charles neck and neck, you and Andrea working overtime to make sure your teams don’t lose the bet. Eventually it boils down to one question, which Carlos is in charge of answering. Behind the camera, the producer raises a signboard and reads it out: We all know C². What is eight squared?

What a relief, you think. They’ve basically handed the win to you and Carlos on a silver platter. You wait, bumbling in your seat and raising an L sign toward Charles, who sticks his tongue out in response. Excitedly, you watch Carlos cheer for himself and finish writing, turning the board inch by inch until you all see the answer he has written on it.

Everyone stares. Then: “Team Charles wins!”

“Que?!” Carlos blinks, scandalized and a bit amused. He stares at the question then at his answer then, as if dreading the laser eyes, at you. Your eyes narrow, disappointed.

“Carlos. What is eight squared?”

“Eight squared. Eight, and you take another eight, and—it’s right here.” A tan finger points firmly at the number written messily, square in the middle of the whiteboard.

16

“Eres un tonto,” you quip, remembering bits of teasing you’d used on him years before. “Carlos, it’s 64. Eight times eight, not eight times two.”

“Ay, puta—” He shuts his eyes and laughs. “Lo siento! Sorry, sorry. Sorry! I cost us the win.”

Across you, Charles is coaxing a much more begrudged Andrea into a childish victory dance, pulling his arms up and down to convey the joy of winning. You sigh exasperatedly, but smile . For what it was worth, you had a great game anyway. The noise grows, and you watch the producers pack up, the cameraman parting from the camera for a moment to converse with one of them.

Left alone with you for a bit, Carlos lets his voice slip into a quieter one. “Sorry again. I forgot.”

“Forgot?” Your brows furrow, confused. “What?”

“That, you know”—he points at the lonely 16 on the whiteboard he holds—“it’s supposed to be 64.”

 “Oh.” You laugh, a light sound. “Whaaat?! It’s not that deep, Carlos. Seriously, don’t worry about it. It was all fun.”

“Well, I’m glad you had fun,” he says softly, smiling.

“Yeah, me too,” you say, unable to hide your smile. You stay like that for a bit, something blooming in the pit of your stomach you can’t—and refuse to—name.

—

You get two days off, and Charles had suggested you all go to Paris before you go to Cannes, where the Ferrari team is apparently expected for a meeting before Monaco. You’re the one who’d said yes first, even if Carlos seemed to hesitate; he had asked why, to which you responded you’d never been before.

You’d read about it, watched about it, and like every other human on Earth, seen pictures of it. But you’d never been to Paris; work placed you mostly in London, sometimes South America, other times Italy. But Paris was never a destination. So Carlos allowed the greenlight and you flew, with Lando, Pierre, and Esteban tagging along for shits and giggles.

“I’ve waited my whole life for my Eiffel Tower moment,” you say, not even trying to hide your wonder. Carlos got the best room for himself, but invited you in, for the view. He doesn’t tell you he went through hell and back to get precisely this room, so you could peek inside and see the tower.

“Well, you’re here now.” He wedges the hotel balcony door open and walks toward the railing. You follow suit, arms crossed over your torso, eyes stuck on the view. “How is it?”

“It’s as beautiful as I imagined it to be,” you confess honestly, eyes still stuck on the tower, the way it stands alone and glittering against the black of night. Cliché as it is, you feel like you’ve checked one huge box off your bucket list, staring at the landmark like it’s going to evaporate into thin air. 

Beside you, Carlos hums in agreement, but his gaze is stuck on something else. “I know.”

“Oh, do you?” You laugh. “Are you in the business of admiring beautiful things?” You tease, looking up at the stars.

Sensing his eyes on you, you slowly avert your gaze until your eyes meet. The light reflects in his eyes, and they meet yours blindingly, beautiful, luring you closer. The joking tone of your words is caught in your throat, desert dry, your lips parted to spout words you’ve now forgotten, lost track of.

Your silhouettes dance against the lights of the city below, two figures admiring the other. His eyes flicker down to your lips, linger there a second too long. You stumble closer, your foot touching his.  “…Paris.” The words struggle to leave but they do, quietly, an admission of guilt. “It’s always reminded me of you.”

 “Not Spain?” He asks, leveling your volume. You’re closer, so close you feel his breath fan soft against your own face. His voice is deep, accented so thickly, the way it is when he talks with you because he falls into a familiar rhythm of knowing you’ll decipher whatever he has to say.

You giggle, a low, breathy sound. A barely there shake of your head. “I… love it so much, is why. Always have.”

Had there been a pedestrian across the street who looked just a few floors upward, they would’ve found the both of you there, smiling foolishly, blanketed by the night sparkles of the Eiffel Tower and the rest of the city. They would’ve seen the way Carlos leaned in, his eyes on yours and then on your lips, the way you nodded in silent, warm invitation. Come closer, you seem to say. Don’t stray any further.

A lock of your hair touches his jaw, from how close you two are. So close. Everything smells like him, like the musky woody perfume he wears, the detergent he uses. All of that, and everything underneath. The scent of him. Just him. 

You hold your breath when you both lean in, eyes fluttering shut and waiting, waiting for his lips to meet yours.

The door shakes with several knocks, Lando’s voice seeping from the other side of it. “Mate, we’re gonna be late for dinner!” He says boredly, letting his fist collide with it a few more times for good measure.

Instantly, you and Carlos separate, both of you clearing your throats, rushed flimsy excuses escaping your mouths at the same time. You’re warm all over, the excitement, the nerves, tapering off into nothing as you walk back inside the room, busying yourselves with anything. Oh, I need to check if Jonathan’s emailed me. Oh, let me go answer the door.

Lando is waiting, expectant, on the other side when Carlos pries the door open. “Mate! Dinner! I texted you like twenty minutes ago and y—oh.” He spots you sitting at one of the lounge chairs in the room, and immediately his brows raise. “Hey, dude. You’re here?”

“Yeah, to, uh—to get Carlos to OK some edits,” you say with a smile, hoping your nonchalance isn’t too shaky. “I needed to get a draft in by three hours ago, so.”

“Oh. Right, obviously.” His eyes narrow a little, but he doesn’t relax much, gaze suspicious and a bit beguiled. “Well, if you’re not busy, we’re having dinner?”

“I’m good,” you decline, a touch too quickly. “It’s getting late.”

“Alright, well it was a courtesy invite, you dipshit,” Lando teases, and everything feels a bit more normal. You just flip him off, and Carlos retrieves his coat, eyes still not meeting yours when you all exit at the same time. Lando makes up for the hole in the conversation, droning on and on about the restaurant they’re going to, and how good it seems to be.

The elevator ride is equally charged, and you spend it humming and interjecting Lando’s words to come across as unfazed, even if you’re so totally not. Once you’re alone you finally let big exhales leave you. You don’t know if it’s from the anxiety of almost being caught, or the anxiety from the kiss unfinished.

—

LOVE the latest draft, Nick & I both. Could we get a deeper angle? Something re: regrets? Would really tie it together! Best, J

“Huh. Do you have any regrets?” You ask, tearing your eyes away from the short email. Next to you, Carlos nods his head slowly. You’re on the beach in Cannes, taking time off before the meeting and people-watching. Charles had joined you for a good half hour before leaving to sleep in the hotel instead, leaving you two to bask in the now setting sun.

“Everyone does, no?” He stretches a bit. The topic is tense. “But yes, I have some specific ones.”

“Like?” You ask weakly.

“I was stupid when I was younger. More immature, more forgetful. You grow older and you think of all the things you could’ve done right, years too late. There’s a proverb I heard once that goes—camarón que se duerme se lo lleva la corriente. It means to—to stay alert. Don’t let things pass you by.”

“And do you think you followed that advice?”

His eyes meet yours. “Do you?”

—

It’s quiet when Carlos walks inside your flat, and already his heart begins to drain, filling with guilt.

He steps over the creaky floorboard, notices your car keys on the table, your jacket haphazardly slung over the rack, your Chanel bag half-open on the dinner table beside an empty wine glass and a sweaty bottle of Cheval Blanc. The bedroom door’s half-open, light bleeding into the dark rest-of-the-place, and when he gently pushes the door to get in, the sight he faces is crushing.

“…Estás bien?”

You face the window, your back to him, in a beautiful, beautiful black dress. Your hair had been up, but it’s unpinned now, falling in loose, messy waves. You hiccup, and then tense. Feigning nonchalance, you croak out, “Yeah, yeah.”

“I’m sorry,” he says honestly. “I didn’t know the thing was earlier.” His eyes hover to the glass award on the bed, one you’d hoped he would watch you receive tonight.

“I said I’m fine,” you say. “Just”—you sniffle—“it’s fine, Carlos, just get out.”

You’re standoffish, and cold, but Carlos knows you’re incredibly hurt. In an attempt to try and coerce a conversation, he stays. “Let’s have dinner tomorrow,” he suggests in a low voice. “On me. Right? To celebrate.”

“Leave me alone, Carlos.”

“I wanted to go,” he insists. “I had a meeting that ended late, and—”

“It doesn’t fucking matter,” you assert, turning. You’ve clearly been crying hard, your face flushed and shiny, a few rogue tears still on your chin. “Just go.”

“I know how much this mattered to you.”

“And yet you didn’t go.” You sniff, wiping fruitlessly at your face. “Carlos, just…” Your voice sounds thin, heartbroken, worn with pain and real tiredness. 

“Cut me some slack.” Carlos argues softly.

“No, I just… I don’t even know how things got to this point, Carlos. We used to be so much happier. But now, it’s like I have to demand for your time like everyone else does. Now, I—I cook, I plan dinner, I put my own career on the back burner so I can spend more time with you even if I’ve gotten calls, promotions that you don’t even ever… ever ask about, just everything. I don’t think… I don’t feel you love me that way. Care for me, that way. You’ve never shown it, not lately especially.”

“You should’ve told me,” he says, hurt.

“This kind of thing, it…” you shake your head, wiping your clammy hands on the black silk. “It doesn’t need to be said.”

“Let me make it up to you.” He steps closer but you’re quicker, almost stumbling in your rush to avoid him.

“No,” you protest, “just go, Carlos, just go. Get out and close the door.”

“Cariño—”

“Go,” you say, voice hard with contempt. You refuse to meet his pleading eyes. “Go, Carlos.”

So he does.

He passes by, again, your handbag, with the sleek travel-sized bottle of Santal 33 you keep with you always peeking out, and the Cheval Blanc he’d bought you a few months prior, and the jacket you’d bought with his approval almost a year ago. He lingers in his car for a minute, the rain pelting the Golf noisily. 

He drives off, wiping tears from his own face.

And maybe, had he stayed a little longer, he would’ve seen you tearfully emerge from the elevator, into the lobby, then out into the rain, still in your black dress, and let yourself get soaked waiting for him to come back, refusing to believe he’d even let himself leave you so broken.

—

You play Uno to pass the time, your last night in Cannes.

He’s won two games in a row at this point, and you’re almost 100% sure he has a plus four card in his hand, so you play a bit more deliberately, eyeing him with a challenging glint in your eyes. You’re a bit watered down by your earlier conversation, but you feign nonchalance anyway.

Blue 2. Blue 5. Green 5. Then finally, he slaps it onto the deck—a plus four card. “Oh, come on, Carlos,” you say, almost actually irritated.

“I’ll kiss it better,” he says. Suddenly overwhelmed, you push yourself off the counter and storm out.

He follows you, stumbling into the empty balcony and softly shutting the door, voice still colored with laughter. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know you’d be so upset about the—”

You barely hear the rest of his clearly half-hearted, humorous apology. It doesn’t matter to you.

What does matter is everything from the years past crashing on your shoulders like debris, like rain, finally giving under the weight of being so close to him again. Everything. The tangled fog of your relationship, the start, the middle, the terrible end neither of you wanted. You pulsed with want, with yearning, with sadness.

So you ask yourself why? Why? Why? Why couldn’t he have come back? More importantly—why did he let you go so easily?

The truth is, you’ve drowned yourself in work so long you’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel, to be felt. And if Carlos is doing this, all this, all the touching and the tension and the debris and the rain that crash on you like a bruising, torrential storm, for his own pleasure, like this is all a game, then you’ve yearned for nothing.

“This isn’t about the game, Carlos!” It heaves itself out of you in a half-sob, carried by the wind.

He stops—stops walking, stops smiling. Just stops and stares, brows knitted with concern. You refuse to look at him, staring instead at the skyline, arms crossed. The view blurs with tears, lights meshing together prettily.

He stutters your name out in a feeble response. It’s mortifying, the way you start to cry when it leaves his mouth.

You turn then, willing your lips to stop quivering. “Good for you,” you say shakily, “you can—you can fool around, kiss me like it’s nothing, pretend like we never even mattered so you can make jokes about how we’ve ended up here again, back, together.” You inhale, but it’s no use; you’re crying even as you speak. “And I’ll laugh, because it can be funny, you know, fuck it. But… I’m so—”

The wanting shows, in moments like this. Wanting love, wanting comfort, wanting warmth, an escape from work and stress and life. You know how it feels, to be loved. You’d been familiar with it, at some point. You want it again, the ache, the kiss, the pain of it all. More than that, you want him. For just a moment. But all this wanting is so exhausting.

You want this profile to be over. You want to pull him close and tell him how proud you are, but also how hurt you are. You want Spain. You miss Paris. Everything, everything, every memory, every single painful loving thing bursts inside you.

“—tired.” You nod your head, licking tears that have perched on your lip, smiling humorlessly, shrugging. “I’m—I’m tired, and lonely, and being around you makes it worse. Being around you hurts me. It hurts you. This profile was a bad idea, and I should’ve trashed this the moment I learned I’d be covering you. Because I knew then it would’ve turned to shit, and I was right.”

He stares, unmoving. He remembers, too. He’d tell you everything if the words clicked just right. But they never do; they tangle like cotton balls in his throat before he can kneel and name everything he remembers, everything he loved about the two of you. Cariño. Just be mine, tell me everything, tell me you love me.

You wipe a hand over your face. “Let’s just let this go already. You know, we really were good for a while. This… this is maybe just one of those things where we made it in another life, but not this one.”

At his returned silence, you nod, then walk quietly past him and back into the room.

It’s just as empty as you’d left it, dim and lit only by the warm light above the kitchen counter. Your forgotten Uno game lies on the same spot, beside the two empty wine glasses. You stare for a second. Life had been different when he’d lay down his cards just minutes ago.

A coat is tugged from in between couch cushions, your heels from by the door hastily pulled on. Every movement feels heavy, like sandbags are tied to your limbs, your tongue, your eyelids. You turn, one last time, to see the moment suspended in time—and you meet his eyes. Even across the room you feel like you’re drowning in them, dark and solemn. 

“Wait,” he says, and even with just one syllable he’s managed to stop your world from turning again. “You’re right. Everything you said. When I’m around you, I hurt. I’m reminded of how awful I was then. It’s painful to be together.”

Eyes meet, eyes blink, eyes close.

“But you didn’t trash the feature. And I still enjoy your company. You could be covering Rafael Nadal or whoever right now. I could be in a jet to Japan. But you and I are here, are we not?”

Only you. It’s only you.

“I’ve missed you.” It rips through him. “I want to be here with you. I want to make the pain go away, so let me.”

“It’s useless,” you protest, tearily. “This won’t work. I’ll get mad, you’ll get fed up, I’ll get bored, you’ll put work before us.”

“Okay.” He paces toward you, nearer and nearer, closing the distance between you both. “I’ll make it work.”

“Carlos,” you weep, “I don’t know why you don’t get it. Life sucks. And all we get are little moments where things are… are good. So don’t waste the moments like this. Let’s not waste the moments on this.”

“You’re not a waste,” he says—and you crumple into his arms, worn, exhausted.

A knot in your heart is slowly unraveling itself. You’ve waited, yearned for so long, and finally you’re in his arms again, with the kind of quiet resolution only he would understand. You left the lights on for him. You’d do it again, but you don’t have to.

You bury your head in his chest, a chorus of apologies leaving him. I’m sorry, he says. I’m sorry, I love you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Everything.

I love you, you say weakly. I love you, that’s enough. I waited for this to leave, but all it did was hide. The love has yet to pass. It never will.

—

“Yours really is the best selling one!” Nick pulls you in for a hug. “We have Nadal and CR7 on the roster, but Sainz’s is selling like crazy. Your writing is just—” He kisses his fingers. “You are amazing.”

“You flatter me,” you reply gracefully, letting him pull you into another embrace but prying him off a bit faster. You don’t need another Jonathan-esque freakout in the middle of the room.

The GQ party, six months later, almost a mirror of the fundraiser just a few months ago. Only this time, you’re not tacked onto Lewis, and you’re not buzzing with nerves (as much). You had run into Lewis when you entered, and Charles too, and Lando when he spotted you, but none of them are your plus ones to this event.

Your profile is the talk of the journalism scene. Nobody can shut up about it, and it thrills you, excites you, to be witnessing your work be recognized beside Carlos himself. He brings you a glass of champagne and presses a kiss to your cheekbone, smiling against it.

Neither of you notice Lando and Charles behind you, watching like hawks. The elder cackles, presents his hand like a sacrifice and turns to the Brit. “Aha.What did I tell you, chat?”

“Five hundred euros,” moans Lando, slapping a bunch of bills onto it. “You’re an intuitive prick.”

“Those two are soulmates.” They stare at your foolish figures, smiling like idiots, high-fiving even. “The kind that’ll always, always find their way back to each other. Always.”

Lando shrugs. “Hey, honestly, for once, I’m glad I lost a bet.”

“I look great on the cover,” Carlos says, both of you staring at the screen’s display of it. 

“Shut up,” you smile, interlocking your fingers. “Well, my writing looks great inside.”

“Really does,” he says. “I’m so, so proud of you, cariño.”

“Proud of me?” You tease, staring up at him. “You made the last minute title change that caused fans to go crazy.” You both turn to stare at it displayed on the screen, smiling fondly.

Carlos Sainz—on racing, gracious defeat, and refinding love.

[argisthebulwark]

TES Summer Fest Day Two: Secret/Golden

summary: The Guild's newest leaders should get to enjoy the spoils of success, right? Fucking in a vault full of gold seems like a fitting celebration. f! reader/Brynjolf, no y/n used. warnings: explicit sexual content - minors should not read or interact with this post. bit of praise kink posting. @tes-summer-fest TES Summerfest Masterlist

"I cannot fathom why in the hells you'd want to do inventory duty." Vex had scoffed at your excitement to handle the mundane duty, her boots kicked up on your table. Usually you'd kick her feet to the floor grumbling about Vekel's hard work to keep the place clean but you're too focused on the day ahead.

"You've got more important things to do - why don't you hand it off to one of the recruits? Let them do the boring stuff."

Of course, you couldn't possibly tell Vex why you refused such a reasonable idea. Your heart swelled every time you reminisced about how deeply the Guild had changed since your appointment but the sudden boost of success has left very little time to upkeep a personal life. If you aren't on a job you're tracking and assigning everyone else's, meeting with clients and updating contacts - but once a month you can lock the Vault and enjoy a sliver of alone time.

"It helps us keep an eye on how things are going." You'd lied through your teeth but Vex was already moving on to the next topic. Good - you'd never explain to her how desperately you craved a few hours alone with your second in command.

"Not gettin' much work done in here, lass." His smooth voice sends shivers up your spine. You'd been so absorbed in sorting through careless piles of gold and organizing the chests of jewels you hadn't heard him open the vault's heavy door. Strong fingers find your hip so easily, lips trailing over your throat and your lengthy scroll of parchment is instantly forgotten.

"I was waiting for you, of course." You laugh, body arching into his generous touch. Skilled fingers work at the buckles of your armor when Brynjolf hums his agreement. Selfish kisses fall down your shoulder when he peels the jerkin from your body, the hard outline of his cock evident against your back.

"Always so sweet to me, love."

You'll never speak a word of this, the true reason you pounce on taking stock of the vault - Brynjolf bending you over a decadent chest and stacks of septims falling to the floor in a cascade of gold with each thrust of his hips and praise dripping from his sinful mouth. The only thing resembling clothing is the matching vault keys smacking against bare chests and wedding bands glimmering on your fingers, armor easily forgotten once the door is locked. Your fingers grab for purchase and sink into the mess of stolen jewels, back arching into Brynjolf's punishing hips for more.

"Look so pretty like this, lass." He mumbles, admiring the way your skin seems to glow amidst all the riches. You'd been at his side upon discovering the depths of Mercer's deception, hand in his when you'd taken in the dismally empty state he'd left the vault in - this hoard of wealth is entirely due to your partnership. Pride and arousal twist in his chest until he's gripping you tighter, cock buried deep in your cunt when he bends to leave messy kisses along your back.

"Yeah?" You pant, muscles squeezing deliciously around him with each brush of his lips. Sweat gathers along your back, arousal twining along each nerve until you feel nothing but him. Somewhere far off you hear the tinkling of coins falling to the stone floor but nothing can tear your attention from Brynjolf.

"Knew you were a godsend the first time I saw ya - my perfect little prize."

Oh gods, he knows exactly what he's doing. The praise leaves your cheeks burning and hands gripping the edge of the chest to press back needily against his hips. Another little chuckle alerts you that it's entirely on purpose, that Brynjolf is toying with you - but the sheer onslaught of arousal has wrecked your ability to care.

"Fit right in here - perfect, precious treasure for me." A soft pat on your ass is all the warning you get before he thrusts into you once more, though his pace is just slow enough to keep you from orgasming.

"Bryn." God, he already has you panting his name. Your skin prickles with each little touch but he wants to take his time. Brynjolf doesn't want to blink, unwilling to miss a second of your body bathed in golden light from the low lanterns reflecting off endless riches strewn about the room.

Coins slip through your fingers as you're gripping for an anchor, body jolting with each rough thrust of his hips. Your voice is raspy when it forms his name and broken pleads for more, cheeks bright red and Brynjolf thinks you've never looked more gorgeous. He wishes he could keep you here forever, bathed in gold and begging for his cock.

"Love you." Brynjolf grumbles as his hands run up your back, fingers twisting deep into your hair. He takes some small amount of mercy on you both and picks up his pace, hips smacking against your ass when a litany of moans fall from your lips. It doesn't take long for him to drag an orgasm out of you, skin hot and sensitive as white hot pleasure steals through your body.

Spent and gasping for air, his body rests atop yours when you slide to the stone floor. Random coins and jewels stick to your sweaty bodies but Brynjolf is clambering closer to you, disregarding everything in his hunt to kiss you.

"Love you." You finally respond, your mind settling as your senses return. Bryn's grin is lazy when he combs hair away from your face, his gaze catching on the way gold seems to shimmer in your eyes - it's too cheesy to say aloud but you will always be the greatest treasure the gods have ever gifted him with.

[welcometoteyvat]

@apologems asked for wanderer & furina (among others) for the random characters prompt. I was gonna post all the pairs in your ask together but I love instant validation so they're getting split up lol. here, have too many words. feedback deeply appreciated!! <3

———

Furina opens her eyes to blank, vast emptiness. The cream tiled floor of the Palais Mermonia stretches on and on beneath her, the white-veined marble mirror smooth. It reflects the dismal cloudiness outside—if there even is an “outside” in this strange space. She wonders idly whether she could ask Neuvillette to cheer up a bit, to make the dreary grayness go away, or whether he would even listen to her requests like he used to. Rain seems likely.

She supposes she should walk around and find a way out of this place, even though it doesn’t seem very urgent. Nobody needs her to take care of anything now—they won’t be waiting for her return. Her footsteps echo against the marble—one, two, three—one, two, three. Is it possible to dance a waltz with just herself and the empty silence? Oh, but there’s someone a ways away, over there. Maybe they could dance with her, and it won’t be as lonely.

The figure in the distance is dressed all in blue, wearing a wide brimmed hat with strips of fabric dangling from the edge. They turn when she comes close, and their eyes meet; it’s a young man, with red eyeshadow, a bored glare, and puffy cheeks on a pretty face. It’s rather striking how he looks so sharp yet soft, swooping curves and hard angles, all at once.

“So, whose funeral is this?”

“What? Where?” A funeral? But she didn’t see a coffin…

“The dead body’s right there. Are you walking around with your eyes closed?” He sneers, and gestures carelessly to the bare floor in front of her.

“There’s… nothing there.” That catches the hat-guy off-kilter. He narrows his eyes, and his gaze is like a quick knife.

“Don’t play dumb, idiot. It’s quite obviously you, isn’t it? Look at that white vest and suit.”

“I—what?” There’s really nothing there. She’s definitely alive, too—no dead double in sight. But—what is he saying about a white vest? Unless… this is one of those fantasy children’s novels where everything is just a rabbit-hole dream? Just in case, Furina blinks a couple times. She opens her eyes, and—huh?!

“Same stupid rooster-frill tailcoat, small blue top hat, frivolous accessories, mascara eyelashes; the only thing different is the long jellyfish h—”

“Wait! I can see someone, but it’s not me. It’s a child, wearing all white with a purple veil.”

And she expects him to scoff again, because maybe she really is seeing things, maybe her acting has gone a little too far, but instead, Hat-guy blanches. He throws her another sharp, piercing glance, seems to find nothing—and then—and then, a terribly familiar smile creeps onto his face. The sight of it makes her bones ache and her eyes fill with inexplicable tears.

“Well, if that’s what you see, I suppose this is a funeral for both of us. Hah, how curious.” His voice has turned into sandpaper and tea's bitter dregs, scratchy with loathing and cynicism and absurdity. Now he's turning towards her, and in his fierce gaze she sees... her old self, lying there on the cold not-Palais floor. Her eyes stare unseeingly at nothing, and that horrible, wretched smile is frozen on her lips. Furina flinches. She wants to throw up, to pluck out her eyes, to claw at her face until it bleeds. She looks away instead. She knows that Hat-guy is watching her and is grateful he doesn't comment, and when she finally meets his eyes again, she is grateful too that his face is carefully blank. He simply offers Furina his hand and says, “Shall I do the honors?”

She nods, and takes his hand.

A fire blazes up immediately, engulfing the dead child and his purple veil. Furina watches as its clothes disappear in licks of flame, as its doll joints are exposed, then stripped away, until nothing remains besides a pile of ash, and a small, blackened kernel that might have once been a heart. She wonders what Hat-guy saw—a little Oceanid, evaporating into nothingness at the final curtain call? Perhaps it doesn’t matter. It’s past now, regardless.

Furina doesn’t know when it starts to rain. The last embers have long since blackened when she realizes that the downpour is soaking her clothes, running down her cheeks. Water drips from the edge of Hat-guy’s hat, dampening his knee-high socks. Yet he makes no move to leave, so neither does she.

They continue to stand there, long after their clothes are soaked all the way through. Two false gods, drenched, alone.

———

a/n: idk whether I handled their emotional states correctly please give feedback if ooc. this entire thing is just "it's about THE NARRATIVE PARALLELS" and i dont even know whether it's the interp I wanted. extra ending thoughts include this wouldn't happen in canon bc i think wanderer is already at a place where he's partly fixed. maybe emotional closure. idk idk. people who think more about furina and scara should give me your theses on them. and of course, if you're wondering What Even Happened In This Fic, don't worry, so am I. didn't stick the ending but that's ok

also on ao3 ig

[xenia-cenia]

Burnout - Idia x Fem!Reader

A/N - I wanna get back into writing again so here’s a pretty easy one :) Haven’t played book 6 so I’m just rolling the die about in character or not lol also shoutout to @merakiui for helping me realize how to improve 

Word count - 2,757

TW - Burnout, real bad panic attacks, swearing, bullying, slight spoilers, possibly OOC?

The sun peered through the windows of Ramshackle, illuminating your dismal bedroom and burning your eyes. You slowly blinked at the window, silently cursing it out for waking you up. With a frustrated groan, you slipped out of bed and walked to your bathroom, shutting the door behind you and flicking on the lights. Your eyes rose to the mirror, and you instantly regretted it.

You had heavy eyebags, your face looked sunken in, and you lacked the previous happiness you were accustomed to back home. You ran a hand down your face, pausing as it covered your mouth, and sighed - wincing at how warm your breath felt on your skin. 

You had to admit it - you looked awful. It wasn’t like the dorm itself was any better, either. Grim had been leaving tuna cans scattered throughout the kitchen, and now the scent of moldy tuna had ingrained itself in the walls. The dust and grime you had spent so long cleaning on your first night came back with a vengeance, causing anyone who stepped foot in Ramshackle to not so discreetly cough into their arms for several minutes. 

But you couldn’t find the effort to care. All you seemed to do nowadays was sit in your bed and stare out the window - some of your friends would stop by to check in on you, or leave food, but they’d find your bedroom door locked and Grim sleeping on the couch. 

Water splashed against your face, the cold startling you from your thoughts, despite it being you who’d thrown it. 

“Damn.” You groaned, “Heat went out again.” You wiped some of the excess water off with an unwashed towel sat next to the sink, and walked back to your bed. 

As you lay down, you stared at the ceiling and tried to force yourself to sleep. All you wanted was to go home. Not deal with the bullshit of a world you don’t belong in.

Overblots, magic, and other worlds? That should be a fantasy novel. Not your life. If Crowley cared, maybe you’d be back home, petting the stray cat that liked to meow outside your apartment at 2am. Or going on the date with the cute barista you met at your favorite cafe. He’d always draw on the napkins that came with your orders, and you loved watching how good he was getting. His favorite was cats, doodling the stray you’d describe to him with a goofy smile on his face.

You could see him perfectly in your mind - tall, soft brown eyes, hair always tucked into a dark green beanie, and calloused hands that lingered over yours - but you could hardly remember his name. Did it start with a J? Or was it A? 

Tears began filling your eyes, and you turned over in bed to clutch a pillow against your chest. Your nails dug into the fabric, picking at the start of a tear, your eyes boring a hole into the wooden floorboards. 

Right as you began to drift your eyes shut, a pitiful attempt to stop the tears from flowing, someone knocked at the door. You groaned, not sparing the intruder the energy to sit up in bed, “Go away.”

You heard soft, frantic, mumbling on the door's other side, the sound reminding you of a mouse skirting through its enclosure. The person on the other side knocked again, this time somewhat quieter.

“Piss off.” You spat, feeling the anger rising in your chest from your incessant visitor, “I don’t wanna talk.”

“I-I’m not here to talk.” The meek voice piped up. You blinked and slowly sat up, staring at the door and trying to remember where you’d heard that voice before.

“Ace?” You asked incredulously, “I don’t want whatever is it you got Trey to cook, stop offering.”

“It... it’s Idia.” 

“Idia?” You got out of bed and walked to the door, holding your hand over the lock, “What are you doing here?”

“They’re... your friends won’t stop bothering me. They’re a bunch of normies, and they keep telling me to come.”

“Why?”

“Don’t ask me to understand normie thought processes. Interrupted me right before my guild was gonna raid a dungeon, too...”

You rolled your eyes, glad for the layer of separation the door gave you, “Sorry that they bothered you. You can just finish your raid or whatever.”

“Really? You just gave me an extra life!” 

“Sure. Whatever.”

You were about to head back to bed, but he rapped his fingers against the door, “Oh, wait, I forgot. Ortho had said you might want these.”

“Want what?”

“Headphones, like the kind I wear. Made them myself, so you know they’re good.”

“Headphones?” You cracked open the door and peered out through the sliver. 

“More like SSR headphones, if you ask me. Noise-canceling, no static, comfortable.” Idia held a pair of black headphones, proudly enthusing over the dark blue padding around the ears and the sleek buttons hidden in the design. 

“...no static means I can play music, right?”

“Precipice Moirai is pre-loaded already, but if you can download it you can play it.”

You opened the door and grabbed the headphones, running your hand against the surprisingly soft outer rim. “Thank you, Idia.”

“NBD.”

“You know, Idia, you’re really nice.”

“Eek!” He curled into himself. “A rare mob spawned! Don’t have enough mana for this!”

You smiled, “I’ll talk to you later, alright?” He nodded in response and scurried off down the hall before you can even shut the door. “Idia...” You whispered to yourself as you slumped against your door. 

The headphones felt strangely light considering how much tech must be inside, you turned them on and placed your head against the door as unfamiliar pop music filled your ears. 

The next day, Grim was surprised to see you sitting outside Ramshackle. You were wearing headphones and drawing something on a piece of paper, unbothered by the grass and rocks biting into your skin. Grim had tried to get your attention but gave up after 5 minutes of yelling. 

He figured there were better things to do than yell at someone who wasn’t even listening, so he set off for more interesting things. 

For hours, you sat outside Ramshackle, furiously drawing something and occasionally staring at the sky. Eventually, the moon rose, twinkling and urging you to go on a walk.

You sat your drawing down and walked through Ramshackle’s gate, the cool metal stinging your hand. Wind blew through the trees in a soft melody, almost alluring enough to take off your headphones, but you opted to see instead of hear. 

Soft fireflies began to take flight, illuminating your path through the campus. You walked until you found yourself in front of the door to the hall of mirrors, its awe-inspiring splendor leaving you stuck in place. You shakily rose a hand, hesitating, before throwing the door open. You stepped inside, the smell of roses, sea spray, and perfume overwhelming your senses. 

You rose your arm to cover your nose, coughing at the sudden stimulation and forced your way inside. The mirrors had labeled pendants engraved in marble, but you barely spared them a glance before pressing your hand against the nearest surface in an attempt to balance yourself. However, you felt your heart skip a beat as your hand gave way and you fell through a mirror.

Blue fog seeped through the air, thick enough that you could barely see in front of you. You forced your way up a winding staircase, trying to ignore the overwhelming feeling of being watched as you went. 

You walked through a well-kept lounge and took a moment to marvel at the technology displayed in the center, and continued until you saw a familiar face.

“Idia!” You called down the hall, jogging up to the surprised boy as you pulled your headphones to your neck, “Am I in Ignihyde? I was trying to look at the hall of mirrors, and now I’m here...”

He dropped the snacks he was holding, staring at you with a mixture of horror and shock on his face, “AH, surprise encounter!”

“No, I...” You took the headphones off your neck, “I didn’t mean to startle you. Just a bit lost. And, since I’m here, wanted to thank you for letting me borrow these.” 

Idia looked between the headphones you were offering back to him and your face, “Th-there yours.”

“Huh? No, I-” you blinked. “You sure?”

“Yeah, and I got a raid so... um... bye?” He grabbed the snacks off the floor and scurried back down the hall.

“But I’m still lost.” You sighed and resolved yourself to a long night back home.

It took two weeks before you finally started going to classes again, much to Ace and Deuce’s delight. You were pleasantly surprised at how lenient the professors were with you. You were more surprised at just how carefully every person you saw treated you as if you were a glass sculpture placed on the edge of a ledge. 

Ace, Deuce, and Grim hadn’t made a single joke at your expense, Trey kept inviting you to ‘taste test’ the things he cooked (which you knew was just a lame excuse for him to give you free food), and even Azul gave you no-strings-attached discounts at the Mostro Lounge. 

Part of you was happy for the kindness, but you knew better than to think it’d last. 

In fact, it took two weeks and three days for it to just crumble in on itself. You’d been sitting idly by yourself between classes, adding on small details to your drawing, when two pairs of sneakers entered your view.

“Thought maybe you’d gone.” The first person spoke.

“Like we’d get that lucky.” The second person snorted in laughter. 

“You’re right - people like her, just can’t seem to go away, can they?”

“I don’t want any trouble.” You mumbled, your eyes staring blankly at your drawing.

“Then why do you keep bringing it? Ever since you came here, you have just brought problem after problem.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to.”

“You act so high and mighty like you’re some kind of god. All you do is bitch, and everybody bends over backward to make you quiet.”

You gripped the edges of your drawing, “I’m really sorry- I... I just...”

“You just get in the way. You can’t even use magic - why are you here?”

One of them ripped the paper from your hands, and the other held you against the tree you were sitting against when you tried to stand. 

“What is this?” The one holding the drawing turned it sideways, “Looks like shit.”

“It’s-”

The second one hit you in the stomach, “Your voice is so annoying.”

The first one showed your drawing to the second, snickered, and tore it in half.

“NO!” You cried out, reaching for the remains of your hard work.

“Shut up!” The second one slapped you, letting you fall to the ground before they kicked you in the side. After several minutes of beating, they laughed and took off for something new.

You lay on the ground, your nose was almost certainly broken and in terrible pain, but forcing yourself to sit up and grab the scraps. With teary eyes, you tried to put the pieces together. Sniveling and trying to keep the tears at bay, you unsuccessfully sat and felt yourself begin to hyperventilate. 

Nausea began to build in your stomach, the world blurring and fading away as you stared at the effort gone to waste. Shakily, you stood and began to walk back to Ramshackle. The second you saw the familiar gate, you broke into a sprint and dove into your bed, holding the blanket around your head.

You scratched at your face, banged your hands against your head, and kicked the sheets on your bed until they were bunched up at the foot of your bed. When your eyes opened again, you caught sight of your headphones sitting on your nightstand, you growled in anger and threw them at the ground, the black plastic shell falling off and splintering.

Without another thought, you tore through your room, not leaving anything untouched. By the time you were finished and breathless, a knock at your door, your room was a mess of thrown-about clothes, torn papers, and broken technology. 

You collapsed against the side of your bed, holding your head in your hands as you sobbed. A creak from your hallway caused your head to shoot up, and you saw Idia staring at you, one hand on your door, and the other cautiously held in the air.

“I... uh... the headphones tell me when they’re broken.” He looked at the plastic on the ground, and he nervously stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him. Idia stood just in front of you like he was on the verge of crying himself and eventually sat next to you, taking off his own headphones and playing with the settings, before putting them on your head. You recoiled at the sudden contact but took a deep breath and the soft music playing.

Idia exhaled and watched as you visibly relax, eventually letting yourself lean on his shoulder. He awkwardly tapped his fingers against his knees, unsure of himself, and waited for you to be ready. 

After 20 minutes, you slid the headphones off and exhaled shakily. “They ripped my drawing.” You spoke hoarsely.

“I’m sorry.”

“It... back home, I had this cat. Or, I didn’t have him, he just showed up. Called him Sparkler. He was a stray, lit up my house with his dumb little walk. He wasn’t that smart, but I loved him. I think he liked me. Or, if anything, he liked the tuna I’d buy him. Nobody else in my apartment complex tolerated him, said he was dirty. But I made sure he was bathed. He liked baths, y’know. Not many cats do, but he did. His dumb little eyes would light up when I turned on the sink, and he’d start meowing like crazy. I was saving up to buy him a litterbox. To really mark the occasion in my head. Like, you are my cat. And then I came here. I don’t- it’s been so long-” you sighed and fought another wave of sobs, “I was drawing him, making sure it was perfect. Didn’t wanna forget. And these guys - I don’t even know who they are- but they hate me. They keep saying things about how a girl shouldn’t be at NRC. Not like I wanna be here either. They ripped it. I’ve been working so hard, and they ripped it to shreds.”

Idia patiently held you as you started to cry again, his expression blank as he listened. 

“I... I’m sorry. I shouldn’t put this on you. I broke your gift, too. And you’ve been so nice to me, I-I...”

He didn’t say anything, just carefully stood and dragged you out of your room. The two of you walked in silence until you were sitting on his bed, nervously looking around. He sat at his computer and started typing faster than you could even see. Eventually, Ortho came in and kept you company.

After two hours of idly talking to Ortho, who was just a sweetheart, Idia sighed loudly and collapsed back in his chair.

“What is it, Big Bro?” Ortho looked at Idia.

“Just an EZ-level hack. NRC security is a common mob without me.”

“NRC security? What are you doing?” You stared at him owlishly. 

“Finding the noobs that aggrod you, obviously.” 

“What?” You jumped off his bed and to his side, looking at the blurry ID pictures of the two people who’d torn your drawing. “That’s them!”

“Whee hee hee, told you it was easy.” He grinned toothily, “RIP to their electricity!” He pressed a final button on his keyboard.

“But... Idia... why?” You turned towards him.

He kept his eyes on his screen, playing with the end of his hair, “Simple protect the NPC quest, that’s all.”

You smiled and sat down, “Thank you, Idia.”

“NBD.”

“Maybe, but I appreciate it anyway.”

Idia hesitated, looking between the keyboard and you, “There’s a cat that hangs around the grounds at night. I got space in my party for one more, if you’d want to come with someday.”

“I’d love that, Idia.” 

He turned away from you again, but if you’d look closer you’d of seen a huge blush and wider grin on his face. 

[mtsainthelens]

saw the new hunger games

spoilers under cut

that was pretty bad. there were a lot of things wrong with it so i theoretically have a lot to complain about but it was such a dumb fucking movie im not as energized as id usually be to talk about it. ill be quick

this movie had all the elements it needed to succeed and totally fucked it. the goals:

-create a convincing and interesting backstory for President Snow

-show how the games were transformed into a spectacle 

these goals were made explicit both in the marketing and through diegetic speeches within the movie. the premise of the story is that a young Snow serves as a mentor to a singer from district 12. she is the “songbird” to his “snake”…. pretty natural evolution from there to see how snow can make her into a celebrity and give Panem a good show. that had to have been the pitch to get this movie through the board. it’s a shame the movie just… does not follow through with it LOL. like thats blatantly the direction it seems to be going in for the first part of the movie. but the spectacle aspect gets completely buried because the capitol - who INSTRUCTED snow to make it into a show - keeps snubbing him and keeping him from acting. the “press tour” that was such a big deal in all the original hunger games is like two days in universe and about five minutes on the screen. completely overshadowed. there’s no camp or glamour. snow is just not a stunt queen here and i think that’s a shame. 

ok, so if the movie doesnt really show how the hunger games became a spectacle, what does it show?

i really couldn’t tell you. the games themselves are uneventful. the tenth annual games are set in what’s basically a parking garage, LOL. it’s a very dismal and marvel-esque set. there’s a real sense in this movie that the capital is still finding its stride and that a lot of things aren’t working for it just yet. the failing drones and the awkwardness of the announcer (this version’s caesar flickman) are nice touches, i really enjoyed them. but i dont think “the capitol is still finding its footing” is a good enough excuse to justify how shitty this year’s game was. excruciatingly boring, like they have no concept of history or the standard that the previous movies set. we all remember the clockwork arena.

so it’s not about the games, so i guess it’s about snow and his tribute lucy? 

well that sucks! they’re horrible characters, my god.

lucy is the worst offender. i know rachel zegler was a victim of conservative harassment recently so i feel a little bad to be trashing her performance. i genuinely dont know if its the fault of her or the script, but whatever it is, the effect is awful. genuinely reads like a parody of a wattpad protagonist. we are given that she is a singer. there is no substance to her besides that. she’s corny. she feels out of place in this setting and not in any charming way, its just annoying and off putting. kind of a manic pixie dream girl to snow. i think its very misogynist honestly? dont write women this way, she’s barely human.

snow is easier to watch and a more likable personality in my eyes, but he’s no better written. whereas lucy has no internal world, the inner workings of snow’s mind fold in on themselves. the movie swears that his motives make sense, that they aren’t confused, but they very obviously are. his allegiances and morals change on a dime. they cant decide whether hes sympathetic or if he is a young president snow and he can seemingly only be one at a time. i honestly got whiplash watching it go down. in fairness, its not like the movie doesnt try to offer motivation for the switches. theyre just not very good or convincing and its not enough to make me forgive them.

so the movie failed at what it set out to do. what else did it fail at? what did it actually do well? i will leave the rest of this review to explain, as well as some changes that i would have made had i been in charge.

the bad:

-pacing was off. movie did not need to be that long, many shots went on longer than they had to.

-costuming was also pretty bad. some of the tributes were wearing shein and fake jewelry 

-lucy escapes the arena not only alive but UNINJURED? peeta and katniss didnt get that. she was surrounded by rebar and murder and snow walked away w more injuries than her. insane plot armor. really dumb.

-there was a human zoo in this movie. in general im really conflicted about this “aracial” Panem. i know its a difficult subject to breach and im not sure what the alternative would be, but there’s something really fucked up about seeing a human zoo, a black child being hung, many of the tributes being people of color, and all of this being brushed over as if their race doesnt really matter and theres no larger historical context in which this movie exists. also this movie is loosely set in the 50s/60s. likewise making the Gamemaster a black woman. im not sure how i feel about it but i think more care shouldve been devoted to the handling of race in this movie.

-there are a couple scenes where an old analog tv is playing and its really obvious they added the scan lines in post-production. looks stupid as fuck. you couldve just used an actual analog tv.

-the rabies scene. lmfao. also i dont think thats how rat poison works but i could be wrong.

-a lot of the action sequences are very dumb and dont make sense. they build suspense and dont do anything to overcome it gracefully. this is really obvious when snow is trying to get his handkerchief into the snake pit without being seen and so he just…. walks over and does it LOL. and doesnt get caught or have to sneak really cause of plot armor. the arena has a lot of kids wandering around or hiding in places where it makes no sense for them to be, they kinda just wander on screen when its time for their cue and only get killed as needed, because someone else got their cue. no gravity or substance.

-lucy and snow’s performances arent just bad, they come across as anachronistic within the retrofuturist 50s setting. as my friend said they have “tiktok face”. theyre too contemporary for my taste

-snow looks like a skinhead towards the end and i dont like it

-arena sucked

-the hanging tree scene was soooo stupid. so was the katniss namedrop. made me wish i was watching a better movie.

-the movie didnt deserve to go on long diegetic speeches about its own themes. i guess im glad, cause i wouldnt have known what the fuck it was trying to do otherwise, but nothing that happened in the story supported what they were saying. sloppy.

the good:

-lucy’s dress was very pretty

-huge credit to the set designers who worked on the control room and the capitol. i see the retro futurist aesthetic you were going for and i appreciate it. mostly a good job, im sure if they let you into the arena you would’ve gave us something better.

-hunter schafer really sold it. i loved her performance even with what little screentime she had. brought some much needed warmth and humanity to this empty ass movie. my favorite character, easily. release the schafer cut.

-like i said, i thought the announcer’s performance was pretty good as well. i feel like jason schwartzman had a better understanding of the theme of “spectacle” within this movie than anyone else.

-i guess the lab was cool? the snakes definitely paled in comparison to other mutts in the series, but they were cool enough. i liked the scene where his classmate got poisoned.

-peter dinklage constantly sneaking hits of morphine was funny as fuck. 

changes:

if you asked me the one thing i would change to fix this movie, it would be any traces of the romance subplot. remove any traces of snow being a nice person. i would have preferred the mentor/tribute relationship to be shown as explicitly and inherently exploitative, because it is! you know damn well there was never any hope for them to be in a healthy relationship for as long as snow was loyal to the capitol. and the writers valued this relationship so much that to save it, they had snow rebel? president snow? the love story, the conflict that snow feels, its all so fucking trite and overblown. it didnt need to be there. just portray it straightforwardly, with snow being a charming person but never kind or counterculture enough to really risk lacy over the system. he should have been eviler and more clearly identifiable as his older self, because this version does not cut it. i hate a fake sympathetic bitch

-lacy shouldnt have won. doesnt that ruin the continuity established by the past books? just kill her in the arena. that had to have been in the drafts right? everything that happened after the arena was really convoluted and stupid and failing. lucy dies, wow so sad, i hate when girls die, but i sure did learn about show biz. that was my president snow impression, if you couldnt tell. that was from a better version of this movie.

-it wouldve been cool if instead of lucy being essentially a tiktoker, she had the personality of an early hollywood icon. kind of a judy garland figure. wouldve fit into the setting better and been more original as a concept.

ok end review! guess that wasnt very quick after all whoops.

[dujour13]

Uno reversed the previous challenge of the KC explaining why they chose their LI - now it’s the LI’s turn!

Tagging everybody who wants to do this 💕

After the incident with the Abyssal huntresses, a decision had to be made whether to skirt the gorge or risk traveling through it. The chief had gone off scouting with Lann.

Up here on the ridge gusts of inconstant wind made Woljif's eyes water. He watched them disappear behind a twist in the path, tucked his hands in his armpits and headed back down.

In the sheltered hollow where they had set up camp he spied Daeran lounging about looking dangerously bored, fixing him with that pensive stare that meant he was cooking up a few dirty jokes or at least some juicy gossip.

Woljif sauntered over.

With a flourish like it was a gilt chair, Daeran offered him a rock and smiled with satisfaction as he took a seat. “I’m going to ask you an importune question.”

Oh. One of those conversations. Woljif rolled his eyes. “How about—"

“Why are you still here?”

Daeran and his importune questions. Just shy of rude enough to deserve a handful of Worldwound fire ants in his boots, and always expertly applied to a sore spot.

“The beans. Free food.”

“Come now, Your Unholiness, we both know your tastes run to the finer pleasures.”

“Finer pleasures like your ‘importune’ high-born company?”

Daeran laughed. “Indeed. I’m sure there has been many a moment when your feet may have carried you off, but my tongue held you back.”

“Ugh.”

“All right, I’ll stop. If you play along. Tell me: why are you still here?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“I want to hear it from you. I want to hear you wax poetic in your street vernacular. I want to hear the crow sing.”

“Yeah, so you can have a good laugh.”

“Not at all.” Daeran grew serious. “Truly, I assure you. I ask you as a friend because I want to know. I have opinions on the topic of love that I sometimes fear are… ingenuous. Poorly informed. I’m the lone and helpless man on the shore, watching the ships crack against the rocks. Never the poor sailor clinging for dear life, or sinking into the cold, crushing abyss, or the brave captain facing the inevitable.”

Woljif screwed up his face.

“I’m sincerely curious.” Though dulled by Worldwound gloom the emeralds of Daeran’s eyes seemed to smolder.

“Well, I dunno. You know the chief, you see it. I hear you even propositioned him once.”

“I proposition everyone.”

“Not me,” Woljif protested.

“True. I value your platonic companionship too highly.”

It was impossible to tell whether he was being sarcastic. “Yeah, right.”

“So?”

“So you know what I mean,” Woljif shrugged.

“That doesn’t answer my question. It’s not just the fuckable charm.”

“It’s part of it.”

“And it’s not just a case of abasing yourself at the feet of the first person to ever toss you a scrap.”

“Why am I even talkin’ to you?”

“What? I said it’s not that. Stay right where you are. Please.”

Woljif sat back down but he wasn’t going to look happy about it.

Daeran once again fixed him with his intense green gaze. “Tell me. I beg you. What keeps you coming back to this godsforsaken crusade, to this—” He swept a ringed hand across the dismal campsite “—when you could be leagues from here?”

“All right.” Woljif looked over at the trail as if he could see the chief hiking back up over the ridge with his hair loose in the wind and his mismatched but oddly comforting colors, laughing at one of Lann’s lame jokes. “He’s nice. That sounds stupid but seriously. At first I thought he was a rube, but pretty quick I realized bein’ nice is his angle. I mean, I couldn’t get away with it, but he makes it work.

“And he’s nice without bein’ some holier-than-thou crusader. He’s good fun.”

“I concur wholeheartedly, and yet I’m not doe-eyed smitten with him. There must be something more.”

Woljif squirmed. His tail stirred the dust behind him. He’s gentle and warm and everything I always wanted and never had. A friend. A lover. Somebody I can actually trust to have my back. He sings nice. He massages my feet.

“I can’t explain it,” he shrugged. “He’s just him.”

Daeran shook his head and sighed theatrically.

Woljif blinked down at his boots. In his mind’s eye the chief came up and laid a warm hand on his shoulder. Said something funny like Just wait til you see what Lann scared up for supper. Played guitar and looked at him with those soft eyes he got.

“When I’m with him I feel good. I feel safe,” he confessed quietly. “I mean… I feel like it’s ok to be me.”

In the silence that followed Daeran turned his face away for a long time. At long last he nodded, rose, and retired to his tent without so much as a thank you, Woljif.

[burgermcdond]

TIPS ON WRITING A HORROR BOOK (by me🤫)

disclaimer i am not a professional and this was for an english assignment i did in like 30 mins

quick cw for BRIEF mentions of some more deeper real life topics, nothing major though, and they wont be touched on deeply, just a brief mention. And obviously this will touch on horror themes.

A curious but brave protagonist, who is usually easily scared, alot of times hides under a tough exterior maybe. Ive seen that alot of times writers make the main character quite dumb, and maybe a little unaware of danger, but the main character can honestly be anything, these are just common tropes.

Usually, other characters, especially friends who experience the same as the protagonist, usually at the start of the story no one believes the protagonist when theyre yelling about seeing a ghost or something.

A monster, murderer, or just about any antagonist, as long as it's clear that the character is the "scary" one. Maybe not even scary, just “weird” or “creepy”, even ugly! Or maybe you can make it something else than any of those, surprise the reader maybe, like what if the antagonist is cute? Maybe even sexy? Let your imagination go free, the more creative the better.

A dark and misty setting, usually also related to something old and abandoned, often dirty as well. The main place should have some story, what happened? How did it happen? WHEN did it happen? Who caused it? Its good to start it out as more vague and unveil the story as the story goes.

Plot, come up with a good plot and story, if the story is about a ghost haunting a house, come up with why? Why does the ghost do this? Who is this ghost? What does it do? Ask yourself questions, imagine maybe that youre being interviewed about the story.

Tragedy, horror stories always involve something tragic, small or big. There is usually also drama or conflicts, also a lot of disloyalty and betrayals, such as when the protagonist's friends don't believe him and leave him alone with ghosts for example, or maybe one of the side characters see something, but the protagonist doesnt believe them.

Surprising scenes that the reader can easily guess are quite basic and ordinary in horror books, like for example the protagonist opening a door slowly and a monster coming out and attacking them, also if it involves a murderer chase scenes are quite common, hiding scene where the protag and their friends are hiding from a monster, the basic tropes are endless, but also be sure to add uniqueness, some never done before or rare things, maybe mix and mash these basic and rare scenes?

Chilling writing, make the reader sink into the story and feel what the protagonist and other characters feel. Write it in detail with alot of adjectives, maybe it reminds them of something that happened when they were a child, or their friend, family, anything, since it explores the character on a more deeper level.

Interesting adjectives, of course, everyone always uses "scary" or "horrifying," but expand a little, it's pretty boring if the same adjectives are used all the time, you can even search for good adjectives on Google, my favorites are distressing, dismal, ghastly, chilling, blood-curdling, and haunting/hauntingly, but those are just a few examples from a wide range of adjectives, and as i explained, the less of those more common in horror tropes the better, maybe the ghost is…enticing?

In horror stories, the book progresses to be more and more distressing, keeping the reader interested, but more in a more thrill seeking way, like how alot of people try out bungee jumping, or more on a darker note, like how people do drugs, seeking the thrill. Also if your book is more on the disgusting morbid horror side, the readers might be more morbidly curious, like how when you read a trigger/content warning for something, but youre still curious, and on a darker note, morbid curiosity and maybe even thrill seeking make people go on the dark web, or watching gore. Humans are and will forever be curious animals.

If you want your horror book to be REALLY dark, you can include darker and more traumatic topics, such as murder, torture, bullying, rape, violence, mental illnesses, harassment, assault and so on. Remember to handle things properly, not make them seem in a positive light or romanticise these topics, dark fiction is fine as long as its handled well and done properly, remember do some research, or if you yourself have experienced something, you can take inspiration from it and write your feelings for the protagonist or any character, it also keeps readers interested and empathetic, some may even relate if they've experienced something.

Symbolism, not really a “must have” but its great to add symbolism, since as we know it there are people who WILL read the book like it depends on their life, its great to do research of what something could mean before adding it, also if you wanna go even MORE deeper you can make the characters have names that mean something, like their personality, their trauma, what will happen, etc.

Speaking of this, you can add things and scenes to the story that traumatize or damage the character, and if you're going to make the book long or have many series, how this has affected the character? Have they healed? How long has it been? Have they gotten help? Like on the last part, remember to do research, or write from your own experience.

The story usually ends with a good ending, where they defeat the evil or something, but it's also good to write stories that end badly, or don't end? Maybe the monster comes back? If you're making a multi-series book, maybe you can end the first book a bit uncertain or a cliff-hanger, making readers bite their nails thinking and even making theories on "what happens next?”

Some of my favorite additions on horror media, not must haves.

Sometimes writers make readers empathize and sympathize with the monster, murderer, or any antagonist of the book. Usually, the villain has a reason to be evil and do what he does, no one is born crazy, except if you're writing some horror sci-fi, then it might work. This doesn't have to be clear right away, and if you're making a multi-series book, maybe it can be revealed later in the story, or maybe theres small hints and mentions of it scattered everywhere and the reader has to basically piece it together like a puzzle piece?

Another thing I like but isn't necessary in horror books is when the protagonist is actually the bad guy, and when the book is written so that the reader doesn't know what's going on, they're just told what's happening as if they were there,

Also i love it when writers add other characters' thoughts, what are they thinking, what are they plotting or what do they know or feel. It explores other characters more deeply other than the protagonist, making them more meaningful and more interesting, easier to relate or attach to. I kind of hate it how usually in horror books side characters are just plain npcs with only a few traits.

(sorry if the writing is bad english aint my first language🙏🙏😭)

[laikuh]

supernatural and penny dreadful ...

lisaaaaa ty <3 <3 <3

spn:

My rating (1-10): this is impossible because spn is both utterly perfect and dismally horrid. so, 5.

My favourite character: dean. im boring. i love him so much. i also really don't like him at all after a certain point,

My least favourite character: fucking ketch. i mean, i dislike a lot of characters, but ketch can get fucking wrecked. god i hate ketch. i hate ketch. fuck ketch.

The character I think I'd be friends with: i....think all characters in spn should be avoided at all costs, but i guess...i honestly don't know i gotta go look up some characters. okay. i think i could've vibed with pamela and gamble era meg.

The character I think I won't hit off with: lol a lot of them. let's just say john bc he's too much of a man. gross.

My favourite episode/scene: this is impossible. we're just gonna go by what i can think of in this very moment. episode: "a very supernatural christmas" and scene, the dream discussion scene in "baby"

Whose clothing style I like best: i do like dean's lumberjack chic.

Times I watched it (and if I would again): so. hrm. i have seen....s1-12 4 times, and seasons 13-14 3 times and s15 twice. as for if i would watch it again. i would watch s1-7, 11, and parts of 14 again. i don't think i could e v e r watch 8-10, 13, and 15 in their entirety again. i will never not loathe/despise/resent seasons 8-10 and s15, and also i think s13 is boring and stupid. so. i never want to sit through them again lol.

PENNY DREADFUL BABES

My rating (1-10): i haven't see the show in its entirety more than once, but i think i'd say 8.5. s1, of course, is a 10.

My favourite character: vanessa. i love her. i love her so much. i love ethan almost as much, but vanessa edges him out. she's perfect.

My least favourite character: i hate victor. i hate him. i also hate dorian, but mostly because he's boring. victor, however, is pathetic and small, which makes me hate him more.

The character I think I'd be friends with: i mean i wanna believe i could be friends with vanessa, but i'm probably not cool enough

The character I think I won't hit off with: i think dorian would clock me rolling my eyes at every word out of his mouth pretty fast. he's silly.

My favourite episode/scene: there's a good chance the cut wife episode of s2 would be my favorite, but bc i paused my rewatch and haven't gotten there yet, i'll stick with "closer than sisters." favorite scene: the sceane scene. that or when vanessa teaches ethan how to dance.

Whose clothing style I like best: VANESSA. easy. need i say more?

Times I watched it (and if I would again): i've seen the first seasons 3-4 times and the second season twice, third season once.

thank yooouuuuu <3

[thekingofcrochet]

please pretty please share your thoughts on the label of gifted and how we burnout because we need more about this and how it places pressure on children when they’re just supposed to be kids instead of the expectation of being a baby scholar

So because there's no true national standard in the USA for K-12 education, there can't be a standard of what a "gifted child/student" looks like.

A high schooler studying astronomy on their own time is only "gifted" if that student doesn't have access to an astronomy class. If the same student is able to take an astronomy class and doesn't, that's called "wasted potential".

But if we step back any further and look at the cookie cutter yet unstandardized education system as a whole, we end up with real concerns.

In some school districts, an elementary school student testing well and above average for their grade group can skip a grade. In some other school districts, that elementary school student gets pulled out to a seperate advanced math or reading (cause it's only math or reading) class while still being with the same grade group for everything else. And in other school districts that elementary school student is getting extra math problems/reading/writing assignments given to them by the teacher as extra credit or for fun and to develop skills. And in some districts still that same student could be told to sit down, shut up, and stop being bored while the drone of material they already understand washes over them for 8 hours a day every day.

The main thing here is none of this means anything unless the kid tests well. You could have experienced all of Shakespeare by the time you were 15 but if you don't know how to differentiate between verbal and dramatic irony or how to find sinθ of a 30-60-90 triangle then you're stuck with the rest of the 9th graders in 11 out of 13 cases.

Teacher's may have called you gifted because you were the one child who understood complex sentences in 2nd grade before everyone else. But in that class of 25 were 3-5 students who couldn't tie their own shoes or button their coats, 1 student still in pull-ups, 2 students with parents' going through a messy separation and the rest are 50% just average kids who don't ask questions and 50% students who ask one question per unit. You have a few close friends but try not to be a bother to others when you're frustrated because speaking out didn't get you anywhere.

You may have been called gifted and then were sent to a different grade/school without any of your friends and so felt like an antisocial outsider thus hindering your social and emotional growth. You have anxiety but you're good at math and finding things to do on your own.

Maybe you're old enough to have been called a savant - spectacular in a few areas and dismal at everything else.

You learned how to take tests cause that's what all your grades were based on. You could make the most creative and thought out diorama showcasing the political assassination of Julius Caesar. But if you didn't do good at standardized tests (which were always math or reading) you could be repeating 6th grade. So you figure out what they test for and you get good at that and maybe you do okay at everything else.

At a point you burn out.

I was 1 point shy of testing out of 2nd grade in elementary school. It was probably because I'm bad at math. Or I was bad at math because I was good at reading and writing so I was always given books and notebooks and pens (the gel pen era has never died in my heart). No one cared to see how bad at math I was until it got to the point where I got a D on my 4th grade report card. I don't remember a call home saying I wasn't doing my best in math. I just remember the physical and mental punishment from achieving a D (something I thought only happened in fiction). It didn't matter that I was being bullied for being "good at art" either. The thing wrong with my bullies is that they were jealous of me. The thing wrong with me was that I couldn't remember the answer to 7x8.

In 5th grade I got to borrow my teacher's copy of Wicked (the novel) and devoured it over a long weekend. I read + finished the 6th hp book in a day and my mother got mad at me because I was "running out of books to read". We didn't go to the public library even though I had a library card (my father got me and my brother a library card but he worked 2nd or 3rd shift.) So I only read for fun when I could afford it.

I don't think I read a single book between 2015 and 2021. Not for fun anyway. I was too busy failing ever thing that I'd never done before. No one had ever asked me the month/date/year that Rodin's The Thinker was made. I never had to interpret music into visual art before college. It turns out that everyone hates when you read slam poetry at open mic night for the 6th night in a row. And one day you wake up and wonder why you've been pouring all of yourself into a job you hate while also pouring all of yourself into finding a job that isn't as bad as the one you have now.

If I was younger, this would have been cute. Most of child development is hands on. Tying shoes, telling time, learning to cook, learning to drive. What to do in case of an emergency and how to identify different types of emergencies.

I was getting CPR certified to become a licensed babysitter when I was in high schooler. My pre-calculus teacher thought that I was cheating by looking at answers in my lap, but I didn't want him to see me doing math on my fingers.

I had to learn how to drive but I don't know anything about car maintenance because I was supposed to become rich and successful because I was "special" and "gifted".

I'm not special or gifted - I'm a human adult that doesn't know how to check the oil in their vehicle or do math (like leaving a tip) without a calculator

But I'm also getting back into reading for fun and making dumb art since i realized that being a "gifted" child can't define me forever.

[xplrvibes]

anon the tea was dismal… DISMAL! After the week ive had I deserved some ground shattering tea but all I got was an actual earthquake I wasn’t even awake to experience. im complaining to management.

Im still waiting for something interesting to happen with this s/c/k/m situation… bc rn its just eh. we get it, theyre dating/hooking up and thats just… boring. give me tea. give me a full high tea lay out, short cakes and all.

im wondering if valentines day will bring something good. who knows lol

i wanna watch a snc video… pls recommend one :) a need a lengthy one. - aussie anon

I'm pretty sure the free meal frenzy was their Valentine's Day 🤣.

Hmmm, if you wanna feel like you're tripping balls, I'd say give the Hotel Del Coronado a try. Something about the feng shui is...off lol.

Actually, Waverly Hills is a really good one too, if you want to be creeped out.

If you want to try and dive into 2019 snc (if you haven't already gone there)...good luck lol. I'd say start with the Stanley Hotel movie, or go right to the England series. Avoid Witches Forest and the Florida series like the plague!

If you've seen all of these, lmk and I'll recommend some more.

[yourgildedcage]

"The World of Another Who Looks Like You"

To Curry Favor-Side Story

Notes: A side story while I work on the next chapter.

Story:

He grabbed his pen off the night stand, the dark red glow of the gem almost eerie compared to the warm sunlight filtering  through the window.

"Time to wake up Kalim," Jamil remarked.

***

Jamil sighed he was already so tired.

So he naturally thought he was seeing things when he saw Malleus Draconia with more humanoid features.

"You're a human!" Kalim said. "Lilia sama, is he under some sort of spell?" Kalim asked. Jamil just cringed.

"No it's more like--" Lilia laughed.

"What's going on?" Malleus appeared and Kalim blinked.

"Two of--" he started pointing at them in disbelief.

"I'm not the 'Malleus Draconia' of this universe," Malleus alter stated his mouth curving into a smile.

"So you're like a human version of Malleus? Do you share the same hobbies? Are you able to do the things he can?? Do you think you have different backgrounds because he's Fae?" Kalim asked. Firing questions like a machine gun.

"Yes? Probably? That's a bit private. I haven't thought much about that one?" Malleus alter replied. Malleus just faded to the background. Watching in interest.

***

A figure stepped through the Octavinelle mirror.

It was the doppelganger for Malleus Draconia. The one everyone called Malleus alter.

He held a light tan drink with multiple java chips and cararmel streaks going down the sides in a slight tilt. It is topped with whipped cream, Caramel and Mocha drizzle, chestnuts, and macadamia nuts.

"I see you just came from the Mostro Lounge," Jamil commented recognizing the logo on the cup as he saw Malleus approach.

"Azul said--" Malleus alter started then paused as if rethinking something.

"He said he wanted to repay a favor. But was really surprised when I said I wanted to try a drink he introduced me too," he finished.

Jamil looked at him mildly surprised but it didn't show on his face. "I take the favor was from catching him in flight class the other day." He remarked.

"You know about that?" Malleus asked taking a sip of his drink.

"Azul and I share a few classes" Jamil shrugged off.

"Where are you on your way to?" Malleus alter asked.

"I'm on my way to Scarabia from basketball practice," Jamil explained.

"Oh?" Malleus took a step forward.

"I suppose you want to come..?" Jamil asked.

"If you don't mind taking me! I would like to see what the Scarabia dorm looks like," Malleus remarked. Jamil had a really weird sense of deja vu for some reason.

As he stepped through the mirror Malleus alter was immediately taken by the scenery "My it's beautiful here!" Malleus alter exclaimed. "But such warm climate! I'm gonna need to bring iced tea next time!" He said forgetting Jamil was there. Jamil flinched.

"So bright out wish I'd got my sunglasses" Malleus remarked after some silence which Jamil took as Malleus choosing to enjoy his drink first.

"if had known I'd need them I would have had them on me...." He remarked dismally.

"There-- I'm sure you can borrow some from a student inside," Jamil said quickly. Despite his best efforts couldn't relax or act natural around Malleus alter.

Malleus had discovered the ice cream freezer. He was eyeing all the containers of ice cream with interest. Jamil had told him they were really meant for birthdays and events but he still admired the pretty containers like they were rubies.

Meanwhile Kalim had made some mess again. And Jamil had to clean it. But the time required to get all the broken glass up... It might run into dinner time...

"I know! I'll cook dinner since I'm here!" Malleus alter offered.

"We don't want to take away from your time at Diasomnia..!" A random student said nervously.

Malleus alter blinked its fine. "I'm kinda bored there. If my... Friends were here i'd be able to handle it but..." He trailed off.

"Believe me! i can cook! I'm not Clover-san or Viper-san here but I can still make basic foods," he changed topics.

"You know how to cook?" Jamil raised an eyebrow.

"Yes give me a apron and I'll show you!" He said enthusiastically.

Kalim practically lit up "can I assist?" "Sure," Malleus alter said heading toward the kitchens to wash his hands.

***

"I'm getting lessons." Malleus alter smiled stirring the curry.

Kalim was counting all the slices of carrots.

Jamil narrowed his eyes. "Lessons from who?" He questioned.

"N-Not from Lilia!" He yelped putting a silver tray in front of his face like a shield. Jamil relaxed.

"I just learned from watching Clover-san and Jamil-san." He said chopping some ginger he found after Jamil told him where it was.

"I miss my friends," he commented quietly.

There it was that somber tone again.

"Oh we should have a Welcoming party! Everyone should get to meet Malleus alter then! You can make more friends" Kalim said excitedly. Malleus alter looked briefly hopeful. Then he squashed it "Now that's not needed--" Malleus alter said picking up the carrots and ginger from Kalim.

***

"Curry's READY!" Malleus alter said happily.

Kalim grinned "I helped too!"

A few wary glances were cast. Everyone knew of Kalim's lack of experience in the kitchen.

"Don't worry he was just in charge of adding the peppers. I was the one who cut and measured them" Malleus alter reassured.

Jamil deadpanned. "I sense something foreboding has occurred" he muttered taking a seat first.

Everyone took a spoonful of curry with some rice. Seemingly at the same time. Immediately their taste buds were greeted with overwhelming heat from how hot and spicy the curry was.

"HOOOOTT!!" nearly half the students yelled.

"You know what would make this better!?" Malleus alter asked.

"What?" Kalim asked happily.

"Ice cream!!" Malleus alter exclaimed and raced off to the kitchen.

"..Wait A damn minute," Jamil said. But Malleus alter had already left.

Moments later everyone was eating a bowl full of a ice cream of their choice.

"You orchestrated this so you could eat ice cream didnt you?" Jamil asked a odd sense that this had happened before nagging at him.

Malleus alter shoved a spoonful of ice cream in his mouth to muffle his next words "so what if I did?" Which sounded more like "fo wha if I fid?" The childish behavior coming from Malleus was a little odd. But since he was from a alternate universe it may have been fine.

"You planned to have curry from the moment you saw the ice cream didn't you," Jamil asked watching Malleus alter enjoy the cool air. He too could feel the breeze given his dorm uniform but he was used to it.

"Perhaps," Malleus alter smiled the wind blowing his hair. But he kept staring at the moon.

"You didn't stop me. Wanted to see if I could own up on my claim of bring able to cook?" Malleus alter asked playfully.

"..maybe," Jamil had a half smile on his face.

'Maybe Malleus alter was okay... At least a little'.

Notes: this was originally a request on Discord.

[decemebercircus]

Twisted Wonderland

Characters: Jamil Viper, Alternate Universe version of Malleus (aka Malleus alter)

A Friend Like Me

He grabbed his pen off the night stand, the dark red glow of the gem almost eerie compared to the warm sunlight filtering  through the window.

"Time to wake up Kalim," Jamil remarked.

***

Jamil sighed he was already so tired.

So he naturally thought he was seeing things when he saw Malleus Draconia with more humanoid features.

"You're a human!" Kalim said.

"Lilia sama, is he under some sort of spell?" Kalim asked. Jamil just cringed.

"No it's more like--" Lilia laughed.

"What's going on?" Malleus appeared and Kalim blinked.

"Two of--" he started pointing at them in disbelief.

"I'm not the 'Malleus Draconia' of this universe," Malleus alter stated his mouth curving into a smile.

"So you're like a human version of Malleus? Do you share the same hobbies? Are you able to do the things he can?? Do you think you have different backgrounds because he's Fae?" Kalim asked. Firing questions like a machine gun.

"Yes? Probably? That's a bit private. I haven't thought much about that one?" Malleus alter replied. Malleus just faded to the background. Watching in interest.

***

A figure stepped through the Octavinelle mirror.

It was the doppelganger for Malleus Draconia. The one everyone called Malleus alter.

He held a light tan drink with multiple java chips and cararmel streaks going down the sides in a slight tilt. It is topped with whipped cream, Caramel and Mocha drizzle, chestnuts, and macadamia nuts.

"I see you just came from the Mostro Lounge," Jamil commented recognizing the logo on the cup as he saw Malleus approach.

"Azul said--" Malleus alter started then paused as if rethinking something.

"He said he wanted to repay a favor. But was really surprised when I said I wanted to try a drink he introduced me too," he finished.

Jamil looked at him mildly surprised but it didn't show on his face. "I take the favor was from catching him in flight class the other day." He remarked.

"You know about that?" Malleus asked taking a sip of his drink.

"Azul and I share a few classes" Jamil shrugged off.

"Where are you on your way to?" Malleus alter asked.

"I'm on my way to Scarabia from basketball practice," Jamil explained.

"Oh?" Malleus took a step forward.

"I suppose you want to come..?" Jamil asked.

"If you don't mind taking me! I would like to see what the Scarabia dorm looks like," Malleus remarked. Jamil had a really weird sense of deja vu for some reason.

As he stepped through the mirror Malleus alter was immediately taken by the scenery "My it's beautiful here!" Malleus alter exclaimed. "But such warm climate! I'm gonna need to bring iced tea next time!" He said forgetting Jamil was there. Jamil flinched.

"So bright out wish I'd got my sunglasses" Malleus remarked after some silence which Jamil took as Malleus choosing to enjoy his drink first.

"if had known I'd need them I would have had them on me...." He remarked dismally.

"There-- I'm sure you can borrow some from a student inside," Jamil said quickly. Despite his best efforts couldn't relax or act natural around Malleus alter.

Malleus had discovered the ice cream freezer. He was eyeing all the containers of ice cream with interest. Jamil had told him they were really meant for birthdays and events but he still admired the pretty containers like they were rubies.

Meanwhile Kalim had made some mess again. And Jamil had to clean it. But the time required to get all the broken glass up... It might run into dinner time...

"I know! I'll cook dinner since I'm here!" Malleus alter offered.

"We don't want to take away from your time at Diasomnia..!" A random student said nervously.

Malleus alter blinked its fine. "I'm kinda bored there. If my... Friends were here i'd be able to handle it but..." He trailed off.

"Believe me! i can cook! I'm not Clover-san or Viper-san here but I can still make basic foods," he changed topics.

"You know how to cook?" Jamil raised an eyebrow.

"Yes give me a apron and I'll show you!" He said enthusiastically.

Kalim practically lit up "can I assist?" "Sure," Malleus alter said heading toward the kitchens to wash his hands.

***

"I'm getting lessons." Malleus alter smiled stirring the curry.

Kalim was counting all the slices of carrots.

Jamil narrowed his eyes. "Lessons from who?" He questioned.

"N-Not from Lilia!" He yelped putting a silver tray in front of his face like a shield. Jamil relaxed.

"I just learned from watching Clover-san and Jamil-san." He said chopping some ginger he found after Jamil told him where it was.

"I miss my friends," he commented quietly.

There it was that somber tone again.

"Oh we should have a Welcoming party! Everyone should get to meet Malleus alter then! You can make more friends" Kalim said excitedly. Malleus alter looked briefly hopeful. Then he squashed it "Now that's not needed--" Malleus alter said picking up the carrots and ginger from Kalim.

***

"Curry's READY!" Malleus alter said happily.

Kalim grinned "I helped too!"

A few wary glances were cast. Everyone knew of Kalim's lack of experience in the kitchen.

"Don't worry he was just in charge of adding the peppers. I was the one who cut and measured them" Malleus alter reassured.

Jamil deadpanned. "I sense something foreboding has occurred" he muttered taking a seat first.

Everyone took a spoonful of curry with some rice. Seemingly at the same time. Immediately their taste buds were greeted with overwhelming heat from how hot and spicy the curry was.

"HOOOOTT!!" nearly half the students yelled.

"You know what would make this better!?" Malleus alter asked.

"What?" Kalim asked happily.

"Ice cream!!" Malleus alter exclaimed and raced off to the kitchen.

"..Wait A damn minute," Jamil said. But Malleus alter had already left.

Moments later everyone was eating a bowl full of a ice cream of their choice.

"You orchestrated this so you could eat ice cream didnt you?" Jamil asked a odd sense that this had happened before nagging at him.

Malleus alter shoved a spoonful of ice cream in his mouth to muffle his next words "so what if I did?" Which sounded more like "fo wha if I fid?" The childish behavior coming from Malleus was a little odd. But since he was from a alternate universe it may have been fine.

"You planned to have curry from the moment you saw the ice cream didn't you," Jamil asked watching Malleus alter enjoy the cool air. He too could feel the breeze given his dorm uniform but he was used to it.

"Perhaps," Malleus alter smiled the wind blowing his hair. But he kept staring at the moon.

"You didn't stop me. Wanted to see if I could own up on my claim of bring able to cook?" Malleus alter asked playfully.

"..maybe," Jamil had a half smile on his face.

'Maybe Malleus alter was okay... At least a little'.

End notes: this chapter is meant for a certain fanfic on Ao3 named "The World of Another Who Looks Like You" said fanfic is also here on Tumblr.

(And wattpad and fanfiction.net)

[rewoundreviews]

Rewound Review #452: Misery

An obsessive fan rescues a famous writer from a car crash & brings him to her house to nurse him back to health.

I obviously failed to post this by actual Halloween but this year kind of had 2 Halloweekends so posting at the tail end of the second seems fitting enough. I'm pretty sure I've watched this movie somewhat recently, at least in the past 5 years, but it's one of those films that I love so much I could watch it over & over without getting bored. It's just so brilliant, so well acted, so horrific yet so funny. Kathy Bates is beyond perfect for her role - the way she portrays the highs & lows of Annie's mental illness is chilling yet she manages to also maintain the goofy humor the character exudes throughout. (Annie's non-swear words are a true inspiration to me as someone who strives to use as few actual swears in life & writing as possible - Mister Man is a personal fave that I need to reintegrate into my daily vocab.) James Caan plays opposite Kathy Bates wonderfully, balancing out her delusions with his practical determination & refusal to let her get the best of him (the scene where he flips her off out the window had me laughing out loud). I'm also a huge Richard Farnsworth fan & think this is a particularly excellent use of his adorable acting chops. (It's a bummer his character meets such a dismal demise - frankly I had forgotten just how violent the last quarter of this movie is.) An excellent film with the added bonus of some stellar Liberace jams.

#vhs

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Libby Rice (@pulpshopgirl)

[fiftysevenacademics]

I'm disappointed about this cancelation because I enjoyed Kaos a lot. But I don't think Netflix making these decisions even has all that much to do with the audience, critics, etc. Their business model doesn't actually involve cultivating large, loyal audiences for hit shows so much as having a constant, enormous supply of stuff, just, stuff to percolate up to the top of your recommendation algorithm.

I think of it like this. I got sucked into watching cooking reels on Facebook for a while. This made them start feeding me videos of street vendors preparing large amounts of food in India, Thailand, and China. This was still pretty interesting, so I'd watch them, even though it wasn't what I really wanted to see. But that inevitably led to mukbang and asmr, which I do not want to see. On Instagram, something similar happened except it went from useful cooking demonstrations to boring videos of finished plates or displays of food.

Netflix's goal isn't to retain audiences for successful shows, as we might assume. The goal is to keep the audience hungry, wanting, in a constant state of clicking on things that surface in their recommendations. Shows like Kaos function more like ads that draw customers in. Or, like an Uber ride you summon when you want and forget about when you get where you're going. Want to go somewhere else? Just summon a new ride. Netflix doesn't even really care that much if you stick around, any more than your Uber driver depends on your particular business.

I'm don't know enough about business to say whether or not this is a good strategy for long-term success, though I strongly suspect it isn't. The New York Times Magazine has an interesting article about Netflix (non-paywalled link) that discusses Netflix's own data showing it's most successful shows are obscure titles most of us have never even heard of. We think shows like Kaos are really huge, but they're dismal failures by Netflix standards. From the article I mentioned above:

In December of last year, Netflix provided an unprecedented map of its library by releasing a comprehensive look at its viewer data for the very first time. It comes as an Excel file, less than a megabyte, and ranks 18,214 pieces of content in Netflix’s gargantuan library by the number of hours viewed during the first six months of 2023, rounded to the nearest 100,000. In fact, this rounding means that it doesn’t even capture the entirety of the thing, because Netflix excluded titles with fewer than 50,000 viewer hours. At the top was “The Night Agent,” a sub-Clancy-quality thriller about an F.B.I. guy, with more than 812 million hours viewed. At the bottom was “선생 김봉두 (My Teacher, Mr. Kim),” a South Korean comedy from 2003 with 100,000 hours, though this placement is an artifact of Excel’s sorting through the vastness of the catalog. Roughly the last four thousand entries all have 100,000 hours viewed — this is as low as the scale goes — and are arranged alphabetically. Thanks to Netflix’s considerable international offerings, the bottom of the 100,000-hour club fills up with titles in other alphabets: Arabic, Japanese, Korean.

Outside the very top, which is dominated by Netflix Originals and kids’ movies, it’s not totally clear why anything winds up anywhere. Why is “Memento” down in the 300,000-hours ghetto, while “Coach Carter” has 21 million viewer hours? Perhaps “Memento” was only available in, say, Slovakia — or maybe it got bad placement in the app. Or maybe it never triggered whatever algorithmic-cultural tripwire turns back-catalog titles into contemporary hits. The chart doesn’t say. And to scan through it is to appreciate how the library’s sheer size has heightened the importance of chance in our consumption habits.

Your view into the catalog may feel like a grand vista, but in actuality you are peering through a keyhole. When I open up Netflix on my TV, I am immediately met with a carousel of 75 shows and movies New on Netflix; then the Top 10 TV Shows in the U.S. Today; beneath that a carousel of another 75 suggestions Because You Watched “Rebel Ridge”; beyond that, an algorithmic selection of 33 Today’s Top Picks for You; then Bingeworthy TV Dramas, 75 of them. Then there’s Your Next Watch, a combination of stuff my kid watches and stuff I might, 75 more. Next: The last 10 things we didn’t finish; then, a list of 75 more titles because I watched “Shot Caller.” Beyond that, no fewer than 30 more carousels of about 75 titles each. That’s a whole lot of TV, but it’s still just a small slice of the catalog.

What we’re paying for, in the end, is not any one show, or any three or 10 or 50 shows, but rather this fathomless sense of abundance. Which in turn means that any given show just doesn’t matter quite as much as it could in the era of broadcast TV. In this context, even an undeniable hit can wind up feeling like a sort of failure. Take “Triple Frontier,” the 2019 action thriller starring Ben Affleck and Oscar Isaac: It was one of the platform’s most popular movies that year, but as Lotz points out in her book, that doesn’t mean it’s any more valuable to the company. A $115 million movie budget is hard for Netflix to justify at almost any level of viewership, given that at the end of the day it supplies just two hours of content for a subscriber base that’s paying for a sense of infinity. And indeed, Lotz’s skepticism was confirmed: Ted Sarandos, the company’s chief content officer, reportedly singled out the title in an internal meeting, calling for a better calibration between budget and audience. This was in the middle of 2019, when the financial press was starting to ask questions about the sustainability of Netflix’s debt-financed growth.

Wait, what??

...I haven't even seen it yet!!

[loiswolf]

Day 50 July 20 Schreiber - Marathon 100kms

This morning I looked out the window and thought…what an awful day! It had been raining a lot during the night and everything looked quite dismal.

No problem, I was trying to waste time today because the check in time at my Airbnb wasn’t until 6pm. ( I think this is a bit rude since everywhere else is 3 or 4pm.

Anyway, I was able to watch the women’s soccer game against Ireland. Yay! We won! No matter how slowly I tried to get packed I was still ready to go by 9am.

I forgot to mention that this motel/gas station/Robin’s Donuts/Pizza Hut was also a KFC before Covid. When I asked I was told they had scratched out the colonel.

The rain had pretty much stopped by the time I left but it was still very overcast.

Second breakfast was only 15kms up the road at Terrace Bay. I had scoped out a coffee shop but after doing an extra loop around the town I found it didn’t open on Thursdays. 🤨 A few metres down the road was a lovely restaurant attached to the large motel on the highway. I was able to take my time over another coffee ( already had 2 cups in my motel room because the first one disappeared too quickly) and some French toast.

Yay, it was 10:30 when I left and the sun was coming out from behind the clouds. I was wasting lots of time just as intended.

When I had left the motel in Schreiber earlier the cleaning lady had told me there were three big hills today and they were all the same. Wrong! It was a pity Archie from the Gravel River Motel wasn’t there to set her straight.

Today there was 660m of climbing. There was a big climb at around 40kms but the rest was just a lot of up and down. This photo is from the top of the bigger hill.

It’s pretty obvious that there is going to be more hills ahead.

There wasn’t many views of Lake Superior today but there were a lot of little lakes which were quite pretty.

There is still a lot of roadwork here but I was able to ride straight through. The second one was holding up cars from a long way back in both directions. Only half the road was usable and there appeared to be a tractor on a trailer stuck there for some reason. There was just enough room for Shirley and I to roll by and continue past all the trucks and cars held up on the other side. I stopped to talk to a couple of drivers when they waved. They were obviously bored and needed someone to pass the time with.

I knew there wasn’t going to be another coffee stop today so I was glad to see the lookout sign at about 65kms. Naturally there were toilets and a picnic table there. This is Ontario!

Great! I had checked my watch a bit earlier and noticed that I was going too fast. This was going to be a good place to waste time.

I ate a mandarin and settled down with my kindle for a while. Suddenly I realised someone else was sitting at my table. It was another cyclist!

Matthew was from Poland and was heading in the other direction, aiming for Vancouver. I warned him about the winds which were not going to be in his favour. He was foolishly hoping for a coffee place along the road. I knew there was going to be nothing for another 50kms so I offered to make him a coffee if he could heat the water. Yep! That’s what we did.

Another lovely couple travelling in a car came over to talk to us too. We all took photos and exchanged cards etc. ( well I’m the only one with a card but Matthew had a very long instagram account name ) and eventually I headed off.

Another 30kms of ups and downs until the turnoff to Marathon. There was 4kms of downhill which I am going to have to go back up tomorrow morning. I found the Tim Hortons and settled in to write this and do some other things while I waited for my Airbnb. Almost immediately I received an email saying it was ready at 4:30. My map showed it was just up the road and there was a grocery store not too far out of the way. The shop was a dud ( no fruit and vegetables, just Indian stuff) so I’m going to have to go out now to get some fruit for breakfast and something for dinner. 😡

I’m going to have to stop again tomorrow morning because there is no fridge here. Grrrr. Apart from that it’s pretty good.

Somebody asked for a map.