#we'd enjoy their services far more

[pushing500]

Mechi got three of these 'mystical shaman' offers within a week. He doesn't need a mystical healer, dammit! All his limbs are intact, and if they ever need replacing, he'll use bionics anyway.

After waving goodbye to the previous wild people- LeJeune, Hummell, and Eugenia- Mechi has acquired a new neighbour. She's a waster named Drill. We'll see how long she lasts before psychite dependence takes her down, I guess.

Cultists are starting a ritual to abduct a colonist?? Whatever will we do?!

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[rederiswrites]

You can train your tastes. You can choose what you see beauty in.

Lemme go further, actually. You are constantly doing so--or letting others do it for you.

Nearly two decades ago, when we were planning our wedding, I made a very firm decision not to look at any wedding planning magazines or anything with marketing material for wedding products. I wanted our wedding to be uniquely us, and I also wanted not to be bombarded by product advertisement and beautiful photo shoots of very expensive weddings. Consequently, maybe we wasted a little bit of time reinventing the wheel, but we had a wedding we were very happy with that only cost perhaps four thousand dollars at most, probably not that much, spread out over our finances and those of both our families. Our guests went home with live potted plants that we'd paid pennies for at end of season, our florist had a great time getting to design a bouquet that tested her skills because I didn't have any preconceived ideas, my dress was utterly unique--and I really do feel that those magazines would have had a corrosive effect on all that.

When we moved to this property three years ago, I spent a LOT of time looking at images online, trying to form a coherent vision for a property that was at the time a fairly blank slate. I found myself scrolling through a lot of Russian dacha Instagrams, of all things, and they unlocked something for me. Seeing the same homey make-do decorations and techniques I grew up around a continent away, the same plywood cutout old ladies and tractor tire flower planters, somehow chewed through that last binding cord of classism, and suddenly I saw the art in it. The expression of a desire to embellish and beautify, even when you have very little, even when all you can afford is things the more well-to-do consider trash. I saw the exuberance of human love for beauty in a brilliant flower bed planted next to a collapsing shed--it didn't need to be perfect to be worthwhile. They didn't wait til everything was pristine to start enjoying things. And now I earnestly and unironically covet my own version of the tractor-tire Christmas tree at the farm down the road.

We've spent centuries now idolizing the manicured estates and quaint country retreats of the European wealthy elites. We've turned thousands of miles of living ecosystem into grass deserts in service of this vision. We need to start deliberately retraining our tastes. Seek out images of a different idea of beauty and peace. I'm not telling you what it'll be. I'm telling you this is not involuntary. You can participate. You can look at the many beautiful examples of native xeriscaping for arid climates, or photos of chaotic tangles of wildflowers, tamed by narrow paths, a bench under an arbor overwhelmed with wisteria. Maybe instead of trying to get lawn to grown under your mature trees, you'd actually get far more joy out of a patch of dirt. A hammock. A firepit ringed with log sections for seats.

You can free yourself from harmful conventions of taste and beauty, and you do it through imagining something better.

[estellan0vella]

Robbery Older Brother Sukuna AU HFBU Pt2

You sit at the counter of the parlour, sketching random designs in your notebook while chatting with Gojo. Your best friend since high school, Gojo recently joined the shop as a piercer, and his cheerful banter has become a daily highlight.

"Hey, Y/N/N," Gojo says, leaning over to peek at your sketches. "That's some good stuff. Ever thought about doing the tattoos?"

You laugh, shaking your head. "Nah, I'm happy just doodling. Leave the ink to the pros."

Gojo grins, his bright blue eyes sparkling with mischief. "Maybe I'll just have to convince you one day."

Across the room, Sukuna is working on a client's back piece, his concentration intense and unwavering. His presence is commanding, even when he's completely focused on his work. Toji and Geto are busy with their own clients, exchanging jokes and stories as they ink intricate designs.

The door chimes as someone walks in, and you glance up out of habit. A man stands in the doorway, looking out of place and nervous. Your eyes narrow slightly as you take in the sight of the gun he's trying to hide under his jacket.

"Uh, everybody freeze!" he shouts, pulling the gun out and waving it around.

A tense silence falls over the room, but only for a moment. Then, to the man's surprise, laughter erupts from all of you.

"Wow, seriously?" Gojo says, rolling his eyes. "Compensating much?"

Toji smirks, not even pausing in his work. "Yeah, buddy, did you lose a bet or something? That thing's tiny."

"Is that a lighter in your pocket or are you happy to see us?" Sukuna taunts.

The man blinks, clearly not expecting this reaction. His face flushes with embarrassment and frustration, his grip on the gun tightening nervously.

Sukuna leans back in his chair, a smirk playing on his lips. "I gotta say, if you're here to rob us, you could at least bring something more threatening. That little pea-shooter won't get you far."

Toji chuckles, glancing over at Geto who nods in agreement. "Seriously, man. Did you think we wouldn't notice you sneaking in here with that?"

You, still seated at the counter, can't help but join in. "And here I thought I'd seen everything in this shop. Turns out, we're now a comedy club."

Gojo, with his usual irreverence, adds fuel to the fire. "I mean, look at you. You look like a marshmallow"

"What does that even mean?" You ask with a giggle and Gojo shrugs.

The man’s face contorts with a mix of anger and humiliation. "Shut up!" he yells, waving the gun again. "I'm serious! I'll shoot!"

Toji raises an eyebrow, his tone still teasing. "Oh, are we doing threats now? How about this: put that thing away before someone gets hurt. Namely, your ego."

The man looks flustered, his grip on the gun tightening as he points it at you. "Shut up! I'm serious! Give me all your money!"

You roll your eyes, unable to contain your sarcasm. "Sweetheart, I have epilepsy. My brain doesn't work right on the best of days. A gun doesn't scare me. Just don't mess with my face or my tits, alright? They're my best features."

Sukuna leans back, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Can confirm. I'm extremely fond of them"

Geto nods solemnly. "Seriously, those are top-tier assets. We should put them in a museum."

Gojo nods solemnly as you laugh. "We'd have to hold a memorial service for the girls. It'd be tragic."

Toji finally looks up, his expression one of mock seriousness. "The worst crime you'd commit today would be damaging that rack."

Gojo grins wider. "We'd put ourselves in the line of fire to protect those honkers."

Sukuna gestures lazily towards you. "Hey babe," he says with a grin, "don't worry, I'll protect those masterpieces," nodding towards your chest. "Can't have this guy ruining what I get to enjoy every day."

Gojo nods sagely. "He's right, those are national treasures."

Toji nods in agreement. "Yeah, I'd cry real tears if something happened to those."

The man's face turns bright red, his hand shaking as he tries to regain control of the situation. "Shut up! Just give me the money!"

"Is it an innie?" Toji asks, feigning genuine curiosity. "You know, your... equipment?"

The robber's frustration grows as the room continues to be filled with laughter and teasing. He finally lowers the gun, looking completely defeated. "You guys are crazy," he mutters before turning and bolting out the door.

As soon as he's gone, the room erupts into even louder laughter. Sukuna sets down his tattoo machine and walks over to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. "Glad our national treasures are safe," he murmurs, planting a kiss on your temple and you snort.

Gojo is still chuckling, shaking his head. "That was priceless. Best robbery attempt ever."

Geto nods in agreement. "Yeah, we really should thank the guy for the entertainment."

Toji stretches, leaning back in his chair. "Who knew our biggest concern today would be protecting Y/N's tits?"

You grin, feeling the warmth of Sukuna's embrace. "Well, they're glad to still be here."

"We're all glad they're still here," Sukuna says with a grin. 

The next day, you come into the parlour with a new sign you’ve created. It's bright and colourful, with bold letters that read, “No Guns Allowed. Seriously, We'll Laugh In Your Face.” Gojo takes a marker from you and neatly writes 'We will protect the honkers with our own bodies' making you laugh as you hand the sign to Sukuna who takes it from you, chuckling as he hangs it in the window for everyone to see.

Sukuna steps back to admire your work, a proud smile on his face. “Looks great, babe.”

Gojo, standing next to him, nods in approval. “Perfect. Now we just need someone dumb enough to test it.”

Toji and Geto walk in, glancing at the sign and chuckling. “I give it a week,” Toji says.

��Three days, tops,” Geto counters.

You all laugh, knowing that no matter what happens, you’ve got each other’s backs—and that’s more than enough to handle anything life throws at you.

The rest of the day goes by without a hitch. As you sketch, chat with Gojo, and watch Sukuna work, you feel a deep sense of contentment. Life may be unpredictable, but with this group of misfits, it’s never boring.

The bell above the door jingles, signalling a new customer. You glance up. “Welcome to the madhouse,” you say with a grin. “How can we help you today?”

[shootingstarwritings]

"Hey bro, how does a crew battle work...?"

Hey, it's me again! The name's James. Last time we checked up like this, I hopped my roommate's body so he'd get better at fighting games. His name's Korrin, but he prefers Kor.

I gotta admit, these powers were a pretty sweet deal. He suddenly had a brand new genre to enjoy and I got to play with his body every once in a while. Seemed like a win-win, right?

Well, we got caught up talking just a bit too much shit during one of the weeklies. Think I ended up messing with my roommate's personality a bit too much while I was jerking off as him. He was far cockier than before I started taking over.

"Yeah, that's right. $500 crew battle," said Kor, flexing his muscles through the tight t-shirt I had mind-fucked him into preferring to wear. "Me and James could beat the shit outta everyone in this venue. Easy."

I wrapped an arm around his shoulder, saying, "Chill the hell out before you spend all our rent money," through clenched teeth. In response, he leaned over and gave me a deep kiss before talking more shit.

We didn't have to play everyone in the venue, but now we were stuck in a 4v4 crew battle; and Kor had successfully pissed off just about everyone who was a regular. We had two weeks to find two other guys to fill out our team or we'd be going hungry for the next month.

The ride home was quiet, although Kor didn’t seem to mind. He stared straight ahead, one hand on the steering wheel while another was on my thigh. Occasionally, he would squeeze while smiling at me. The way his eyes lit up whenever we were together dazzled me. I couldn’t stay mad at him, especially when it was my fault he was the way he was.

"Aww, don’tcha worry," said Kor as he massaged my shoulders, another trait I had bestowed him. My bed was a bit small for the two of us, and Kor had often wondered out loud if we could fit a queen sized bed in my room. “I’m sure we’ll find some guys. Even if they’re dead weight, you and me can wipe the floor with everyone there.” Before I could say anything, he leaned over and kiss my neck. I shivered, toes curling as he greedily licked one of my more sensitive spots.

After I let out a few��� unbecoming moans, Kor pulled away and tittered. “Love making you cry out like that,” he said in a sensual tone. “Well, good night. Gotta get to the gym early tomorrow.”

As the door to his room shut close, I stared up at the ceiling and sighed. I had a few other friends that liked games, but they had no interested in fighting games like me. Of course, that had never stopped me before…

Two weeks should be enough time to make two pros, right?

The first guy on my list was Jason. He was a buddy of mine that I met in college. Smart, kind, and eager to show off the gains he'd made at the gym. "I spent three years to get this bod," he had bragged to me, showing off his toned and sweaty torso. Even so, he still enjoyed playing games, particularly RPGs. He was always throwing one my way or another--with tons of fan translations and cryptic guides as well.

I'd have to play one of them to completion one of these days to thank him for the service he was about to provide.

The night after Kor made his bet, I made my move. I locked my door and focused on flying. My body slowly lost its weight, density, and then mass in general. Skin peeled away and disappeared into dust, waiting for the chance to reform once my mission was complete. Organs twisted into neat little knots that blinked out of existence. My bones ground up against each other before vanishing.

It was only during those few precious moments that my soul was free. I sailed through the sky, unable to feel the wind on my face yet elated all the same. The moon was so close to my fingertips that it felt unfair that I couldn't grasp it. However, I knew exactly what I could grip instead.

I phased through Jason's apartment with little issue and found himself soon afterward. He was playing a battle simulator without a shirt on. "It's about a 73% to one-hit KO," he muttered to himself as he clicked through an innumerable amount of tabs. I knew for a fact some of them were months old and untouched for just as long.

Probably another habit I’d have to kick, but it was hard to focus on that when I kept focusing on that tight body he had. I would’ve licked my lips of I had any in that form. Not wanting to waste any more time, I hopped into him.

“Hnng…! Ahhh…hah…!” Jason let out a moan, tongue sticking out involuntarily as a shiver of pleasure ran all throughout his body. “Wh-what the fuck—is happening—“ Jason moaned as he turned around and began to hump his seat cushions. “AH! NRGH AAAAAHHHH!” Any words Jason would’ve tried to cry out were soon overpowered by panicked pants of pleasure. His hands, which would’ve normally reached for his phone to call for help, could only play with his chest and sensitive nipples.

My will overpowered his own, but Jason didn’t seem to mind. He kicked off his shoes, socked toes curling up in pleasure, and rubbed his trembling body all over the coach. “I-I…! K-Keep go—OOAHH—Keep going!” He said, panting and laughing the whole time. His back arched once more as he let out a strangled scream while his erect cock spewed semen all over his shorts. Jason, mind drowning in a hurricane of euphoria curtesy of me, collapsed covered in a sweaty, semen-covered mess.

Eventually, I opened my new eyes and felt my chiseled body. “Mmm, oh Jason. Let’s get your hand-eye coordination to my level.” As I began to strip so I could play in the nude, I saw angry DMs from Jason’s opponent.

Smirking, I walked over to the laptop and messaged him back. “Sorry bro, too busy playing games and fucking bussy to play with a pussy like you. GG you win, loser.”

I laughed as I got another stream of profanities from Jason’s old opponent, but I didn’t care. I was covered in sweat, smelling like a real man, while I was playing my favorite game.

Once Jason was done and truly mind-fucked, I had one more person I needed to visit.

[kiwisa]

genesis ✩ the harpy

F1 Grid x Fem! F1 Driver! OC

fluff, angst • 5,500 words • series' masterlist

IN WHICH... astrée makes her debut on the track and proceeds to also make history.

Like many other stories, it all started with a mistake. 

✩ March 28, 2021

“Latifi crashed after taking Bahrain’s tightest corner too fast! He lost control of his rear axle which sent the rest of the car in a violent spin! And — oh god — he just hit the wall!”

...

“For the moment, no news from Latifi. The red flag has been raised.”

...

... 

“The drivers are gradually returning to the pits while the rescue services are still trying to get the number 6 out of his car. The car was, one could say, literally smashed to pieces after having rolled over a dozen times.”

...

...

...

“According to what I'm told in my earpiece, Latifi is unconscious but breathing. His vital prognosis is not engaged. The race will resume.”

...

“Will the Canadian driver be fit to compete in the Emilia Romagna Grand Prix, which will take place from 16 to 18 April?”

✩ April 2, 2021

And then fell the verdict. 

NICHOLAS LATIFI WITHDRAWN FROM THE 2021 F1 SEASON FOLLOWING HIS ACCIDENT IN BAHRAIN

Astrée watched all this from her flat in Paris, far from the scene of the accident. After the chaos the announcement of her inclusion in the category had been, Williams, its tail between its legs, had decided not to show her on Bahrain’s paddock. 

“We'd rather wait until the storm has calmed down,” came the lame excuse from a communications guy whose name escaped her. Probably Jack or Harry. Some shit like that. 

Thus, far from the warmth of Bahrain, Astrée, like all the other fans, was reduced to a spectator. The tone on how she would be treated during the season seemed to be set.

So, because it was not yet time to show them her true personality, she quietly observed all this panic from the screen of her television: the continuous news, the imprecise answers of the commentators, the worries of the fans, as much for Latifi as for Williams' future. Because after all, everyone knew what that future would look like. There was no uncertainty about it, and that was precisely what the chauvinistic fans feared.

LATIFI'S BAHRAIN ACCIDENT MARKS ASTRÉE IRAKLIDIS' HISTORICAL F1 DEBUT WITH WILLIAMS

To see her come along and disturb what they knew – the male-bondage that the Frenchwoman had broken through – terrified those misogynistic assholes. The tweets spoke for themselves. Astrée had not yet appeared on the paddock and people were already hating her. She almost enjoyed this, laughing heartily at their mediocre insults, at their fear that she almost fed off. 

How she loved to see men cry. There was nothing more beautiful. 

The radical decision to end Nicholas's season sent shockwaves around the world, not so much for the health of the pilot as for the fear of who would replace him. 

Jost Capito's confirmation that “yes, Iraklidis will be in the second Williams car at the Emilia Romagna Grand Prix” was enough to finish off the last survivors of what many on social media nicknamed “The Williams disaster.”

With her eyes fixed on her phone screen, her eyes fixed on her future, Astrée gloated. This accident was the chance of a lifetime: hers. 

She was being offered a year on a silver platter to prove herself and secure a permanent place in this closed Formula 1 clan. Because one thing was certain, Astrée Iraklidis would not remain a reserve driver for another year. At the mere thought of this title, she scoffed. The woman was better than some of those so-called first drivers but, because she had breasts, she was relegated to the background. 

Women were never taken seriously, even though they were just as capable – even more so sometimes – than men. All her life, Astrée had to face these prejudices. Even in 2021, she was still a victim of it. The world would not change. 

“Be a stand-in and shut up,” that is what she had been told, word for word, when she signed that cursed contract. A one-year contract. Renewable, of course, but Astrée knew perfectly well that she was just a publicity stunt, a new toy for the media to play with. Williams would not renew this contract. She knew that for a fact. It was as if her entry into Formula 1 had only been possible because they had first made sure she would leave it just as soon. 

 “All eyes are now on Astrée Iraklidis,” the nasal voice of the sports channel presenter gave her a headache. “A woman in F1 is almost unheard of. I'm curious to see how she will do in the big league. It's bound to be a change for her. It's a far cry from her karting days or Formula 2. If she manages to land herself in P20 instead of a DNF, that will be an achievement on itself. She'll–”

Her knuckles turned white as her fist clenched against the remote control, which she restrained herself from sending into the wall. 

She had no choice. If Astrée wanted to stay, she had to win. Fortunately, that was her speciality, and these nineteen men would soon understand that, as others before them – in karting, in Formula 4, in Formula 2 – had done, by dint of repeated humiliations and podiums stolen by a "weak woman." 

The taste of victory was even more delicious, sweetened by the karma that always knew how to deal with men who were a little too sure of themselves. 

Her phone rang for two seconds. An employee – she didn't know his first name either, he was simply registered as “CM dude” in her contacts – asked her to react to the news. She posted a simple tweet that said, “You can count on me to do everything I can to bring Williams to victory.” The first responses called her a “whore.” Others told her to crash at the first corner. The usual, which was no less bitter. 

Astrée locked her phone, her jaw clenched, determined to make her words a reality and, above all, to make them eat theirs. 

Her parents had always told her: “you will do great things, Étoile.” And the Greeks were never wrong when it came to prophecies. It was time to make it come true. 

The brunette stood up and, deliberately ignoring the clock in her office which read 11.30PM, switched on her simulator before selecting the Imola circuit. Her fingers wiggled alone ⏤ as if they had a mind of their own ⏤ and tapped on the gears. First, second, third... Soon the woman fell into a trance that could only be triggered by racing: slowing down at the sadly infamous Tamburello corner, starting again, overtaking, never giving in to the pressure of the opponent, not flinching at the Rivazza, winning. 

It was April 2. D-16. 

Astrée pressed “restart the race.” The clock already read twelve past one. 

✩ April 5, 2021

Then came the first practice. 

With an umbrella in her left hand and her helmet tucked under her right arm, Astrée cursed the English weather almost as much as she cursed the fact that she was in the middle of buttfuck nowhere. 

It was D-13 and the first practice in real condition would occur on a – very – wet track. She could see from here the large puddles that dotted the training track in a patchwork of elements – between earth and water – that made her cringe. 

Astrée was not afraid – she never was. On the contrary, she even found that the rain always added a welcomed challenge. However, it was obvious that she would have preferred to test the limits of her car in dry tires before putting it on full wet blue tyres. 

Since signing her contract, the woman had obviously trained in real conditions, ready to step in if she was needed during the first race. But, as Imola was approaching, the pressure was increasing and so were the demands of the team.

Astrée nearly burst out laughing at this. She refrained from pointing out the nerve of Williams to put so much pressure on her when Latifi had not won any points in 17 races the previous season. 

The record to beat was literally zero. 

She did not know if she should laugh or cry. 

Astrée did not want to think about whether Nicholas Latifi had been put under as much pressure or if it was something that was reserved just for her. 

A hand came to rest on her shoulder. She looked at it in dismay before glaring at whoever had dared to do this. John – or was it Harry? (she still hadn't resolved the dilemma) – immediately withdrew his hand and apologised. 

He had been awkwardly reassuring her for a good quarter of an hour, ever since she'd let out a big sigh at the sight of the soaked track.

“It's okay, Astrée. You'll just have to be a little less abrupt in the corners, otherwise you'll –”

“I know how the car works, John. Thank you.”

“My name is Adam.”

“Oh.”

Shit, she gritted her teeth, neither of them then. Without a word, the woman got into the car – fucking awkward, she thought – and closed her eyes for a moment, enjoying that first feeling in her single-seater. 

This is it. 

"So, how do you feel?" a new voice to her right startled her. 

George Russell looked at his teammate with a rather creepy smile ⏤ a good intention of course, just poorly executed. She returned the gesture, although hers was somewhat tense. Astrée had never been good with strangers. 

They hadn't met yet. Or at least, not spoken. A handshake when she signed her contract, two or three words of courtesy exchanged during the inaugural photoshoots, and an almost obligatory follow back on Instagram: their interactions had stopped at that. 

“More enjoyable now that it's mine.”

Hers. Her car. Her place in Formula One. The 10-year-old Astrée would probably be crying. The 21-year-old Astrée just nodded in approbation. 

Don't show your emotions, they'll think you're weak, her father's voice echoed in her head like a mantra.  

“You can go now, Astrée,” Jo– Adam told her. “Elijah is ready.”

The only name she had remembered, the only name that mattered to her: her engineer's, her second conscience. 

"Radio check, Astrée, do you copy?”

“Copy.”

“Great. Whenever you're ready.”

Inhale. Exhale. The void. The tar. The car. The corners. Nothing else. A roar echoed through the silent track and rekindled the flame in her heart. Birds that had been perched on the edge of the pit flew away as the engine purred. Immediately, she exited the garage and zig-zagged down the track to warm up her new tyres. 

“We'll do two warm-up laps to be safe.”

Taking advantage of being alone on the track, Astrée braked sharply, feeling the rear end take off, and accelerated again to see how well the tyres gripped, how responsive the steering system was, and the overall handling of the car. 

“Just warm up your tyres for now.”

“I want to see their limits when they are still cold.”

“Copy. Just be careful.” 

The first two laps alternated between zigzags, braking, accelerations, and corners taken too short or too wide. When the third lap finally began, already a little more comfortable with her car and her tyres – now warm –, the driver let the pleasure dominate everything else, so that she did not see the laps go by, nor the turns follow each other. Soon Elijah's voice signalled the end of practice. 

“Box.”

“Copy.” 

When she got out of the car, her legs shaking, a dozen people rushed to share their first impressions of her driving. They had already seen her drive in many other tests as a reserve driver. They had witnessed it, but had they bothered to pay attention at it on those occasions, when she was only the reserve driver, the product of a marketing stunt? 

“It was better than I imagined!”

“That's pretty good for a woman.”

She took these half-hearted comments without complaining, reluctant to make enemies within her own team, but thanked her helmet, still pressed down on her head, which hid her dark expression. 

Soon, in the midst of this group, a figure stood out and stepped forward. George, his own helmet in hand, ready to go for a series of laps himself, reached out for hers with the other one in a symbolic gesture: “It will be a pleasure to be on the same team.”

Astrée was careful not to share her opinion – quite different from his – and shook the dark-haired man’s hand, with the same tight smile on her face. He may have been her teammate, but on the track, they were – above all – opponents. She couldn't forget that, as she had never been able to in the past. Her journey in motorsports had been a lonely one because of her competitive spirit, and it would continue to be so for the rest of her life. 

“Likewise.”

✩ April 16, 2021

On her first real day on the paddock, Astrée had to face her worst nightmare: media day. Wearing the compulsory mask – a sort of protective barrier for the introvert she was – reassured her a little but did not totally calm her racing heart, nor her annoyance. Because Astrée knew, she knew exactly what kind of questions she was going to be asked. 

Journalists had the rather impressive capacity of never renewing themselves and having the same ideas. If the human brain normally sought to distinguish itself from others, the journalist's brain thrived for lack of creativity and repetition. From karting to Formula 2, everyone had had the same annoying questions for her. A routine of boredom that had a knack for annoying and sending her into despair. 

Her doubts were soon confirmed. 

“Not too scared?”

“What kind of underwear are you wearing right now?”

“How does it feel to have George Russell as a teammate? He is rather handsome, isn’t he?”

Beside her, because all the segments were done as pairs today, the aforementioned George was trying to calm things down, defuse the question or just change the subject altogether. At one point, he even held back her fist when it almost – voluntarily – came into contact with the cheek of an old pervert, who had made a remark about her tight suit. 

Astrée appreciated the gesture – she didn't want to be called hysterical on her first day – and let him know when, finally, the line "interviews" was crossed off their to-do list.

“Thank you for holding me back. It's bad enough no one likes me, I think it would have made things worse.”

“Yeah, no problem.” There was a rather awkward pause as they both walked towards Williams’s garage, the crunch of their footsteps on the tarmac their only melody. Finally, George decided to go on, unable to bear the heavy silence. "I mean… If I could, I would have hit him myself. Don't listen to them, okay? All those... people? assholes? whatever,” he gestured vaguely with his arm at her haters. “They’re not worth it. You drive a Formula 1 car and they don't. In the end, you're the winner.”

Astrée decided at that precise moment that George was perhaps worth it. He had not, after all, made any remark about her gender, nor had he let her eyes wander lower than necessary: two criteria – low, certainly, but the standards had to be revised downwards – that would have seriously hindered her wish to maintain a semblance of friendship. 

If her loneliness in Formula 2 was mostly explained by her introverted personality, many deliberate choices had put an end to any hope of creating links with others within the championship. Astrée had been treated as an object of desire and fragility by many of her teammates. Voluntary isolation had been the wisest decision to make, especially if she didn't want to be penalized or excluded for assault and battery against another driver. 

George, on the other hand, had treated her as an equal – which she was, but then again, the bar was at the lowest – which already set him apart from every other driver she'd encountered in her career. 

“Would you like to eat something? I could introduce you to some of the guys.”

Astrée winced, reluctant to be thrown into the lion's den so quickly. The lion being a dozen boys who would look at her as the latest attraction or as the enemy to be shot. Take your pick. 

“I promise you they're nice,” George reassured her, seeing her reluctance very clearly. 

“I don't doubt it.”

The woman especially hated the nicey-nicey spirit almost imposed by the new generation. She wasn't in F1 to make friends, just to win. George would be the exception to that, she decided. Surely her choice was encouraged by the fact that he was not really a threat to her. 

Astrée had researched all the pilots, mainly their point totals. It was a way to give her a quick statistical overview of what she had already deduced from her viewing of each race. Thus, she knew that last season George Russell had come away with 4 points, failing to stand out from the rest. 

That was already four points higher than Latifi, she couldn't help but think, a mocking smile on her face. 

“We’re here,” her teammate's voice brought her back to reality. 

The moment they walked through the door, a collegiate atmosphere engulfed them. Laughter, conversation, the smell of coffee and the sound of spoons banging on cups immediately gave her a headache. 

A glance at the clock on her phone. 9AM. An hour before the first free practice. She could allow herself a croissant or an apple, but no coffee. Throwing up during her first real F1 race would not make a good impression. No doubt about that. 

"George, over here mate!"

Lando Norris had been the one shouting: an orange blob in the middle of the black-clad staff. Beside him were Pierre Gasly and Daniel Ricciardo. All eyes turned to the newcomers and Astrée felt like dying at that very moment. 

So much for discretion. 

George grabbed her by the upper arm and dragged her – against her will, mind you – towards the trio who were too noisy for her taste. It was far too early to have that much energy, or had they taken too much coffee? 

“Nice to meet you, I'm Lando! This is Daniel and Pierre, whom you might know. You're both French.”

She restrained herself from saying that sharing a nationality with someone could not guarantee an acquaintance.

Of course, Astrée and Pierre had crossed paths before, at the FFSA Academy in Le Mans in particular, but always from a distance. He probably had better things to do than talk to a ten-year-old girl. 

“I know who you are, thank you.” The woman smiled, hoping that this one didn't look too fake. “Astrée Iraklidis, nice to meet you.”

Not really. In an hour, Twitter will ship me with one of you three.

“We know who you are,” Daniel laughed. “I don’t know if you noticed but you’re the talk of the town since you were announced as a reserve driver, but hey, you're not that anymore. Congratulations, by the way, and welcome to Formula One!”

“Thanks!” she smiled, frankly this time, always happy to be reminded of her achievement.

“The interviews weren't too annoying? It's bad enough that we get crappy questions, it must have been worse for you,” asked Pierre. 

“Well,” Astrée shrugged, “they just asked me what panties I was going to wear under my suit. You know, the usual.”

The three pilots winced as George sighed at the memory of the old man. Maybe he should have let her hit him. 

“Why don't they ask me that?” Lando complained. “I've invested in Calvin Kleins. With the price I paid for them, I’ll show them off in a heartbeat.”

Astrée laughed – to her great surprise – which she tried to hide by clearing her throat, but the four men saw right through her and smiled. 

It was obvious to them that the woman was reluctant to bond. 

In the WhatsApp group they all had – which she had yet to be added in – Sebastian Vettel had emphasised the importance of making her feel welcome and comfortable on the paddock. Since they were the same age, Lando had been given the task of breaking through the shell that surrounded her. 

The speed with which her face fell back into a neutral expression told him that this would be no easy task. 

“If you have a problem,” Daniel smiled at her, “you can come to me anytime.” 

“And if you get tired of speaking English, je suis là,” added Pierre. 

Before the woman could respond, George butted in.

“I'm sorry to interrupt, but we've been asked to return to the garage, Astrée. We have to get ready. It's nearly ten o'clock.”

The two of them said goodbye to the trio – who also decided to leave, seeming to remember that they too were expected somewhere – and went back to Williams’ to change. 

As she closed her white and blue jumpsuit up to her neck with one hand – a difficult task to execute with a helmet under her arm – the Englishman called out to her and asked her what she thought of the three drivers. 

“They are nice. It's hard to form an opinion. We only talked for a few minutes. But Daniel is very… sunshin-ey.”

She left it at that, her mind already focused on the free practice session. 

These went without a hitch. Astrée chose not to fully display her capacity, to even appear clumsy, taking some turns much too wide while still pushing the car to its limits so that the mechanics could make modifications if necessary. Elijah asked her what was going on – why was she driving like that when the practices in England had gone perfectly well? – but she didn't answer, knowing full well that all their communications were recorded, and sometimes even broadcasted live.

Make them think you are impressionable and fragile. They'll underestimate you and be more distracted, her mother had once told her, a wise piece of advice she was now following to the letter. It had worked in Formula 2, there was no reason why it couldn't work in the top category. 

To win, you had to know how to use all possible means. The other drivers’ internalized misogyny was one of the most effective tools. 

When she got out of her car, leaving the engineers and mechanics to do their job once she had given them her impressions – in particular on a problem on the left side of the front suspension – Astrée winced, already feeling the stress rise in her throat and roll up into an impossible-to-dislodge ball. 

In the garage, she put her helmet on the table intended for that purpose. As soon as that was done, the woman unzipped her suit and tied it around her waist, wanting at all costs to free her neck, which was already under strain from her growing anxiety. 

“I'm going to stretch my legs,” she signalled to Adam – she had finally remembered his name. 

Glances burnt the back of her head, but Astrée ignored them. In the midst of the constant hubbub of the paddock, between the cameras, team members, drivers, assistants and guests, she blended in and was forgotten for a while.  

Whispers tickled her ears as she passed by some of the journalists. 

“Astrée Iraklidis was disappointing during the free practices. If we don't ask the pilots to bring out the heavy artillery during these four hours, we ask them to have a minimum of knowledge on what they are doing. The number 95 didn't manage to show this.”

And then, that question. Always the same.

"Should women drive in F1?”

She deliberately scoffed loudly as she passed by the idiot who asked that. This had the desired effect as the journalist stammered. Not even his mask could hide his cheeks, which were flushed with embarrassment. A sly smile stretched her lips. Good. 

“Astrée! Hey! I believe we haven't talked yet?”

She turned around and almost collided with this stranger – a familiar one – much too close for her taste. Taking her step back, she immediately recognised the newcomer. The Dutch accent was quite a clue. 

Max Verstappen. 214 points last season. 3rd in the championship. A threat. Maybe even the worst of all. She was immediately suspicious. This reflected in her tense shoulders and calculating eyes. If the Dutchman noticed, he pretended not to. 

“Max, nice to meet you.” He shook her hand with great gusto and immediately began to speak again. His gestures and words followed each other at the same speed as he drove. Astrée felt dizzy. “I saw your free practice. I must say I'm a little disappointed because I've been watching your races since they announced your arrival. But it must be stage fright.”

“Probably.” 

“I think you could make up for it by accelerating more and playing with the gears a little.”

On Twitter, everyone was constantly talking about “maxplaining.” The woman didn't think she'd have to pay the price so soon, and on her own performance on top of that. 

“You could try to play more on the inside. In fact, for example, in the third turn, you took it much too wide, which made you lose a lot of time. And then...” The rest of his explanation soon became background noise.

He continued to follow her, not understanding that she was walking faster to lose him. 

God, give me the strength. 

“I'll do all that,” she finally cut him off. “Thank you for the valuable advice.”

He grinned brightly at her. 

For a man whose harsh attitude was a trademark, he didn't quite understand sarcasm. 

✩ April 17, 2021  

And then there was the adrenalin of qualifying, lulled by the voices of the commentators who paid special attention to her every move. 

... 

“All eyes are on number 95, of course! This is a historic moment, ladies and gentlemen. For the first time, a woman is taking part in the F1 World Championship!”

...

...

...

“The Williams driver's debut seems rather complicated. She’ll have to realize we're not in F2 anymore if she wants a good place on the starting grid!”

...

...

“Astrée advances in Q2, but it is clear the Frenchwoman seems to have some difficulties to find her marks.”

...

“Look at this! Iraklidis seems to systematically take her corners too wide, which makes her lose valuable time. Is she trying to save energy and preserve her car for the race? Or is it simply a lack of skill?”

...

...

“Astrée will not advance to Q3. It's a P11 for the Frenchwoman. Already very impressive for a first race, but it's still far from the capacities that Williams had made us hope for.”

Over the radio, Elijah's sizzling voice tried to reassure her: “If you don't get a point in the first race, it's not bad, it's even normal. Don't worry.”

“Oh, I'm not worried.” You could almost hear her smile. “P11 is fine. You have to give them a head start. It's not as much fun otherwise.”

This sentence was broadcasted live. Insults rained on Twitter. She ignored them all, high on adrenaline and confidence. 

She was going to show them that women could and should drive in F1.  

✩ April 18, 2021, 3PM. 

Blackout. Just flashes: the warm-up lap, the zigzags, left right, left right, her heart speeding up, the lights turning green. 

The first acceleration. 

Take advantage of the confusion during the first corner. 

The total absence of hesitation. 

The Tamburello, taken tightly. Three places already won. 

The routine that sets in.

The fear of all other drivers. 

The laps, one after the other. 

The nonstop overtaking. 

“Astrée Iraklidis seems to have woken up! It's like we’re witnessing a different driver. Look how fast this Williams is going! Was her hesitant attitude during qualifying just a decoy? It sure seems like it.”

…

…

“22 laps! 41 more to go!”

…

“Box,” said Elijah. “Tyre change.”

“Copy.”

...

“It seems that Williams has chosen to favour the undercut. If Astrée risks losing time and places, she will get them back when the drivers in front of her also have to pit.”

...

“The Williams pit crew was very effective on the stop. It’s as if the whole team is riding on the adrenaline that Iraklidis' performance triggers!”

...

...

“George is DNF. He crashed with Bottas.” Elijah informed her. “You're on your own. Only 33 laps left.”

“Merde! Okay, copy.”

...

...

...

“And now Iraklidis overtakes the two Ferraris in a stroke! What's going on?” The commentator laughed in glee. “Williams is putting on a great show, as Verstappen and Hamilton continue their fierce battle!”

...

“The Williams is one place away from the podium! Only Lando Norris stands as a barrier between her and her goal. Will she succeed?”

...

“Incredible! Iraklidis overtakes Norris in the very tight Tosa! It's clear that the new driver is not afraid of doing what must be done. It was a very risky move, especially with worn-out tyres and less grip. But the risk paid off! Now the number 95 will have to defend her position for ten laps and maybe – maybe! – chase an even higher standing!”

...

... 

...

“Only 5 laps to go and Iraklidis is still third! Four seconds ahead of Norris who seems to have been destabilised by his fall in the standings! Verstappen, on the other hand, seems untouchable with his 20 second lead over Hamilton!”

...

...

And then, the liberation. 

“Max Verstappen wins the Emilia Romagna Grand Prix! Hamilton takes 2nd place while Iraklidis closes the podium! The first woman to do so! This is a historic moment, ladies and gentlemen!”

✩ April 18, 2021, 6PM. 

Finally, there was the podium, without its famous cooldown room and with a mask on.

They still gave the three pilots time to recover from their emotions and to discuss their race a little. Astrée immediately detached herself from the two men and threw herself on the water bottles, drinking the transparent gold greedily. It was without any delicacy that she wiped the few drops that had fallen on her chin, almost choking when she saw who was coming towards her. Her cheeks flushed within seconds and her hands began to tremble. 

If nothing else compared to the feeling of finishing third in her first ever Formula One race, meeting Lewis Hamilton was a close second. She'd never seen him up close and personal. The television didn't do justice to his beauty. 

Damn, what is his skincare routine? 

“The dermo-system range from Dior.”

“Huh?”

“My skincare routine. It's Dior.”

“What? I– OH! No! I mean... I– You know what? I'm gonna shut the fuck up,” she muttured, making him laugh. 

The Englishman was one of her idols, one of the figures who had taught her it was worth fighting for your dreams and that hard work was always rewarded. This was the first time he had spoken to her and she was thinking out loud in front of him. 

Idiote. 

“You were great earlier. I saw a couple of clips after the race. Your overtaking of Norris was impressive. Well done, not many people would have risked that in the Tosa, especially on their first race.”

Stay calm. Look normal. 

“I can't afford to make mistakes; I have to try risky things.”

“I get it. By the way, I'm Lewis,” he held out a tattooed hand, which she shook, secretly hoping hers wasn't sweaty. His eyes were crinkled. He was smiling. Even with the mask on, she could picture his teeth gap. 

Her whole face felt warm. Once again, she thanked the pandemic and its masks. 

“Astrée. It is truly an honour to meet you, and to be able to drive on the same track? Incredible.”

The woman left it at that, knowing full well that if she continued, she would end up saying something embarrassing. Fortunately, they were soon asked to go on the podium, Astrée first, to the sound of the teams’ applause only – no audience was allowed – but especially that of Williams employees, unused to seeing their drivers up there.  

Once the Dutch anthem finished playing and the trophies were distributed, the champagne flowed freely. Astrée was happy to pour the gold sparkling liquid over the other two and to be sprayed, sometimes running her tongue over her lips to catch a few drops. 

The taste of victory was delicious. 

No one paid any attention to it, but Astrée was not blind to the subtle shift in Max's attitude. Silent, avoiding her gaze, spraying Lewis more than her, he was far different from the one ready to give her advice the day before to help her in qualifying. 

The woman always found it funny how people's behaviour could change dramatically when they felt in danger, when they realized that she wasn't just a political statement. Even if he had been 20 seconds ahead of her today, he knew for sure that she could easily decrease the gap with a better starting position tomorrow. 

Astrée smirked.

She had won a fucking podium on her first ever race. Damn right, he should be afraid of her. 

✩ taglist !

@xcharlottemikaelsonx @i0veless @simping4marauders @muglermami @fxllfaiiry @exatse @lilsiz @iloveandsuffer @notaceventura @missamericana69 @kageyamama-hinatatata @gentlemonsterjennie1 @sad1esgf @16solace @kenanlotus0 @till1am @itsnotgray @starkwlkr @missflobelova @mehrmonga @crimeshowjunkie @anicega @kosmosgalore @lovemarvel16 @charles-dimple @hiding-behindmy-glasses

[zabiume]

Hii! I hope I'm not being annoying by asking this, but I really enjoy reading your posts about Orihime so here goes; Recently I've seen a lot of people (that hate Orihime) act as if the fan service and sexualization of her is somehow her fault. Not to mention they seem to think it's a completly valid reason to hate her as well. And what confuses me even more is that the majority of these people claim that they care about female characters and hate when they get sexualized, but then as soon as they see a female character that is (unfortunately) sexualized they just reduce her down to her body anyway and say that the only purpose she serves is to be there for fan service. Even when she's so much more than her body! And that might be the case for some female characters but that's definitely not the case with Orihime. So like do they care or not? Anyways this is mostly from tiktok (I know you told me not to take them seriously the last time I sent an ask... but I can't help it😭) But I know reading your reply will probably restore the braincells I lost from dealing with these people!!!!

i've talked a little about this on my blog before, but i couldn't find the ask, so i think it's a good opportunity to discuss it again with a little nuance this time.

i know a lot of orihime fans are not going to like hearing this, but one of the reasons kubo draws her the way he does is blatantly for fanservice. it's not so bad in some areas (SS arc-FB arc for instance), but it's quite egregious in others (that one hideous calender spread, her TYBW outfit, etc). i've seen people defend this by saying that lots of people in real life do have big boobs, and i wholeheartedly agree, but fiction is not real life. as you said, orihime is not real, so everything about her is a choice an author had to make. kubo isn't drawing her that way for body positivity reasons, he's doing it for his and his male-oriented audience's enjoyment. i think the reason we, as orihime fans, feel so defensive of her, is because she was hated on far too much over far too little for so long, in ways that were really mean-spirited, unfair and yes, misogynistic. some of the criticisms leveled towards her were extremely unwarranted. however, the inverse of this is that you can never discuss any questionable parts of her character without people getting too defensive of kubo. which. is not a great look.

BUT. the real problem here is that it's treated as an exclusively orihime thing, when, in fact, it's not. every female character in bleach has been a "victim" of sexualization, to some degree. TYBW was especially hard to stomach in that respect. harribel's torture in hueco mundo, the disturbing interactions between urahara and yoruichi in god of thunder, masaki and rukia being naked without either of their consent (and masaki having no problem with this at all, while the men around rukia make disturbing remarks about it), the fatphobia that underlies hikifune's entire power structure, the transmisogyny against giselle being played for laughs. even BEFORE TYBW, we had an emotionally poignant moment between rangiku and orihime, where rangiku was naked for no reason. fan service is abundant throughout bleach, so it's a little disappointing that the conversation only ever pivots back to orihime. even outside of fan service, there are several moments where female characters have taken a hit so their male counterparts thrive. karin was introduced as a shinigami,,,,,and then never returned to the scene of action. ichigo got a whole 23-and-me breakdown of his genetics, but does yuzu even know her mother was a quincy? several female characters existed only to die and fuel the Man Pain of their loved ones. we know nothing about katagiri, except for that she lived to serve ryuuken.

these are just a FEW examples. i'm sure if we sat down to list all of them, we'd notice that this is a pattern, and not kubo turning his Misogyny Switch on only when he's writing/drawing orihime. i assume she's the only one getting singled out because her panel time increased dramatically over the years compared to the other female characters, but also. i think it's easier for a lot of bleach fans to narrow all these problems down to orihime so they can pretend bleach as a whole doesn't have problems. if orihime is the only one who "deserves better" then we don't have to talk about anyone else, we can just put her under the microscope and act like kubo exclusively forgets to be a good writer when he's writing her, but he's decent with everyone else. orihime needs to be perfect and meet every standard, but other female (and even male!) characters can get away with the bare minimum because they're well-loved by the fanbase, and, more importantly: none of those girls are in the way of beloved ships the way orihime is (since she's a canon love interest that's so deeply embedded into most of ichigo's major moments that she can't just be ignored or written off).

despite it all, orihime has still managed to retain interest and has a LOT of great character moments, just like the other bleach characters. none of this goalpost-pushing is new. as megan thee stallion once wisely said:

[UPDATE: i found the older ask. i say the same stuff there that i do here, but here's the link anyway]

[thefirstknife]

Is there any word on if episodes will stay, yet? Because so far they basically seem like the exact same thing as seasons except more of the story is time-gated and they have some additional rewards for the season pass, so I'm expecting they'll play into the same FOMO: The Game model to try and make sure players don't quit now that the Light/Dark saga ended...

So far nothing has been said about whether they're staying past a year or not. I wish they would tell us.

Personally I enjoy this "act" structure. For now ofc, it's way too early to make a full judgement. I know everyone is right now screaming about time-gating, but I find it more relaxing to play this way. Three weeks of content, three weeks of waiting during which I can do something else or catch up with existing content. This is obviously here to prolong engagement so people don't cram all content in a month and dip for the next three months until the new episode, but I think it not only gives us some extra time to come and go, but it also gives breaks to devs. At least I hope it does.

As for fomo... well. Yeah. It's an MMO. Live service. Whatever we're calling them these days. The company wants us to keep playing. I don't really understand why people keep bringing that up, it's been a thing for longer than Destiny has existed. We knew this going in, no matter what way episodes are constructed, we'd be enticed to play and then wait for new content. If it's like a season, we'd be in a 9 week cycle of weekly updates without pause and then 2 months of no updates until the next episode when you'd be expected to return to keep playing. Right now, at least, we can take breaks between acts.

But yes, at the end of the day, the goal is to keep us engaged and to get us to keep coming back. And it's easier to get people to come back in smaller chunks than to get them to return after they've stopped playing for 2 months. Or at least that's how it is in theory! We'll see how it goes. I enjoy it for personal reasons because it allows for more breaks.

[loveroftoomanyfandoms]

Cooking Up Love, Chapter 5

Pairing: Chef!Matt Murdock x F!Journalist!Reader

Rating: T (for now, might change, probably won't)

Story Summary: Here

Warnings/Tags: Hallmark levels of fluffy, cheesy goodness (and speed that their relationship develops, lol), no use of Y/N, Matt is not a vigilante, but he is a naughty-minded flirt 😉

Word Count: exactly 3200 for this chapter

A/N: And we're back! Thank you to everyone who's been enjoying this story so far, and please let me know if you'd like to be added to the tag list for this or any of my others!

(Thanks to @theradioactivespidergwen for the divider she made for me!)

Tag List: @yarrystyleeza @hailey-murdock @mattkinsella @bellaxgiornata @danzer8705 @chezagnes @shouldbestudying41 @thepunisherfrankcastle

Ugh, this is ridiculous, you thought to yourself the next morning as you tossed yet another rejected outfit onto your bed.  You had been torn between wanting to dress professionally since you were technically working and wearing something more casual since you knew you would be watching Chef Murdock cook and didn't want to accidentally ruin one of your nicer outfits, and had ransacked your closet in order to find something in-between. It's not like it actually matters what I wear anyway.

Finally you pulled on a pair of jeans and a cute-but-casual top then hurriedly finished getting ready before heading towards Daredevil.

You sucked in a breath as you spotted Chef Murdock waiting for you outside of the restaurant. Goddamn, even dressed casually he's sexy as all hell.

He was dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans today, paired with black sneakers and a comfortably-worn-looking brown leather jacket.

His head turned towards you as you approached. "Good morning," he said with a smile.

"Hi," you replied. "How'd you know it was me?"

"You slowed down as you approached me," Chef Murdock replied. "If it hadn't been you you more than likely wouldn't have changed your pace, so I made an educated guess."

"Oh, okay, yeah, that makes sense." You shook your head. "I guess you kinda have to pay extra attention to your surroundings, huh?"

Chef Murdock nodded. “Yeah, I’ve had to learn to utilize my remaining senses to adapt to the environment around me.”

He held a to-go cup of coffee out towards you. "Here, I picked up some coffee for you. I wasn't exactly sure what you'd want so I got you something based on what you were drinking at the Bulletin the other day."

Your eyebrows raised. To you your coffee always smelled like, well, coffee, but Chef Murdock was trained in the culinary arts -- he could probably tell what sweeteners and syrups were in a cup of coffee just from the scent alone.

You took a sip then nodded in approval. "This is great. Thank you."

"You're welcome." Chef Murdock took a sip of his own coffee. "So since any culinary dish starts with its ingredients, I thought we'd begin our cooking demo at the farmer's market this morning."

You nodded. "Okay, yeah, that sounds great. Do you mind if I record our conversation while we walk? Sometimes something will jump out in casual conversation that's good for my article."

Chef Murdock shook his head. "Not at all."

"Great, thanks." You took your phone out of your pocket and started recording, once again stating your name, the date, and the time. "Interview of Chef Matthew Murdock, part 2."

Chef Murdock gestured down the sidewalk. "Shall we, then?"

"Sure."

You headed down the sidewalk together, the gentle tapping of Chef Murdock's cane against the pavement creating a rhythm with your steps.

"So, um, how was dinner service last night?" you asked. 

"It was… okay," Chef Murdock replied. "Not quite what I'd hoped for in terms of customers, but we're still finding our footing."

You nodded. "Well, hopefully my profile of you for the Bulletin will help get the word out."

Chef Murdock nodded. "Fingers crossed. So what about you? How was your evening? Have any big Friday night plans?"

You shook your head with a light laugh. "Not unless you counted a date with my Netflix account."

Chef Murdock chuckled. "That actually sounds really nice."

"I would ask if you got to do anything after the restaurant closed, but I'm sure you probably just went home and rested."

Chef Murdock shook his head. "Actually, I have after-hours access to a gym near my apartment, so I frequently go there to work off my energy from service before heading home."

I wonder what kind of workouts he does to gain those biceps of his , you thought as you glanced over at his arms.

"Boxing." 

You looked up at Chef Murdock's face, which was sporting a small smirk. Shit, did I say that out loud? "Pardon?"

"I said I box," Chef Murdock repeated. "It helps me blow off steam after service and focus when I'm stuck on a recipe."

"Ah, okay. So did your dad teach you how to fight?"

Chef Murdock shook his head. "No, he didn't want me to be part of that world, said he wanted better for me than to come home with bruises and broken ribs every night like he did. He encouraged me to focus on my education, said he didn’t want to see me have to struggle in life like he did."

You looked up at him as the two of you paused at a crosswalk. "I think he would be proud of you, you know."

Chef Murdock sighed. "I would hope so. Not sure he'd be too proud of the way I treated you when we first met the other day though."

You shook your head. "It’s okay, really. We all have our off days. And speaking of off days, do you get any time off to relax and do anything fun?"

Chef Murdock nodded. "I take Sunday after brunch service to relax and unwind. Sometimes Mondays too, but most Mondays I'm at the restaurant testing and perfecting new recipes."

"Like your apology tiramisu?"

Chef Murdock chuckled. "Yeah, but I'm also working on a few other recipes as well right now, appetizers and main dishes and such." 

You continued on as the crosswalk sign switched from 'stop' to 'walk'. "How long have you been at the Bulletin ?" Chef Murdock asked. 

"Five years," you replied. "I was at the Bugle for a little while before that, but the editor was only interested in unsubstantiated gossip and wouldn't let me write the kind of pieces I wanted to write."

"Which are human-interest stories?"

You nodded. "Don't get me wrong, I like to dig into a good investigative assignment just as much as the next journalist, but my stories don't always have to be hard-hitting exposés -- I want our readers to connect to the people I write about."

Chef Murdock looked contemplative. "That's admirable. So what made you want to be a journalist?"

"I've always loved listening to people talk about their lives and hearing about their hopes and dreams. One day I decided I wanted to be able to share their stories with the world and since I always had a knack for writing, I decided to become a journalist."

"Where did you go to school?"

You huffed out a light laugh. "Hey, who's interviewing who here?"

Chef Murdock grinned, his cheeks turning an adorable shade of pink. "Sorry."

You shook your head. "It's fine, I'm totally kidding. I just didn't think you'd want to hear me ramble on about myself."

Chef Murdock shook his head. "No, it's fine, I uh… Actually I really like your voice." 

Your face heated. "Oh."

Chef Murdock shrugged, suddenly looking a bit shy. "I mean, I can't recognize people by their looks, obviously, so I pay a lot of attention to people's voices. Yours sounds nice."

Your heart fluttered again. Chill out, he's not flirting with you. "Thank you. I, um, I went to Columbia, by the way."

Chef Murdock nodded. "I considered going there -- thought about being a lawyer for a while, but I ultimately decided to go to culinary school instead."

You could picture Chef Murdock in a business suit, arguing a case in front of a captivated jury. He certainly could sway my opinion. "Oh, wow, that's… quite a different career path."

"Yeah, I thought that was what my dad would have wanted me to do but I eventually realized that what he really would have wanted was for me to be happy and do what I love."

"Which is cooking."

Chef Murdock smiled. "Yeah, cooking really is my passion. I love taking different ingredients and putting them together in order to create something for people to enjoy."

"That's really nice."

The two of you slowed down as you reached the lot where the farmer's market was held. "Here we are," Chef Murdock said.

You looked at the expanse of booths. "So, um, if you don't mind me asking… how do you know which vendors are where?"

Chef Murdock smiled and shook his head. "No, I don't mind at all. The vendors all have assigned spaces, so I've learned to map out who is located where. Plus Foggy comes with me most of the time to help out, or Karen will if Foggy's not available."

"Oh, okay."

The two of you began walking down the first row of vendors. "So, what are we looking for?"

Chef Murdock shook his head. "We're just going to browse and see what we can find."

He slowed as you reached a booth featuring baskets of farm-fresh eggs. "We'll definitely need some eggs though."

You nodded. "Okay."

The two of you stopped at the booth.

"Good morning, Chef," the vendor said. "How can I help you today?"

"Morning, Oscar," Chef Murdock replied. "We'd like a dozen eggs, please."

"Of course." The vendor waved a hand at the baskets of eggs. "Take your pick."

Chef Murdock reached out and felt the eggs in one of the baskets. "We'll take these."

The vendor nodded. "Alrighty then."

He took the eggs out of the basket and set them in a cardboard carton. "That'll be $5."

Chef Murdock took his wallet out of his pocket and opened it before taking out a $5 bill and handing it to the vendor.

The vendor took it then handed Chef Murdock the carton of eggs. "Here you go, Chef. See you next week."

Matt gave the vendor a slight nod. "Thanks, Oscar. See ya."

The two of you continued on, stopping occasionally to chat with different vendors and purchase various fruits and vegetables. You watched in fascination as Chef Murdock took his time choosing each one, squeezing and smelling each individual item before deciding whether or not it was worth purchasing.

Finally you asked, "how can you tell if something is ripe or not?"

"Each individual fruit and vegetable has a distinct firmness and smell to them," Chef Murdock replied as the two of you stopped at a booth that was selling mangos. "I've learned to determine at what point they're at their ripest."

He picked up a mango. "Like mangos, for instance."

He took your hand and placed the mango in it. "Feel how firm this one is?"

You nodded, trying to focus on the fruit in your hand and not how Chef Murdock's touch was making your heart start to race. "Uh huh."

"Now smell it."

You held the mango up to your nose. "I don't smell anything."

"That means it's not quite ripe yet." Chef Murdock took the mango and set another one in your hand. "On the other hand, this one is a bit overripe."

You squeezed the mango, this one much softer than the other. "Okay."

Chef Murdock held a third mango up to your nose. "Smell this one."

You inhaled, a slightly mango-y scent filling your nostrils. "It smells like mango."

Chef Murdock nodded. "Exactly."

He swapped the mango currently in your hand with the one in his. "Now feel it."

You squeezed. It had more give than the first one but less than the second. "Okay, yeah, I can tell the difference."

"This one is perfectly ripe." Chef Murdock took the mango back, his fingertips slowly grazing your palm as he did so.

You swallowed. You couldn't deny that Chef Murdock was extremely attractive, but you were there to do your job, not lust after the man. Keep it professional.

You waited as he selected a few more mangos and paid the vendor before moving on. 

You reached the last row of booths and stopped in front of one called Claire-romatherapy.

The vendor walked over to the two of you with a smile on her face. "Morning, Matt."

Chef Murdock grinned. "Morning, Claire."

He turned to introduce the two of you. "Claire helps run the community garden near my apartment," he explained. "I grow herbs there."

"Ah, okay," you replied. "It's nice to meet you."

"You too," Claire said. "So what brings you two by today?"

Matt adjusted the bag he was carrying on his shoulder. "Actually, I'm almost out of that lemon soap and I was wondering if you had any in stock."

Claire nodded. "Actually, yeah, let me grab some for you. How many did you need today?"

"I'll take two. Thanks."

"Sure thing."

You picked up a soy-based candle and gave it a sniff, the subtle scent of coconut and mahogany filling your nose. "Mmm. How much are your candles?"

Claire glanced over at you from where she was sorting through a bin of various soaps. "Six for the smaller ones, ten for the large."

You nodded and went to dig your wallet out of your purse. 

Chef Murdock placed a hand on your arm. "I've got it."

You shook your head. "Oh, no, I couldn't possibly --"

"No, I insist." Chef Murdock smiled at you. "Considering I'm the one who dragged you out here at 8 AM on a Saturday it's the least I can do."

You bit your lip, then sighed as you put your wallet away. "Okay then. Thank you."

"Alright," Claire said, returning with Chef Murdock's soap. "Total comes to sixteen dollars."

Chef Murdock handed her some cash. "I'll see you next week, Claire."

"Okay. Take care, Matt." Claire turned towards you. "And it was very nice to meet you." 

"You too," you replied.

"Alright, I think that's everything," Chef Murdock said as the two of you walked back towards the entrance. "Let's get back to the restaurant."

You nodded as you headed down the sidewalk together, excited to find out what sort of culinary creation Chef Murdock had in mind.

"Okay," Matt said half an hour later as he set a plate of crepes topped with fresh fruit, honey, and whipped cream in front of where you sat at the prep counter in the kitchen at Daredevil.

After finishing up at the farmer's market the two of you had gone back to the restaurant, where you had watched Matt prepare breakfast.

Matt had admittedly shown off his skills a bit, making perfectly cooked crepes and slicing the fruit with culinary precision before making freshly whipped cream.

"Oh my gosh, this looks amazing," you said.

Matt smiled as he set his own plate down across from you. "Hopefully it tastes as good as it looks then."

He waited as you cut a piece and took a bite. He knew every ingredient was exactly as it should be but was still nervous about your reaction.

You let out a moan. "Ohmigod ."

Matt sucked in a breath, his mind wandering to other sorts of situations in which he could get you to make those pleased sounds for him. He knew you were attracted to him -- all of the physiological signs he had picked up on had pointed to such -- and the more he had gotten to know you over the past several days, the more attracted he found himself becoming towards you in return. 

He cleared his throat, fighting to keep his thoughts professional.  "Good?"

You made a sound of affirmation as you took another bite. "Please tell me that your crepes are on the Sunday brunch menu."

Matt chuckled as he took a bite of his own crepes. "As a matter of fact, they are."

You took a sip of the freshly-squeezed orange juice Matt had also prepared. "Mmm, good, because now I know what I'm doing tomorrow morning."

Come home with me tonight and I'll make you all the crepes you want. 

Matt could imagine himself in his apartment's kitchen, making breakfast as you sat at his kitchen island wearing nothing but one of his shirts after a night of passionate lovemaking.

He mentally shook his head. He would definitely need to blow off some steam at the gym after service tonight. "I'm glad you like them."

You made another pleased sound. "These are amazing, honestly."

The two of you continued eating in comfortable silence. Once you were finished, you set your fork onto your plate. "That was so good."

Matt smiled. "Thanks."

He picked up your plates and brought them to the sink to wash them later, then turned towards the receiving door as the bell rang. "Oh, excuse me one second."

He walked over and answered it, the smell of motor oil and fresh blood filling his nostrils. "Hey, Frank."

"Hiya, Red," Frank replied. "I've got your delivery for today."

Matt nodded. "Come on in."

Frank wheeled the cooler with the fresh meat Matt had ordered into the kitchen, pausing when he saw you. "I didn't realize you had company. I could've come later."

Matt shook his head before introducing you. "She's doing a profile on me for the Bulletin. "

He gestured back to Frank. "This is Frank Castle. He's our meat supplier for the restaurant."

"Nice to meet you," you said.

"Likewise, ma'am," Frank replied.

Matt took the clipboard Frank handed him, feeling for the sticky flag he needed to sign by. "Give me just a second to take care of this."

"Actually, I should get going," you said. "I'm sure you have to start prepping for service soon and I don't want to be in the way."

As much as Matt didn't want you to have to go, you were right. He nodded. "Give me just a second and I'll walk you out."

"Okay."

He finished signing off on the meat order and handed the clipboard back to Frank. "Thanks, Frank."

Frank shook his hand. "No problem, Red, see ya Tuesday. Ma'am."

"Nice to meet you," you said.

Matt waited until the rumble of Frank's truck faded off into the distance before turning back to you. "By the way, if you're ever looking for someone interesting to profile, Frank's your guy."

"Oh?" you replied curiously as he escorted you towards the front door.

Matt nodded. "He's a former military veteran who was shot in the head while overseas then lost his wife and kids in a shootout between two rival gangs."

You sucked in a breath. "Oh my gosh, that's awful."

"He became a rancher in order to help with the PTSD and is now one of the biggest beef suppliers in New York."

"I'll definitely keep him in mind then. Thanks."

You both paused as you reached the door. 

"I… I had a really nice time today, Chef Murdock," you finally said. "Thanks for everything."

"No problem." Matt rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "Um, you know… you can call me Matt if you'd like."

"Okay," you said, a smile in your voice. "Thanks… Matt."

Matt smiled at the way his first name rolled off your tongue. "You're welcome."

"I'll see you tomorrow?"

Matt nodded. "Have Karen let me know that you're here and I'll come say hi."

"I will."

Matt unlocked the door. "See you tomorrow."

He sighed as he let you out then locked the door behind you. It was getting more and more difficult to fight the mutual attraction between you… and honestly, he wasn't sure if he even wanted to keep fighting it.

[shakespearefreak]

VHS Christmas Carols

The long-overdue promised update:

My mother took me to the show; I'd mentioned it to her without much hope, but I forgot that I'd shown her Twisted and Starship on YouTube and she'd really enjoyed both... anyway, it turns out that she's subscribed to their mailing list now, and had already been considering buying tickets for us before I said anything!!!

I could barely sleep the night before, so I got maybe 3 hours of sleep before waking up at 5:00 am so I could leave by 8:00 am (my mother doesn't drive into Chicago anymore, so we drove 1 ½ hours to a train station in IL and took the train for another 2 hours from there). I should have been exhausted, but I was far too excited, so I remained wide awake all day (thank goodness!).

It was wild how almost everything went right... we left my place late, but still got to the train station early; the train was frankly great in and of itself (I'd only ever ridden a train once before, as a kid, and I LOVE it so much, definitely the most comfortable form of travel I've ever taken); the restaurant we'd chosen to get lunch at before the show ended up being literally right next door to the theater, which we didn't know till we got there; the food was great, service was great, pricing was actually quite decent... like, before the show even started, everything went super smoothly.

When we got to the theater, we found out that the accessible seats I'd called in to reserve were actually basically front row (slightly to one side, but not even too much)! We had a great view, and the actors even kinda interacted with us a couple times!!! It was SO wild seeing the cast in person; I kept remembering that this was LIVE, the actors were RIGHT THERE, not on my computer screen, and being shocked and thrilled all over again.

The production was so stellar. My mother and I talked about it afterward, and neither of us could pick a favorite actor or scene. (The only thing we disagreed on was that I was a big fan of Meredith's Marley, and she was less enthusiastic about that particular scene.) Even in "Gift of the Magi," which has always been one of my least favorite Christmas stories, the portrayal of the main couple was just so heartfelt and charged with chemistry that I teared up a couple of times. I truly think StarKid's take helped me understand the moral a lot better than reading the original story.

The audience was really cool too, and everyone was super friendly. I spoke with someone who had been to ELEVEN(!) performances of VHSCC over the years, and when I went to compliment a kid with an amazing Ghost of Christmas Present cosplay, I noticed that their sibling was dressed as one of Wiggly's Sniggles from Black Friday!

I really wanted one of the handmade wooden ornaments that Meredith showed in her recent vlog, but apparently those all sold out in the first 10 minutes! Still, I got some cool merch: a Jacob Marley pin and a sticker sheet (which I used to decorate my phone case for the holidays). The merchandise was shockingly affordable, too... the metal pin was only $10!

The only thing that could have made it more perfect was if I'd gotten to meet the cast afterward, but they didn't do a stage door greeting (which is absolutely their right, but I am kinda sad I didn't get to meet them, especially Meredith, who I may be a teensy bit obsessed with after seeing her perform in person). Even so, on the train ride home, I kept wondering if I'd dreamed the whole thing, because it seemed too good to be true.

Oh, and not directly related to the show, but I feel like seeing the show gave me the courage to do these things: I used the Men's bathroom at the theater (I asked first — didn't wanna get kicked out — and they told me it was absolutely fine) and no one gave me a hard time; and on the drive back from the train station, I stood up to my mother about some stuff (she's kind of... very TERF-y, so some of it was about trans rights, and some of it was about Black people getting to dictate how they talk about racism and how someone can be prejudiced against White people, but not racist against White people), and I'm pretty dang proud of how I worded things, as well as that I kept my cool, because a lot of the time I find it hard not to lose my temper around her when we talk about certain subjects.

It was wonderful. Like, not perfect, because nothing is, but almost perfect. (That line from Happy Birthday, Addy! about an "almost-perfect day" kept playing in my mind that night in bed.) It was honestly one of the best days of my life thus far.

[paracosmicparadox]

So I finished FFXV ages ago, but I've been thinking about it lately bc you know, I elaborated the chocobros' story far further than it was meant to go and got way more attached to them than I should have. So here're some things that the game did really well and some of the things it didn't. (you don't have to agree w anything here; I'm not trying to corrupt y'all w my opinions; I just feel like talking)

Let's start with the bad to get it out of the way:

CINDY. I swear to everything holy her character had the potential to be So Cool if she hadn't been so overtly over-sexualized. Like, I'm a woman-liker too and I get it, lady mechanics are hot af, but you know what else is attractive? Safety in the workplace. Cindy's outfit was not something any mechanic would be caught dead wearing. Yeah, it was designed to be sexy, but do you know how many burns she would've accumulated from the hot oil and metal she works with? There's a reason mechanics typically wear clothing zipped up when they're actually working on something. If anything, Cindy's character design just made me uncomfortable. Her character itself? Great. No qualms there. Her design? Please acquire more than two square feet of fabric I'm begging you. I just feel like Cindy deserved to be so much more than fan service.

Luna's brief time on-screen. Yet another potentially incredible and deep female protagonist who got short change from this game. People joke a lot that Luna wasn't at all an important character because the game never really treated her like one. She was MEANT to be important, clearly, but it felt like she existed just for her tearjerking death scene? Like there was SO MUCH overlooked potential to bring her into the storyline as more than Tragic Love Interest In White, and yet?? Idk it frustrated me.

The emotional aspect of the game felt rushed. There were a lot of emotional scenes covered throughout the plotline ranging from King Regis's death to the deal with Prompto at Zegnautus Keep. I feel like the game TRIED to cover them realistically and show the characters' grief, but it didn't quite get there. It was just sort of an "Oh, how sad. I'm so upset and angry. Hm, what's that? My friends believe in me without truly understanding and I can kill someone to ease my pain? Oh okay I'm better now." I get that realistic healing cycles are kinda hard to portray within a set timeframe, but having some lingering effects of the blatant trauma inflicted would've been nice. You don't recover from shit like that in a week's time.

Character personalities tended to be one-sided. Noctis was edgy, Prompto was happy-go-lucky, Gladio was tough-guy, and Ignis was... nevermind, Iggy was great--- HE had some on-screen depth. Personally, I've developed these characters myself far more than what the game gave us, but I wish we'd gotten more canon depth beyond their surface-level traits. I love them with my whole heart and they deserve genuine complexity.

Now the things I actually really enjoyed:

The graphics were on-point. The amount of detail put into character design and into monsters was insane. You could zoom in and see individual textures on skin and hair and feathers, bringing a level of realism to the game that I personally enjoyed.

All of the Latin and Norse mythological references!! As a Latin nerd, I found little gems everywhere in this game. Esp in the names--- (Noctis Lucis Caelum = Of-the-night Sky-of-light (the genitives in there make the literal translation kinda a mouthful ik) Gladiolus Amicitia = Sword-flower Friendship (the gladiolus is an actual flower that gets its name from the Latin word gladius, meaning sword, for its sword-like shape) Ignis Scientia = Fire Knowledge; Prompto Argentum = Ready Silver (the word prompto is actually in the dative (possibly ablative), making the literal translation nonsense, but if they'd made his name Promptus, it would've sounded awkward, so I can see why they picked the dative/ablative form of the adjective for stylistic reasons and I put the rough translation instead)) WOW THAT WAS A LOT OF PARENTHETICAL INFO WHOOPS

Ardyn's character. I'm not saying this bc I'm one of the fans who fawn over him---Ardyn is DEFINITELY NOT MY PREFERRED FLAVOR OF MAN, but character-wise, he made an excellent antagonist. He was witty, slick, and classy in an I'm-gonna-outstep-you-like-it's-hopscotch sorta way. He was a poetic villain done well, which made him an antagonist you could both sympathize for and absolutely detest given the situation. He was both the master manipulator and the pawn one space away from the edge of the board. He can sway a crowd, but you know deep in your gut just by the cunning greed in his eyes that You Cannot Trust The Man. He was definitely Not a good person (tragic backstory isn't an excuse), but he was a good villain.

I loved the bond between the chocobros?? This is probably bc I'm a sucker for the found family trope, but their interactions were so amazing to me?? Like, not even the cutscene stuff. Just their little sidebar conversations during fights or while you're walking around or driving the Regalia. They're Roadtrip Buddies™ and I think that's excellent.

THE FOOD. By god, the food in this game looked absolutely scrumptious and I would like to partake. The Daggerquill Soup? Give it to me I'll pay you. The Creamy Crustacean Omelet? Stop it right now I'll eat that so fast it'll be a criminal offense. Like I know I touched on the graphics earlier, but broski I was not kidding. I guess I know why the game took so long to make it to the market bc the detail that went into these recipes is absolutely mouthwatering.

[bengiyo]

One Room Angel Ep 1 Stray Thoughts

I like when MBS does shorter episodes for more fantastical or speculative fiction flavored romances. This one features what appears to be a broke, isolated man and an angel. We are so fucking back.

I had read the blurb, so I know we'd open with the protagonist bleeding out.

Not this show giving free feet right away.

Okay, I can already feel the "Biblically-accurate angel" jokes building.

Episode 1: Meeting

Oh, the joys of customer service.

I do enjoy when a jaded character who generally just wants to be left alone gets pushed too far and reveals that they should not have been fucked with. Curious about why the mention of the brother set him off.

Oh these guys are stupid. If you're worried about a case, why would you leave the knife?

Damn, dude. He really hesitated on calling for help because he didn't think Koki would make it. That's fucked.

Okay, I'm so glad he suspected the angel was just a cosplayer at first. That's so valid.

An amnesiac angel! LET'S FUCKING GOOOOOO

Random pubic hairs on the ground is such a specific "this man doesn't clean after himself" detail I am ascending.

This manager dude sucks.

The angel molts when Koki is sad. Oh my god.

This ticklish feathers thing is reminding me of oomox with Star Trek Ferengi.

That smash cut to them sharing the futon with the feathers in Koki's face was extremely effective comedy.

I'm looking forward to the angel responding to feelings emanating from a character with muted expressions.

Now, how did this angel change shirts?

The angel is not wearing pants. I see what they're doing and I am not complaining.

This high school flashback felt ominous.

I really enjoyed this first episode. I'm sure @respectthepetty will have color commentary about these two. I like that we have a solidly adult protagonist. If MBS goes back to high school after this I promise I won't complain, though I suspect they're letting It It's With You cover that for now.

This show is making me think about TJ Klune's Into This River I Drown and I am not ready to reread that book.

[cookinguptales]

So my dad and I went on a road trip a few years ago. We hit a lot of national parks, ghost towns, bizarre little tourist traps, the weirdest things we could find in Vegas, etc.

(Also, we accidentally went to an alien-themed brothel but I guess that's another story.)

We did... go to Death Valley... but it was not a great experience. lmao

To preface, it had been windy for a lot of our trip, which affected our stops to varying degrees. By far the two worst situations were in Petrified Forest and Death Valley. We still sort of enjoyed Petrified Forest, even though I literally got blown over a few times and the pictures weren't great. We actually talk about going back there some time to see it better because I do love fossils.

Death Valley tho...

I do like deserts, to be clear. I think deserts can be really, really beautiful. And I think maybe in much, much better circumstances, Death Valley might be beautiful. But it was not beautiful that day, and we are not making plans to go back.

We'd actually planned to stay there a couple nights, but the wind had basically kicked up a dust storm that was so bad that it cut power to the entire park. This is very dangerous in a place like Death Valley, where you can literally die if you get stranded. Like... they call it that for a reason. It was April, so less hot than it would be later, but it's still a desert in the middle of freaking nowhere.

When we finally got to our hotel, we found that it had lost power and probably wouldn't be getting it back for a day or two. That meant very little by way of food options, absolutely no internet, and, probably more importantly, it meant we wouldn't be able to charge our cell phones. The gas station also was not working.

So even though we had quite a bit of gas in the tank, the prospect of potentially running out of gas with no cell service or internet in a place called Death Valley was enough to run us out of town. We saw a little bit of the place before we left, but visibility was so poor that it was difficult to see much.

(And... I have to be honest with you, it was not the most visually interesting desert I've ever seen.)

In the end, we ended up just canceling our hotel stay (they couldn't check us in anyway) and driving to Lone Pine. Which was beautiful.

So uhhhh here are some scenes from Death Valley. Mostly, after a certain point, taken from inside a car. Because we were in a fucking dust storm.

To know just how bad the wind was, here's a video from when we stopped at the hotel/fuel center. Please keep in mind, if you turn the audio on, that I was in a truck.

For this next section, the gas station we stopped at just outside of the park, please just know that I double-checked the time stamps and this was early evening but it was not dark yet. You can kind of see how the sky was blue from some angles, but the sun was still being blotted out by the storm. The closest I've experienced to that otherwise is the odd sort of half-light you experience during an eclipse.

And then we got to Lone Pine and it looked like fucking this when we woke up. lmao. One of the most beautiful places I've ever been. What the fuck.

[maluron]

you know how last week @snowflakechallenge had us make a list of fandom stuff we'd like to see happen? well yesterday it was "create a fanwork" and

here's my take on "Machine Herald deals with Naph coming down with a cough", untitled little genfic that'll probably need editing later (also if someone else still wants to spin their own take on that prompt please please please please do so?)

Naph interrupts his work to cough into his sleeve. Again.

Everyone down there coughs now and then; it's a fact of life in Zaun. Everyone, even the chembarons who use breathing masks like the pilties they've all but became. The only exception is those who have entirely replaced their respiratory system as a last resort--being the only one to offer such services, the Machine Herald is well-aware of the fact, and there are not many of them. The air is cleaner now than it's been up to a decade ago, thanks to filters more performants, more numerous, better maintained. At least, the air less aggressive than it was, but it's still a far shout from clean. Infections are still common even if thankfully outright Sump Rot and Lung Blight are on the decrease.

Still. With Naph today it's happened already too much in too little time. More than the boy usually does. A persistent cough, coupled with glassy eyes and a slight slowness in his work... Viktor fires up a thermal sensor and checks: and there's a moderate fever. A minor infection then; no need to fret.

As he's suppressed his fear response he does not worry anyway, whatever the situation, only takes in facts and acts on them. But even if he still could worry there would be no cause here and now.

Naph tries to hide the affliction, of course. That's children of Zaun for you. They learn very young, way too young, to hide weakness. When asking for help goes unanswered, you rely on ourself only. Naph is no different. Viktor himself, so long ago, wasn't either. It doesn't mean that they should keep on that way.

Why does Viktor care about this one more than others? He cares about the nebulous concept of "the children of Zaun should live in better conditions". What makes this one different is that he's not afraid of him. Well... back when they first met he was afraid of The Machine Herald but willing to see for himself the rumors' basis and to learn more. And also, to get rid of his fear when it impeded him. Clever boy. That was a good start. Naph came back time and again. He does want to learn. And so... Viktor admits that he got used to his presence. Having no emotions he can't say that he enjoys sharing knowledge and encouraging learning. But it's logical to want to form apt minds to do the good work.

Also, he's built a sense of familiarity out of Naph. Even though he's only one out of many street urchins. Having no emotions, again, he's not afraid he'll die, he would not be upset should he die. Not more upset than at any other failure--every and any preventable death is a failure. So why would this one be worse? ...maybe because of the personal investment he's been making in his education, should it go to waste.

Still. This cough. It's not nothing but it's not dire. And it still needs adressing.

When Naph coughs again, Viktor puts a stop on whatever he was doing. "That's it. No workshop for you today." "What! But..." "I won't have you coughing all over this prototype, spray particules on delicate circuitry and mess up soldering whenever a fit interrupts you."

One could hold up a finger from any hand to emphasize a point and of course The Machine Herald does so with his freakng Hexclaw from extra emphasis. That's final.

Naph does not want to be sent home, that's obvious. Viktor never asked what home was for the boy, if home existed at all, if anyone will take care of him there. Naph is also afraid of being confined to bed, deemed uselss. Neither will happen. Viktor put a stop on the working and even the learning but prefers to keep him close as long as needed.

The bits he was tinkering with are swept away and replaced byt a hot drink--not sweetmilk this time but some nasty tea, heaped with honey that doesn't entirely mask its bitterness. A cold compress os offered--fever is the body's natural response against illness--Viktor is no medical doctor but opines it's better to let it run its course and to suppress it only if too high or gets too uncomfortable. There is no use in feeling crappy if one can help it after all, there's no glory in suffering--after all he offers time and again to anyone wulling to evolve past the possibilities of suffering!

So Naph has to rest even if he doesn't take well the idea of staying idle under his mentor's watchful eye. On different circumstances he would gladly take the oportunity to slack off... if there were no immediate consequences at least. But letting down The Machine Herald by not being up to... whatever expectations he had? There is no expectation on you, at least not today, except for you to get better. And that's out of your hands anyway. Defeated, Naph agrees he won't be able to do anything too hard. Light reading it is then, something that even looks merely recreational--yet Viktor assures him that no no there are history and life lessons in it and swears it is educational. That it's not slacking off.

Naph won't even ask how comes The Machine Herald ever got less-educational reading materials in the first place. After making faces at his tea however he finds the never to ask, "And so, you won't give a copper head for that?" "I won't." He will not give him even wire mesh lungs. At least not yet. Hopefully never. As he did on himself to replace his own failing lungs back in the days. Luckily Naph shouldn't need that. This is only a cold. And sure chest colds can get nasty, but it's not chem lung. (Not yet.) And even if, caught early there are ways to slow the progress down, and when it's progressed too far, to graft replacements. But with more luck, by the time Naph grows up chem lung won't even happen anymore?

"Now, we've had this conversation already and we can have it again when you're better ('cause he will get better--the odds are all in his favour) if you want me to give you copper-plated cranial augments..." Naph snorts, laughs, coughs again and laughs some more and manages to cut Viktor's speech short.

[rom-e-o]

I'm in the mood for a good Bea smackdown for my birthday. So can I ask for TeTe and Connie going off on her if they're out to lunch with Bea and Bess, and Bea starts going off on Bess for... everything?

AAAA HAPPY BIRTHDAY QUILL!

Now that, THAT, would be an absolute pleasure to deliver on.

I feel like TeTe cannot STAND Bea, but it is Bess' mother, so she tries to play nice. Connie is the same. Be good, they think. MAYBE something will change?

Should Bea start running her mouth about Bess, she wouldn't get far at first. Bea makes a comment about something simple first, because I'm sure that nitpicking for her is probably second-nature at this point. Perhaps Bess wore a dress, and Bea scoffs at how much skin it shows (which is not much, but Bess definitely looks much more put together than Bea). So, she comments, "Heavens, I'm shocked the waiter isn't fawning over you more in a dress like that. Maybe we'd get faster service. Although, it's not like a lower neckline would do much, hm?"

TeTe gives her a stare that could freeze lava, and Connie regards her sternly over the rim of her espresso cup. "My, my. What an odd thing to say. That dress is one from a recent Barcelona trip. It looks positively stunning on her. Myself, my mother, and the man courting her agree thoroughly."

Bea, perhaps with a death wish, keeps going. After all, they're in public. What could either of these ladies really do?

"I'm only teasing."

"No, you're not."

"Ugh, Bess, what have you done to these ladies? They can't take a joke. You've dulled their wits, I see. I was looking forward to some more esteemed company."

TeTe's china clinks unceremoniously loud against her saucer. Her glare has changed from icy to venomous.

"My dear Bea, forgive me if I'm out of line, but the young lady sitting across from me is some of the most esteemed company I've ever had the pleasure of experiencing," she says. "Just because you are incapable of understanding that does not mean I want to be dragged down to your level."

"Wh-"

"She's nicely telling you that your attempts at insulting Bess are mean-spirited and stem from your own projections," Connie says.

"Projections?"

"Because you're jealous of your daughter, dear," TeTe says. "And quite bitter. It's textbook narcissism."

"Please! I'm not envious of anything."

"You should be," Connie says. "Bess had many friends, a beau who adores her, a job of high esteem, and a packed social calendar with galas and fundraisers. Anyone with a modicum of taste would be envious of such a lovely lady."

The implication infuriates her. "Please. The ONLY reason you're on her side is because you're just as much of a whore as she is. I mean, pregnant as a teen, ruining an innocent man's life? She should have stayed put away. She's earned her scrutiny as a homewrecking, tawdry little slu-"

TeTe's coffee is in Bea's face immediately. There is nobody seated around them now. As Bea pushes herself back and frantically reaches for a napkin, TeTe grabs her by the wrist. Her grip is iron-clad.

"Bea, let me say this only one more time. Each time I tolerate your company, you go out of your way to shame your beautiful, kind and amazing daughter. You FAIL to realize how fortunate you are to call such a wonderful woman your daughter. You were blessed with a child, and refuse to acknowledge the wonderful woman the rest of us can readily see. You brought Bess into this world ... and THAT is the only reason I'm grateful for you. Otherwise, you would be unfit to spend any passing second with. You have my attention because of Bess, and nothing more."

Bea looks to Connie, maybe thinking she'll help? Nope.

"If I EVER heard you insult Bess, call her names, or try to diminish the horrible pain she went through - largely because of YOU - prepare to sit though a laundry list of all your shortcomings and mistakes. Since you enjoy teasing so much, I'm sure you won't mind some at your expense."

Bea retreats to try and salvage her outfit, and Connie and TeTe go to Bess.

"How on EARTH did you live with that woman, darling?" TeTe asks. "You must have the patience of a saint."

[drifting-pieces-blog-blog]

Hi I am curious if you could write your own what if story for moon knight show or comics....what would you write?

I do enjoy a good What If in the comics. (Some of my favorite comics are a nice What If line for Batman and Superman comics).

For Moon Knight? I mean there are so many options.

What if Marc never stopped being a Mercenary? How would that affect Jake and Steven's outlook on the life?

I feel like there are always explorations on What if Marc didn't do things and What if Marc did things and Moon Knight did things, but they never remember to include Jake and Steven in the equation, which is actually very important.

There was a one shot annual I think a year or so back? It had What if Marlene had become Moon Knight, and that was interesting.

A darker take is what if Moon Knight was a bad guy? And i'm not talking about one of those "Moon Knight kills the Marvel Universe" comics, though, sometimes those are fascinating if not a bit over the top. I'm more leaning towards what if he had not saved Marlene from Bushman? What if he turned into a vicious villain? I could easily see him going toe to toe with Captain America.

People over look the fact that Marc knows how to FIGHT and he's actually very smart when it comes to combat tactics and planning things out.

Or, what if Marc had not been the front leading alter? What if Steven had run the life from childhood? Or even Jake?

What if they didn't know or accept that they had DID and never came together as a system? What if they fought one another constantly because they never learned how to handle their trauma?

Going back to OG Moenich comics, what if they had not resolved themselves after Marc's mental breakdown?

We'd be looking at a very different Moon Knight.

What if Moon Knight had gone the way of Frank Castle? They've had this discussion many times in the comics. Frank and Marc are friends, but they often get into arguments about how one goes too far and the other not far enough. So what if Moon Knight had never gotten over his overly violent impulses and service of Khonshu? What if he became an extreme vigilante like the Punisher? What if he served Khonshu to the point of fanaticalism on a level that perhaps even Badr could accept?

The possibilities are endless.

I'd even go to a possibility that I think the comics are keen to avoid. What if his daughter became the next Moon Knight? We know the title Moon Knight continues into the future thanks to Spiderman 2099. And sure, it could be random, but what if there are the Khonshu Moon Knight followers and what if there are the bloodlines of Marc? (I have a lot of thoughts and feelings on the state of how they handled him having a kid with Marlene.)

That's all comics. What about MCU?

What if Jake had met Steven first? What if Marc knew about Jake? What if Layla had said yes to Khonshu? What if Jake met Layla and she knew about him but couldn't tell Marc and Steven?

And the biggest what if across the comics and MCU:

WHAT IF THEY LET JAKE GROW HIS MUSTACHE?!

[gravedirtandbriarthorns]

Im enjoying Veilguard but theres also significant stuff to critique imo, and it occured to me that Lucanis and Spite are like the prime example of what bugs me about the game.

Okay so Spite is a problem, right? It's making Lucanis's life hell because even if it's not actively dangerous it's running him ragged as he desperately tries to avoid sleeping to keep Spite from taking control.

Cool, interesting dilemma...except we know possessions can be broken? The Avvar do it, the Rivaini do it, hell even down in Ferelden where the modus operandi with possible abominations or maleficarum is "Kill em all and let the Maker sort out the innocent?" they're aware as far back as Origins that all you really need is enough lyrium to send a mage's mind into the Fade to either barter with or fight off the possessing demon? And it's not like a super secret, if memory serves Connor's possession in Origins wasn't exactly secret. Even if it was you directly know someone who was personally there and was also probably the one to go in and handle the demon (I recall even with a mage Warden you could have Morrigan going your stead).

And all Lucanis's journal entries about "Everything I can find on possession only talks about mages?!?! What am I to do?!?!" except we've been shown throughout the entire series that spirits/demons can possess: mages, non mages, corpses, several cats, trees, rocks.

There is literally a party member whose sole reason for being there is because he's a leading expert on the Fade and spirits? You have a network of magical mirrors to travel anywhere in the world (the Frostbacks? Rivain?) to find a someone with the skills and know-how to exorcise a demon, and given that Lucanis is like. The grandchild of one of the heads of his Crow House probably the money to buy there services as well?

Like they just threw out everything we'd seen about how possession works and can be countered, which is extra bizarre because they've moved the setting from what is essentially the back water ass-end of the continent where a clever card trick might get you thrown into the Circle to rot to the vastly more accepting of magic Northen half of the continent, one of whose countries is run by a magocracy?? And nobody thinks to be like "Well if Spite is really causing so many problems we could just get him out of you?"

AND that's not even discussing just wholesale taking away the ability/option of just controlling him with blood magic when he gets too ornery if you must keep Lucanis possessed for whatever reason??