#*if vale. failure

[moonshynecybin]

“marc may sound like someone who wants to flatter the former world champion and be in his good books, but just one look at his eyes and you realise his sincerity and respect. his impression changes a bit when we ask him about jorge lorenzo.” valentino when i CATCH you…

this makes me think, do you think vale was aware marc didn’t fuck w jorge and that’s part of the reason he felt so betrayed? that marc would go so far as to collude with JORGE because he just doesn’t want vale to win that badly. or were he and uccio just doing everything to make it stick

i think he genuinely thought it was kinda funny (marc im assuming is also somewhat modeling this behavior based on being a huge childhood fan of jorge’s two main archrivals: vale and dani. like it’s not an accident he pulled that shit on jorge in THAT corner at jerez OR that he called it VALENTINO’S CORNER in 2017. like my man that is literally lorenzo corner 😭), until he needed an excuse for everything to make sense in his head and uccio in his ear and an evil spanish alliance supported by dorna (also spanish) became an attractive option to him AND to the italian media. you’ll notice how he tells the story today it’s not like well him and jorge talked and decided to lose me the championship it’s well marc decided to ram himself purposefully into the side of my motorcycle as early as argentina 2015 specifically because he hates me. like idk i think the relationship collapse at the tail end of 2015 is absurdly ego driven, and jorge is kind of incidental to the emotion of it… it’s about THEIR relationship, it’s about marc trying to fuck HIM over because he wants to beat vale in terms of titles… jorge (insanely) is a convenient little backdrop to the conflict because he happens to be the guy who is actually faster in the moment and who has beaten vale in the past, but marc is the SYMBOL of getting older and getting slower and all of those nasty feelings knotted up inside him that he’s managing by falling back on nasty old habits… and crucially to vale, he was also a FRIEND first…

[cyberpawn]

working on vale's basic fandomless vibe and I do love that essentially the job I've given them is

"works at Misty's esoterica (spiritual supply shop) and pizza delivery driver"

[anxioustential]

I feel like surely someone must have giffed Luca's maiden moto2 win....but my god I truly cannot find anything for it at all

[vaeolus]

one of the strongest forms of community bonding is when a sports team that is notorious for sucking ass for years finally gets good again. there's so much hope in the air. such camaraderie. i ask someone "how are you" and they say "i'm wearing a lions hat!" because that's enough. that's all we need to communicate

[quietplace26]

Furina!MC au: The Oceanid and the Dragon Simp

Notes: Another alternate take on my Furina!MC au. Where a darker Focalors doesn't take kindly to her 'human' self's meekness and replaces her.

Warnings: OCness, cringe, the usual stuff.

It takes all but barely even a decade before Focalors grows tired of Furina!MC.

Her 'human' self was... lacking. Too meek. Too clumsy. Everything a Goddess should NOT be.

Focalors couldn't let it continue. Her plan was on the line and Furina!MC would only mess everything up in the long run.

So Focalors fixed it. She made a new and better 'Furina'. Her ideal human self.

With this prefect doll, Focalors had it round up Fontaine's citizens to get rid of the 'fake' Hydro Archon, Furina!MC.

And when Furina!MC threw herself into Fontaine's waters to escape, Focalors thought of her no more. Why? Because there was no possible way that failure would survive out on her own.

And with that, Focalors focused back on her plan. On saving Fontaine from the prophecy.

But unknown to her, that 'failure' survives, and she THRIVES.

...Furina!MC doesn't know how she did it, but she manages to swim all the way to Liyue, to Chenyu Vale.

She was terrified, not at all sure what to do. Too scared to even talk to other humans! Should... Should she try and contact the Geo Archon?

No. No she couldn't. Zhongli-er, he was still Rex Lapis around this time, he most likely wouldn't help her, or at least that's what her minds says...

In her panic, she doesn't notice something was watching her from the water...

What was it? An Oceanid. Rhodeia, to be exact. She was visiting some Oceanids that made the waters of Chenyu Vale their home and happens upon a panic induced Furina!MC near the shoreline.

Of course, she thinks it's Focalors at first, feeling rage that the Hydro Archon dare show her face before an Oceanid, only... it wasn't Focalors.

Rhodeia realizes this and swims up to the crying girl.

When Furina!MC first sees the Oceanid, her panic becomes worse and she's crying heavily now. She was going to die-

Rhodeia now seeing that this truly wasn't Focalors, croons, wrapping the trembling girl in her fins.

This scared dear was one of Rhodeia's kin, she could FEEL it. Focalors most likely had something to do with it, but this young human Oceanid was alone and scared, so who was Rhodeia to leave kin suffering?

Rhodeia takes Furina!MC back to her home territory, deep in Wuwang Hill, where she could keep this 'youngling' Oceanid safe and away from Focalors grubby hands.

And that's where Furina!MC lived for the next 500 years, learning from Rhodeia, who would quickly become like a mother figure she desperately needed, how to wield her Oceanid side and be ONE with water.

Rhodeia wasn't a harsh teacher, so with her careful teachings, Furina!MC managed to learn to shift into her Oceanid form for the first time.

It was a magical experience! Furina!MC still couldn't get over how it felt swimming through the waters and air! Her Oceanid body felt light! She felt... free...

Though she wasn't expecting the aftereffects once she shifted back into her human form. That being the two blue tail fins sticking out her lower back, along with blue, intricate markings all over her body.

She could never get rid them. Rhodeia thought the changes were adorable as they showed Furina!MC's Oceanid heritage even when she was in human form.

500 years was a long time, especially for a human soul that once thought of Genshin Impact as nothing but just a game, but Furina!MC managed.

She bonded with her fellow Oceanids, finding friendship and sisterhood among them despite her... relation, with Focalors.

However, through the 500 years of living in Liyue, there was some bumps on the road.

Like how Rex Lapis happened upon Furina!MC while she was relaxing in her human form by the water.

Guy thinks she was a hidden Adepti he somehow never met only for Rhodeia to come up from behind and Hydro blast his Geo ass into the water.

Needless to say, it was quite the first meeting between Furina!MC and Rex Lapis.

And thankfully, despite Furina!MC's past worries, the Geo Archon welcomes her in his lands. A bit, she did have to sign a contact with him, but it was from her request.

She only asked that he never tells Fontaine or Fontaine's 'Hydro Archon' of her existence in Liyue.

And Rex Lapis, ever the God who values contracts, agreed.

The two them would become rather close friends over the next 500 years. Tea dates were a must between them and Furina!MC was even invited to meet the other Adepti.

And without even realizing it, 500 years do past... Furina!MC only truly realizes this when Rex Lapis comes with news. He was retiring.

This makes Furina!MC realize the canon Genshin Impact was about to start... and it made her nervous. Would her existence mess with the plot? What about Fontaine? What about her replacement?

Furina!MC tries not to think about it, instead, she focuses on helping Rex- no, it was Zhongli now finally, slide into his role as a human.

But since Canon events were here now... that meant a certain blond Outlander and their fairy friend would most likely stop by Furina!MC and her mother's home.

And she was correct, as not too long later, the Traveler and Paimon wanders into her home which cause Rhodeia to attack immediately.

To cut a long story short, Furina!MC cuts into the fight, as she hates seeing her 'mother' get hurt, and she didn't want the Traveler hurt as well, and calms Rhodeia down.

This pipes the Traveler's interest, and to Furina!MC's surprise, the Traveler comes back to visit HER.

So, through their journey through Inazuma and Sumeru, the Traveler and Paimon would periodically make trips to visit Furina!MC despite Rhodeia being grouchy about it.

It was also during this that happen upon Furina!MC in her human form one day, which leads to Furina!MC sitting them down to talk as she knew they were going to Fontaine next...

She made both the Traveler and Paimon promise not to say anything about her when they were in Fontaine, especially when they met the Hydro Archon.

The Traveler asks why? And Furina!MC says-

"...You'll understand once you see her..." The human Oceanid wraps her arms around herself, her expression wary. Her tail fins quiver behind her, showing her true emotions. She was scared...

And when the Traveler arrived at Fontaine and met the Hydro Archon herself? They immediately understood.

The Hydro Archon looked exactly like Furina!MC... but she felt too doll like. Not real. Her presence made shivers go down the Traveler's spine.

But canon events still happen like in the game... mostly.

When Focalors sacrificed herself to break the Hydro Throne, the Furina doll she created 'died' as well, disintegrating back into water.

With their journey in Fontaine finished, the Traveler was honestly not going to say anything about Furina!MC to anyone in Fontaine, only, they should've been quieter when they were talking with Paimon about telling the human Oceanid the news...

Neither noticed Neuvillette was behind them until he tells them to follow him to his office.

The Hydro Sovereign then proceeds to squeeze everything out of the pair, finding out what Focalors did, and how his 'Archon' had been nothing but a doll.

It was... disturbing, to say the least. And disheartening as well.

But hearing the Traveler and Paimon share what they knew about Furina!MC... she sounded like a wonderful lady despite all the pain she went through.

He wanted to meet her.

Of course, both the Traveler and Paimon quickly try to persuade him that maybe that wasn't a good idea, but he was determined.

He wanted to meet Furina!MC. He wanted to meet the one he should've met 400 years ago, not that doll Focalors made.

So, with a determined Dragon refusing to listen to reason, the Traveler reluctantly agrees to lead Neuvillette to where Furina!MC resided.

But only if he gave them the chance to go talk to her first!

The Traveler and Paimon knew Furina!MC was a shy soul, an anxious one at that, and the fact they unintentionally broke their promise to her made things more difficult.

Thankfully, Furina!MC was a sweetheart at her core and understood it wasn't their fault.

But holy Mora she was screwed! What was she going to do?! How was she going to handle talking to Neuvillette?! Like even though it's been 500 years, she still clearly remembers the big fat crush she had on him when she played Genshin back in her past life!

She was going to humiliate herself!!

But even so, she agrees to the meet up... Oh... she really hoped she wouldn't regret this...

A few days pass, and Furina!MC was anxiously waiting on the platform in her home with Rhodeia, who was quietly trying to comfort her.

Outside Oceanids' home, the Traveler and Paimon leads Neuvillette in and once they set foot into the arena, Neuvillette's sees two figures (Furina!MC and Rhodeia), but his attention is distracted by the flash of blue poking out the backside of the smaller figure. (Furina!MC)

Swaying in an almost nervous fashion before him was a pair of quite frankly adorable blue tail fins.

And just like that, the dragon part of his brain clicks on.

Meaning, with the return of his authority, his instincts as a Hydro Dragon were at an all-time high. Which also meant... his brain was telling him the owner of the cute tail fins was a potential mate for him!!

And even when the owner turns around, revealing a similar face to both Focalors and the fake Archon he used to serve, all he could pay attention to be those tail fins...

Thankfully both the Traveler and Paimon notices his distracted state, and the fairy pokes his cheek to get his attention back on the topic.

The following conversation... would be mostly one-sided, as once again Neuvillette becomes quickly distracted by not only her tail fins, but also Furina!MC's voice.

It was so much softer... softer than the 'Furina' he once knew...

Soft spoken, polite, and adorable, that was what Neuvillette sees Furina!MC as... Uh... What was she talking about again???

This poor dragon has fallen into simp mode.

And poor Furina!MC is oblivious to it, as she was trying not to visibly panic since Neuvillette wasn't saying anything! Only staring at her blankly!

So of course, she misunderstands the whole situation, thinking, "Oh god he hates me!!!"

Now officially seconds from freaking out, Furina!MC tries to calm herself by nervous raising a hand to brush some hair from her face, only, Neuvillette grabs her hand.

He holds with both hands, like it like it was glass, looks Furina!MC straight in the eyes, and asks her to marry him.

And Furina!MC does the first thing that comes to mind. She turns into a human tomato and faints on the spot, leaving chaos behind her as Neuvillette frets over her unconcious form, and both the Traveler and Paimon try to hold back a murderous Rhodeia.

[syndrossi]

Regret AU: Part 5(b)

Daemon is, uh, going through a few things of his own now.

x~x~x

In the weeks since he had returned to King’s Landing, Daemon had found himself inundated with letters from lords and knights who would not have given him a second glance since he had been disinherited in favor of Rhaenyra, but were now eager to congratulate him on his success in the Stepstones.

It was no different in court, where he had allowed himself to be fooled by the whispers of speculation that Viserys’s warm reception might be a sign that he had given up finding Rhaenyra a suitor from amongst the other families of the realm, and sought someone closer to home. More than a fool. I was a raving, dribbling lackwit to think that my brother would see me for anything but a burden to be suffered.

Daemon could not even wallow in his rage, the burn of humiliation just as strong, clogging his throat. He had stopped just short of begging, and still his brother had all but scoffed at him by the end of it. He treats me like a child whining about finding peas on my plate.

He stared at the pile of letters from today’s haul that a page had left with Rolen, sick unto death of false promises and false hope and adoration that turned to indifference at the changing of the wind. I should burn them. I should burn them, burn this room, burn—

“My prince?”

Rolen was looking at him with a concern that brought the rage to a roaring fire in his chest, only for it to die with a whimper, leaving him bereft. I am a thing of pity. How the court would laugh and sneer if whispers of his failure made it out of Viserys’s chamber.

“Shall I read them to you?”

Daemon flopped onto the couch, still unaccustomed to the way his short hair barely moved, and stared at the ceiling, marveling that he had ever missed King’s Landing. The arrows slung his way by ambitious Triarchy bowmen had been honest, at least, and his response simple: burn them all. That had sadly not been an option for Corlys’s more irritating advisors, but Drahar’s men had on occasion done him a favor there.

“If you like,” Daemon said.

He closed his eyes, only half-listening. Rolen’s voice was deep and soothing, stirring memories of distant childhood, when he had been his father’s servant instead. Most nights, their father had read to them. Other nights, their nurse. And still others, it had been Rolen.

Lord Largent sought tales of his son Luthor’s bravery in the final battle against Drahar. Lord Mallery wished to extend an invitation to a hunt at Denmarch next moon. Ser Desmond Lowther professed himself within Daemon’s debt for ridding the Narrow Seas of the pirate scourge that had killed his sister.

Rolen paused after that letter, long enough that Daemon thought him finished. Then he cleared his throat. “From Ser Willam of House Royce—”

Daemon’s eyes snapped open. “Burn it.”

“My prince—”

“Burn it!” he snarled.

“I cannot, my prince,” Rolen said, his voice apologetic. “You would not forgive me if I did.”

The refusal was so unexpected that he sat up, confusion overtaking anger. He vaguely recalled a Ser Willam, for it was he who wielded the Royce blade Lamentation. A second cousin of his wife’s; second son of a second son of a second son. He could think of no reason for the knight to be writing to him rather than the letter coming from Rhea herself. Unless—

He stared at Rolen, barely daring to hope. “Is the bitch dead?”

“Not quite, my prince,” his servant said. He kept glancing between Daemon and the letter, his expression uncharacteristically perturbed. “I suggest you read it yourself.”

=========

“Open the door,” Daemon commanded.

The Kingsguard outside his brother’s chamber, Ser Steffon, gazed back at him impassively. “The king is not to be disturbed.”

“I do not care if he is mid-fuck with that Hightower harlot!” Daemon gave the door a kick, causing the knight to twitch, his sword half out of its sheath before he arrested the motion. “I will speak to the king, or I will burn the Vale.”

The knight’s gaze swept him more carefully, and his lip curled. He knew what the Kingsguard was looking for. “You should thank all seven of your gods, Ser Steffon, that I am sober.” If he were not, he might be halfway to the Vale already.

Daemon kicked the door once more. “Viserys!”

This time, Ser Steffon seized him by the arm, and only Viserys’s muffled voice stopped him from driving the knight into the door. “Daemon? What in the seven hells—?”

“Shall I escort him back to his chamber, my king?” Ser Steffon asked, still gripping him by the arm. “Or elsewhere?”

“If you send me away,” Daemon hissed, “you shall never see me again. I swear it.”

The long pause afterward might have cut him to the core mere hours before, but the tumult of emotion that had flooded him over the past half hour had numbed him to everything but rage. Finally, Viserys said, “Open the door.”

Ser Steffon did as commanded, holding onto Daemon all the while. Viserys stood in the doorframe, dressed for sleep, and judging by the mess of his hair, he had been woken from it. May he spend the rest of the week as sleepless as I shall be.

Viserys studied him for a few moments, gaze lingering on the crumpled sheets of parchment in his hand. “Release him.”

Daemon pointedly ignored Ser Steffon and followed his brother into his chamber, past the clay monstrosity serving as its centerpiece that he had been told was a model of Valyria itself.

“Daemon,” his brother said, a note of warning in his voice. “You cannot make demands of—”

He strode past him, to the table by the windows, and slapped the letters onto the table. “Read these.”

Viserys started with the letter from Ser Willam, while Daemon watched the movement of his eyes through the first page. At one point, they halted, moving back up, then jumped further down the page before reading it through once more. He quickly moved to the second page, then the third, setting them down with a look of dazed astonishment.

“That cannot be,” he said.

“What cannot be?” Daemon said, pacing along the length of the table. “That I might have spoken truth about that bitch’s nature? That I have sons of my own? That they were stolen from me by their shrew of a mother and hidden away to live in squalor?”

His voice had risen to a shout by the end, and when Ser Steffon called into the room to ask if the king required assistance, Daemon grabbed the nearest cup and flung it at the door with a wordless scream. Viserys hurried to the door, which had immediately cracked open, and exchanged a few quiet words with the knight. Daemon’s breath hissed in and out, sharp against the silence.

“Daemon,” his brother said at last, looking shaken. “I do not—”

“Read the other,” Daemon said. “If you wish to know the true depths of her treason, read the other.”

The other letter did not bear the seal of House Royce, which made it far more trustworthy in Daemon’s eyes, and its contents were breathtakingly damning. Viserys, who had leaned over to read Lord Grafton’s letter, bolted upright midway through.

“By the gods!”

“Hatchlings,” Daemon said through gritted teeth. The brief fantasy he had allowed himself through his seething rage at reading the first letter, of taking his babes to the Dragonpit to view the drakes and dragons within, had been shattered by the second.

It was not enough to steal my children. It was not enough to make whatever black deal was necessary to secure dragon eggs. The bitch stole our very tradition of dragon eggs in the cradle.

“I must send word to Lady Arryn at once,” Viserys said, his face grey. “I must summon the small council.”

“Fuck the small council and fuck Lady Arryn,” Daemon snapped. “Give me dragons. Give me Rhaenys and Rhaenyra. We will retrieve my sons and burn Runestone as Aegon burned Harrenhal. There can be no other response to such treason.”

Viserys was already shaking his head. “Daemon, that is—”

“She stole my children, Viserys!” he screamed, his fury only heightened by the hot blur of tears that made the room swim. “The very children you mocked me about, for it could only be my fault that our union was childless. I have not held them. I have not named them. I do not know what they look like. I will be a stranger to them.”

His brother stared at him in silence, bereft of words for once.

“She stole the joy of them from me.” The grief had found its way to his throat now, half choking him. “The birth of my first child—children. It should have been the greatest of joys.” Instead, he had learned of his fatherhood from a letter, the moment forever soiled by the crimes that had been committed against him. Against his sons.

“They are nothing to her,” Daemon croaked. That was the greatest blow. “They were not deserving of her love or her comfort. They are but tools, dragonriders that she might someday use to challenge the throne.”

“Daemon, I—” His brother approached him cautiously, as one might a wild animal, to put his hands on Daemon’s shoulders. He had been taller than Daemon, until one final growth spurt in Runestone had given him an extra inch, putting them eye-to-eye now. “I am sorry. I did not know.”

“You did not listen,” he said bitterly. “I all but begged for freedom, and instead you rubbed my nose in your own blessings.”

“I could not imagine that—” Viserys shook his head once more. “Otto has always spoken so highly of Lady Royce.”

“Fuck Otto,” Daemon said, his voice hollow. “And fuck you, if it was at his counsel that you refused me.”

The grip on his shoulders tightened briefly, and for a moment, trepidation found its way through the churn of fury and anguish. His brother was king. No one spoke to him thus, not anymore. But after a complicated flicker of emotion on his brother’s face, Daemon found himself pulled into an embrace.

“I will make this right, Daemon,” Viserys said. “House Royce and House Redfort will face the king’s justice.”

The king’s justice. Not the fiery rain of dragonflame that they truly deserved.

“They should burn,” Daemon said, digging his chin into his brother’s shoulder. He tried to picture his sons’ faces and couldn’t. “They should burn.”

“Runestone will be your eldest’s seat,” Viserys reminded him.

Then let it burn and let a new castle be built atop it, he wanted to say, but he knew that it was not so simple. As badly as he wished to see its halls reduced to molten rubble, it belonged to his son.

My son. He still could not comprehend having one son, let alone two. He will be a lord, with a holdfast of his own.

“If House Redfort was so eager to claim them as their own, then let Redfort go to my youngest,” Daemon said.

“I shall ensure your sons are given their due,” Viserys said. He pulled back then. “Go to them. Bring your babes home.”

“What of Runestone?” Daemon demanded, his thirst for vengeance overtaking the heartache once more.

“You will leave the Vale to me. They will face justice, Daemon. Once I am satisfied that the full scale of House Royce’s treason is known, you may swing the sword yourself.”

x~x~x

Ser Willam right now, somewhere in the Vale, feeling a shiver of foreboding: I'm (my house is) in danger.

Willam and the boys made it to Castle Graftson so soon after Willam sent his own raven that it would have been no more than a few hours before Lord Grafton sent his, hence Daemon having both to read. And Lord Grafton made his own opinions about House Royce's treason/motivations with the hatchlings plain...

[abessive-art]

CARLOS, THE SCIENTIST - “Last week. Seven Days. 24 hours each day. 60 minutes in each hour. That's 10,080 minutes in a week, right?” THE VOICE OF NIGHT VALE - “Uh huh. Go on?”

CARLOS, THE SCIENTIST - “Well, I ran some figures, and during that same amount of time in Night Vale, 11,783 minutes elapsed everywhere else in the world. That's more than a full day longer. I don't know what's happening.” LOGIC [Easy: Failure] - You feel like time always slows down when you two are together. Is that what he's trying to say?

THE VOICE OF NIGHT VALE - “... Neat!”

[commission info]

[atopvisenyashill]

Im jonsa curious sometimes although i go back and forth on if it could happen or not, but if it was never a thing in grrms mind one thing that is wild to me is telling us that sansa was ‘wildly in love with waymar royce’ whose first chapter is literally to forshadow Jon like why even make that a point at all in affc when in agot sansa thinks of the royces she never mentions that crush interestingly enough

yeah so the sansa-royce connection is interesting and feels a bit purposeful to me!

For one thing, Sansa's chapter at the tourney is really focused in on how the Royces do - she recognizes and follows Robar, Yohn, and Andar as they compete in the tourney. She then brings up Loras unhorsing Robar (which is right before Loras gave her the rose). And of course the crush on Waymar.

And then Sansa gets to the Vale! She can't sneeze without running into another Royce there! Nestor, Myranda, Andor, Bronze Yohn himself....and the interesting thing about Bronze Yohn, is well-

The senior branch of House Royce was close to open revolt over her aunt's failure to aid Robb in his war, and the Waynwoods, Redforts, Belmores, and Templetons were giving them every support.

He and his branch are still pissed that Lysa kept them out of the war. You know, the war Sansa's brother fought and died in? Not to mention that the exact same Waynwoods, Templetons, and Royces that Jocelyn married into are all surrounding her as well.

"Bronze Yohn knows me," she reminded him. "He was a guest at Winterfell when his son rode north to take the black." She had fallen wildly in love with Ser Waymar, she remembered dimly, but that was a lifetime ago, when she was a stupid little girl. "And that was not the only time. Lord Royce saw . . . he saw Sansa Stark again at King's Landing, during the Hand's tourney."

And Bronze Yohn knows Sansa.

So I think the Royces are about to show up and show out for Sansa in a big way! I think she's been purposefully linked to them because they're going to be one of her biggest supporters come TWOW. I think that's why the Waymar crush, the Myranda friendship, and the Bronze Yohn connection are all included, to set Sansa up for an alliance.

What IS really funny as you say is that Waymar is really here to help foreshadow some of Jon Snow's story arc - an "extra" son that has the First Men look joining the Watch, starting off very full of himself and his privilege but being able to rise in so many rough occasions especially when it comes to the Others....and the Sansa crush. lol, lmao even!

[sulphuricgrin]

WIP Wednesday

tagged by: @theoneandonlysemla @skyrim-forever @sanzas-reverie @pocket-vvardvark and @yansurnummu thank you!! no pressure tagging: @hircines-hunter @truth-01001001-liar @dirty-bosmer @captain-of-silvenar @illumiera @scholarlyhermit @firefly-factory @pinessydr @flycasual @madam-whim @thescrolls-haveforetold

I've done another colored sketch of Calithil (one day i'll line and shade it) ☺️ Now onto the chapter wip (that's now at 29.7k *sweating*) Sorry this is long! I do so enjoy writing him and Lilliandra researching an incredibly weird corpse. >:3

As always, if you see a mistake, no you didn't.

The third day at Glister Vale has them taking a break from what was written on the ribs and focusing on the spine and mouth. That had its own complications ― starting with the full  two hours they took deliberating on how to tackle it. There was the idea of cutting the head off, but Calithil wanted to hold off on that. He felt similarly about the spine, especially when they weren’t sure if the skin or spine or both were the reason behind the raised markings. Each idea she gave, he found a problem with or had hesitation. Each idea he gave, she thought was too rigid. 

They were at a stalemate. 

“Is there a reason you’re being difficult today?” she asks from her seat by the corpse. She sits on stool, elbow on the table and her cheek in her hand. Her gaze stays on Korina, trying to think of other ideas. 

A sigh. “I could say the same of you. It is almost as if you wish to barrel through this as quickly as possible. Is there somewhere you need to be, or have you decided you suddenly do not enjoy my company?” She gives him a sidelong glance, where he sits at his desk. Leaning back in his chair, he watches her as always. 

Looking back to the pale eyes of Korina, she replies softly, “No.” 

“Then why is today difficult?”

She shrugs. Perhaps she was getting antsy about collecting that book finally. Two back to back failures was not something she was used to. Standing up, she opens the jaw of the girl again, taking a glimpse at the inky glyphs that made her eyes hurt if she stared for too long. She lets go, closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose. She waits for the pain to ease up ― it felt like a migraine that came about from a rainy day. 

“How bad?”

Another shrug from her. “Odd how it behaves,” she comments. Eyes opening and staring back to the corpse, she hums, thinking. “What if I were to look at it past the discomfort point?”

A snort, so soft she almost misses it from him. They watch the other. A subtle smirk on his lips. “Do you have a masochistic streak I was unaware of?” She considers it. Does she? She knew she had a sadistic one at times. It wasn’t as if she actively went out of her way to hurt herself, nor was there anyone that was brave enough to― Oh. Oh. Her mind thinks to hands on her throat. “You do, if that expression is―” 

She blinks at him. “What expression?” She shakes her head. “Never mind. I’m going to see if I can catch what the glyph in her mouth is.” 

Calithil stays quiet, a contemplative look on his face. After a moment, he gets up to join her side. Neither knew if there might be an unintended effect from her idea, but at the same time, neither trusted bringing in a subject to take her spot. “You understand the potential risk to this, yes?”

“Maybe. The risk could be even worse than what we could ever imagine,” she jokes, but they both know it’s the truth. Calithil hesitates when he raises his hands. For what, she doesn’t know. He drops them, a frown pulling at his lips. 

“I would prefer not to write you off as just an… unfortunate accident.” 

Gold meets with light green and Lilliandra smiles sarcastically. “How sweet.” Her hands cup the girl’s jaw and opens them once more. 

The pain builds slowly as she stares, the glyphs stubbornly staying hazy, blinking. But she’d like to think she’s far more stubborn than some magic. Headache turns to a tension behind her eyes, harsher, making her almost flinch. A hand gently settles on her back, just below her shoulder blades, keeping her steady. Tension pivots to one of the worst migraines she’s experienced ― an almost blinding pain in her left eye. The blinking glyph begins to slow, the haze lifting. She vaguely feels a wetness on her face as the pain and pull to stare turns near all-consuming. Calithil gently calls her name, but she persists. His hand grips her upper arm to pull her away, but she fights to stay ― just a bit more! The glyph blinks once more and suddenly it’s perfectly seen. She doesn’t fight when Caltihil grips onto her more tightly and yanks her away. 

She doesn’t expect a few things after that. One, as soon as her eyes were off the glyph, her body collapsed ― as if the strings keeping her up had suddenly been cut. If not for Calithil already having one hand on her, she’d likely have smashed her head onto the table with the way her legs gave out. He quickly eases her body down, laying it down as he sits by her. 

Two, the way he held her face in his hands, the way his eyes held the smallest sign of panic. One of his hands move to support her neck and the other pulls away and―

Three, blood on his hands from her face. She’s not exactly panicked like the mer before her, more so confused when she notices the deep red.

“Breath,” he tells her. Why? “Breath.” She tries to follow anyway and finds it hard. It’s painful. But it pales in comparison to what feels like a spike through her eye and behind it. Her breaths come labored and short. She closes her eyes, trying to― well, she doesn’t know. Her head is shifted into his lap. “Well, was it worth the suffering?” his voice is tight, but she can tell he’s trying to joke. 

She moves to give him a thumbs up, but realises she still can’t raise her hand. “Yes,” her voice barely sounds like her own, slurred under the weight of everything. 

Warmth and the light glow behind her closed eyelids tells her Calithil is trying to heal her. Was she really in that bad of shape? Yes, she realises, when it feels like the weight on her chest suddenly lifts and the pain in her skull ebbs. The needle feeling in her limbs tells her she’s regaining use of her body, but she isn’t ready for the pure exhaustion that follows. She groans, not caring to move from his hold just yet. 

A strained chuckle. “I suppose I will not be telling Psylia that you died.”

“Debatable.” She opens her eyes again. 

There’s a grimace on his face. “That was incredibly risky,” he tries to chide her. 

“Perhaps, but I saw the glyph,” she says rather pleased with herself. “Are you going to keep holding me like this?” 

A beat. “Perhaps.” His thumb swipes along her cheek, leaving a sticky sensation, and she glimpses more red. He must have caught the curious look she had, because he raises his hand slightly above her face, showing her a better look. “Whatever magic that was, it left your eye bleeding. Thankfully, restoration seems to be helping. Of course, you no longer looking at it also stopped it.” 

“Likely.”

Silence again. Then he asks, “Can you stand?”

Wiggling her toes in her boots, she feels a sense of deja-vu. “Most likely. Just―” Slowly she moves her feet, trying to judge her current strength. “―I might need some help.”

He stands first, then offers her his hands, then pauses. Looking at his bloodied hand, he wipes it against his leather apron and offers it back to her. Carefully, they pull her back to her feet. She goes for her forgotten stool, but he pulls her towards his desk. She follows wordlessly. Guided to his chair, she takes it in silent appreciation. Her tired body slumps into it, her head tilted back as she stares at the ceiling. 

“Can you draw the glyph?” 

“Yes.” She brings her head back down, looking to the desk for paper and― A silverpoint stylus is given to her as she collects a random sheet of parchment. A few quick scratches later and she leans back into the chair with a sigh. He reaches for the paper and walks away. She watches him, the way he looks between the written glyph and their work on the board. 

Quiet.

Quiet from him as he thinks. A tired quiet from her as her body aches. She yawns, then grimaces at the sensation of dried blood cracking on her skin. She would need to see to that. Looking around the laboratory, she finds the small basin in the corner of the room and the water carfare near it. She gets up to clean herself but―

Her body stumbles. 

Calithil helps steady her with a hand catching her upper arm. “You could have asked.” When she’s stable, he lets her go, but slowly. He follows her as she walks, a hand hovering at her back. 

“You can’t blame me for expecting to be able to at least walk on my own.” 

He thinly smiles. Together they get to the basin and in turns, they finally clean themselves of her blood. She walks more steadily back to his desk, but his hand still hovers behind her. With a huff, she sits back down. 

“I think we should take a break― Actually, you should.” She narrows her eyes at his insinuation ― that she was too weak to continue. “I’ll check on the other ongoing projects, give you some time.” 

Looking down at her hands that were in her lap, she frowns. She knows she’ll recoup easily. What would she do while she waits for his return? 

Wait―

She could see about sneaking into her mother’s office. The last two times were late evenings. Perhaps she was picking the wrong times? 

Calithil pulls her from her thoughts. “Will you be fine? Or should I expect you on the floor when I return because you chose to do something risky without me here?” She looks back to him and waves for him to go, trying not to scowl. “Will you mope because I’ve offended you?” 

“Hardly.” Maybe. If she didn’t have somewhere to sneak to. 

“Hmm.” He looks her over, and when he seems content about something, leaves.

[kvetchlandia]

Ebet Thomas David Thomas Singing With His Band, Pere Ubu, at CBGB's, New York City 1978

“Pere Ubu is not now nor has it ever been a viable commercial venture. We won’t sleep on floors, we won’t tour endlessly and we’re embarrassed by self-promotion. Add to that a laissez-faire attitude to the mechanics of career advancement and a demanding artistic agenda and you’ve got a recipe for real failure. That has been our one significant success to this date: we are the longest-lasting, most disastrous commercial outfit to ever appear in rock ‘n’ roll. No one can come close to matching our loss to longevity ratio.” David Thomas

David Thomas - 1953-2025 - Ave atque Vale

[strawbunni-shortcake]

A Smooth Red | Casey/Vale | 4.1k | read on AO3

I'm a little bit late with this one as I didn't manage to finish during week one of RPF summer camp, but it definitely kept me motivated to finish as soon as possible. This is the first part of a series of girl!Casey fics that so many of my wonderful mutuals have listened to me go on and on about while writing at approximately the pace of a snail. Thank you so much to everyone who helped me get this finished <33

Qatar had felt like a fever dream. 

She has been waiting for this since last year when she had pulled out pole position sick and jet-lagged to hell on a satellite Honda. This year she doesn’t have to worry about fading, slipping in and out of sickness-fueled dreams and into the harsh reality that had her slipping backwards with each lap. The only battle she has to fight this year is against the bike’s refusal to turn. The desert heat and the blinding sun on the track are silent witnesses to the way she forces the bike to slide through the corners until she’s out passing Valentina Rossi. Racing against Valentina from the beginning felt almost like a mirage, last year's failure - p5 - a spectre that she refused to let stop her. 

Casey had felt untouchable. She knew in her bones that she was going to win from the second she took the lead from Valentina right at the end of the first lap, never doubting that no matter how many times Valentina overtook her she was going to finish ahead. Still, it felt surreal when the chequered flag fell and Casey was still in first place, like she was dreaming. And when Valentina had taken Casey’s face in her hands to congratulate her the feeling of her leather gloves against her cheek had been electric. Every touch, the press of their bodies as Valentina had sat next to her to the handshake on the podium, had felt more refreshing than all the water in the desert. Casey had won on her debut with Ducati which inducted her into an exclusive club with Valentina. Something just for the two of them, and that took longer to fade than the high of winning. 

The fever breaks in Jerez. 

Objectively, P4 isn’t terrible. Casey won her place in Ducati on the back of her solid results. Her team reminds her that she can’t win every race, and has to celebrate the good and the bad results. It’s the only reason she agreed to go to the bar in the first place, to make her team happy. She buys them the first round, making up for not being able to get them piss drunk right after she won in Qatar.

The bar is big for Jerez, the crowd a healthy mix of both sides of the paddock. Big enough that Casey has to hook her finger into Adrian’s back pocket so they don’t get separated on their way to buy the first round. On the way back Casey tries her best to follow after Adrian in the pocket of space he makes cutting through the crowd back towards her team. It works until it doesn’t and she gets swept up in the crush of bodies. He doesn’t hear her yell to wait, Casey’s voice swallowed in the sound of hundreds of people shouting to be heard over the music. 

Casey can’t see over the crowd. Has to keep pushing blindly forward, hoping that the jostling of the crowd hasn’t pushed her too far off track. When she finally escapes the crush of bodies, it’s to the sight of Valentina holding court. She’s flanked by her whole team, enough people that maybe some are even Edward’s.

They're all looking at Valentina as she talks, the way she moves her hands and the vivid emotions that play out on her face are captivating. And when Valentina levels her gaze at Casey she feels how easily she could get caught in her orbit too. Winning looks good on her, good enough that it makes her pause at the edge of the crowd to watch. The smile that breaks across her face when she spots Casey standing there doesn't help her feel more normal either. 

“Casey!”

Someone in the crowd knocks into her, sending her stumbling into Valentina’s outstretched hands. She’s still a little star-struck as Valentina pulls her in, and doesn't resist when she drags Casey down to sit beside her. 

“It was a good race, no?” 

Valentina has to lean in so she can hear, her breath hot against Casey's skin, lips practically kissing her cheek. 

“For you, maybe.” There's nothing to celebrate in p4. 

“P4 is still good.”

“Not as good as winning.” 

Valentina laughs at that. Her head tipped back and mouth open, the long line of her neck on display. Casey wasn't trying to make a joke. 

“No, no.” She’s still smiling, but with Valentina’s head so close she’s almost touching Casey’s it feels less like she’s laughing at her. “You are right. But second, is not so bad?”

Casey stares for a moment, Not quite sure what Valentina means. She flushes when it clicks. She's embarrassed and pleased, and then embarrassed again that she's pleased Valentina remembers. 

Valentina smiles at Casey like she's passed some test, her right arm a warm solid weight across Casey's shoulders pulling her closer. She presses a glass of something cold and strong into Casey’s hands. Which Casey makes the mistake of drinking first and asking important questions like what exactly was in the drink and if it was safe for human consumption, after. 

“Blegh,” She can’t help the way her face scrunches up, sticks her tongue out instinctively wanting the taste out of her mouth.

“That’s foul, are you trying to kill off the competition before the season even really starts?”

“I forget, I forget. You are only twenty Casey,” she laughs.

Vale takes the glass from Casey’s hand before calling out in Italian too rapidly for her to even hope of understanding, and then someone is setting a beer down in front of Casey. She was happy to drink it, just glad to have something to chase the taste away. Vale is watching her as she drinks expectantly, and Casey has never been great at ignoring challenges. 

She sculls the beer. 

That gets her an approving smile which Vale hides behind the rim of Casey’s abandoned drink. She can’t help how the fluttery feeling in her stomach begs her to smile back. And Casey doesn't even remember to cover her teeth when she smiles, only realizing when tries to stop and can't quite bite it back. 

Vale takes a sip of her drink, lips pressed to the smudged red mark Casey’s lipstick left on the glass.

The drink Vale gave her must have been stronger than she thought - straight liquor - because Casey’s head feels too fuzzy for just one beer, even if she’s never been a drinker. It must be why she can’t take her eyes off Vale and how her bottom lip looks stained with Casey’s colour. She should tell Valentina, who never wears makeup in the paddock, that it’s there. Casey could even offer to wipe the red that’s staining Vale's bottom lip off herself, just so it doesn’t look so incriminatingly kiss-bitten.

The thought of it is so distracting that Casey doesn’t notice the way everyone is suddenly shifting making room for someone to sit down or leave, because suddenly she’s being pulled into Valentina’s lap. 

She might have let out a sound close to a shriek if Vale’s laugh was any indication. Casey feels more than hears it, Vale’s breath hot against the exposed skin of Casey’s neck. It sends a shiver down her spine that’s violent enough Vale has to wrap her free arm around Casey’s waist to keep her in place. 

It feels too intimate for whatever they are to each other. Two…virtual strangers? Friendly rivals? But Casey has never had girlfriends like Vale has before, she hadn’t been able to keep the few friends she made and for years it was just her and her sister. It must be because she’s only ever really sat in Adrian’s lap since they started dating a few years ago that it feels strange. 

Her lap isn’t as boney as Casey would have guessed before, the muscles of her thigh feel sturdy between Casey’s legs and it’s easy to relax against Vale. The arm she wraps around Casey’s waist keeps her steady as another round is slid their way. 

Vale insists that Casey tries at least a sip of all her drinks; they’re not all as awful as the first but just as strong. And she has to chase each drink with a large gulp of the beer someone keeps passing her. It’s hard to keep track of how much she’s drunk like that, but enough that Casey feels warm and loose in Vale’s arms.

Vale's right arm is still draped across Casey’s middle - her elbow level with the table, but her left hand has drifted down to rest on Casey’s hip. Vale’s fingers are cold from the condensation on her drink and she can feel it through the thin fabric of her skirt. Everyone around them has switched back into a mixture of Italian and Spanish too rapid for her to follow, but the sound of Vale speaking Italian keeps her attention even though Casey doesn’t know what she’s saying beyond ‘cazzo’ and ‘merda’. 

It’s almost too easy to get lost in the smooth rhythm of Vale’s voice. Casey finds herself sinking back into the warm buzz of the alcohol in her belly and the hold Vale has on her. Catches her off guard when it’s English being directed at her, even if Vale is whispering it in her ear. 

“Look, Casey” Vale’s leg makes a valiant attempt at bouncing in excitement even with Casey sitting on it.

She tries her best to follow where Vale’s finger is pointing.

“The couple, in the corner.” She directs, impatent. “Do you see?”

It takes her a second to find them, something else Casey is happy to blame on the liberal amount of free drinks she’s gotten, they’re tucked away in a corner on the edge of Vale’s domain. 

He’s pressed up behind her, mouth on her neck, one hand on her hip and the other sliding up her skirt. She can see the lace of the woman’s underwear where he’s lifting it up. Casey knows she should look away but finds herself fixated on them as Vale whispers in her ear.

“Can you imagine it, wanting it so much?” 

She swallows hard.

Casey has seen porn before. It’s 2007 she’s married, not dead. But she had always assumed that the pleasure the girls were getting out of it was fictional - played up for the camera following their every move. But there’s no way he can see her face when his own is tucked into her neck as they move together in time with the music. 

When Adrian’s face is buried in her neck like that she doesn’t bother with making faces to pretend it feels all that good when no one will see it.

Her skin feels feverish, she’s hot all down her back and between her legs like she’s still in her leathers and every inch of covered skin is sweating as she rides her bike in the sweltering Spanish sun. It has her rocking back against Vale on instinct, body swaying to match the way the couple moves together. 

“Our Casey is too good for that,”

“Would you ever let someone touch you like that, I don’t think you would.”

Vale’s chin is hooked over her shoulder and her voice feels heavy against the skin of Casey’s neck. As heavy as her hands are on Casey’s waist.

Vale says it casually as if she's been watching Casey as closely as she has watched Vale over the years. As if she knows Casey beyond the handful of shared press conferences where Casey was never the center of attention and two shared podiums. It makes Casey feel a way she hasn’t since she was freshly eighteen and the bike finally delivered her to the top step of the podium. The way she could feel the buzz of the 125cc engine between her legs that travelled all the way down to her knees.

“Casey?” Vale prompts.

She shakes her head no. Valentina prods her again, wanting to hear Casey say it. Probably hears how embarrassed she is watching strangers hooking up in a club.

“No,” It comes out soft, instantly lost in the hum of voices competing with the music. “No.” Stronger this time, “I wouldn’t let Adrian do that to me.” 

She can feel that Valentina is smiling, and Casey doesn’t know if she passed or lost. 

They watch as he takes his hand out from under her skirt to grope her breasts. The skirt’s thick material keeps it rucked up for a moment. Long enough for them to see the neat line of dark curls bisected by the white lace of her underwear. How she arches up into his touch, pushing her chest further into his hands.

Valentina’s hands are big and her fingers are splayed across where the band of Casey’s panties sit under her thin skirt. She is starting to worry she’s sweat clean through them. Her thighs feel sticky even with Valentina’s leg holding her knees open.

She knows she should get up and excuse herself from the table. There are enough beers in front of her that no one would question her going to piss. Casey needs to leave, find her husband and go, but Valentina’s hands keep her in place. 

Sucking her bottom lip between her teeth, something Casey is supposed to stop doing because it’s an ugly habit for a girl to have, she tries to stand. Well, not really stand so much as wriggle against Valentina the way Adrian hates and hope she’ll just let Casey go on her own. 

Valentina doesn’t seem to mind. 

Instead of letting Casey go like her husband does when she starts rocking in her lap Vale just pulls her closer. Close enough that Casey can feel the press of her breasts against her back, close enough to know that she’s not wearing a bra. It’s distracting. She’s never felt anyone’s beside her own, and now Casey can feel each breath Vale takes through the way the swell of her breasts presses against the curve of her spine. 

It’s distracting enough that she doesn’t notice Vale’s hands wandering over the swell of her hips towards her inner thighs. 

“Casey,” Vale says, lips brushing Casey’s ear as she does. 

Turning, she finally rips her eyes away from the couple, Casey looks towards Vale. The loose bun she had put her hair in had come undone several drinks ago, and when Casey tips her head towards Vale her hair falls around them like a blonde curtain, shielding them from the rest of the room. She can feel Vale’s breath against her lips. 

Casey can feel Vale’s hand on the sensitive skin of her thigh too. 

The thick calluses on her fingers are familiar, Casey doesn’t even remember her own hands without them. The way Vale is touching her is anything but. Casey’s never touched herself like this and when has Adrian touched her it felt so different, duller.

Vale is careful to not flip Casey's skirt up as she ghosts her fingers even higher until she’s running them over the plain white cotton of Casey’s underwear. 

She says something in Italian, Casey only catches the last word “ bagnata ” before that slips away from her too as Vale taps her fingers against Casey. For a single wild second, all she can think of is breaking analysis and her two versus Vale’s three finger-breaking styles. Before her core is spasming, it leaves her feeling empty and wanting for more.

“Where you lying?” Vale asks, her fingers still against the fabric of Casey’s panties but unmoving now.

It takes her too long but she manages to shake her head again. Casey doesn’t like lying when she can help it. 

“I can stop then, no repenting on your knees for just this tomorrow.”

“No, Vale,” Casey gasps and her name comes out choked by the moan she’s trying to swallow back.

She moves like she’s going to take her hand away. Casey’s moving before she can think of why , pulling it back to her inner thigh because she wants more. Her hand on top of Vale’s as it slides back up her leg closer to where she needs. 

“Please, I want-” She needs this, whatever it is. Not Vale playing with her. 

Vale shushes her, her lips against Casey’s cheek.

“Look, Casey.”

It feels like a herculean task to drag her eyes back open. Casey didn’t even know that she had shut them. Vale was right, Casey needed to see. It’s the couple, still wrapped up tight in their own world on the dance floor unaware of their audience. They’re still dancing, grinding really, but now he’s got his jean-clad thigh in between her legs. A twisted parallel to how Casey is sitting in Vale’s lap. 

The sight sends a shock through her, hot like guilt but it pools heavy and low in her belly. Casey can feel her nipples pebble under her top even though the bar is sweltering. Each panting breath she takes makes them rub against the thick weave of her polo. 

She can’t help how she jumps, hips bucking against the heavy denim of Vale’s shorts. It shocks another breath out of her. Another roll of her hips. And another.

There’s no grace or rhythm to how she’s moving against Vale. 

She can’t remember ever wanting so badly, not the first time Adrian had lain on top of her asking if she was sure before kissing her so sweetly. Even on her wedding day over the summer break, when all she had wanted was to sneak away with Adrian and leave the party behind so she could finally feel whole when he could properly make her his wife. All of it pales in comparison to Valentina. 

The thin cotton of her panties are soaked through like she’s been standing out in the rain. Wet enough that Vale might be able to feel her even through the heavy jeans. The friction as she rocks her hips in tiny thrusts against Vale has her toes curling inside her heels. It’s addicting. Even the feeling of winning a race can’t compare. Casey feels hollow with it, the want carving out a new place in her that only this can fill.

The slick cotton of her underwear is sticking to her skin as she ruts against the leg Vale has between her thighs like an uncoordinated puppy. Casey is chasing the sensation that had ripped through her with no idea how to replicate it. It’s sloppy, and she wants more of this, faster and harder than she can manage on her own. 

Vale’s hands are resting lightly on her hips, just enough to hold on to her as Casey rocks against her. It’s not at all where Casey wants them. It feels like Vale is teasing her - testing her - and Casey doesn’t know the answer that gets her what she needs.

“Vale,” Casey’s not above begging. Not anymore. “Please.”

She wants Vale’s hand back on her. Wants it more than maybe she has ever wanted anything before.

The firm drag of Vale’s fingers up the center of her is everything Casey wanted. She pushes into it chasing her touch. Can’t find it in herself to care if anyone sees her like this. 

When she stops again Casey might actually let out a sob. 

Vale’s fingers trail over her feverish skin, the sweltering air around them feels icy against the dampness between her legs. Her hands are back on Casey’s hip, but now Vale is controlling the movement of her hips now, smoothing the desperate little movements into something rolling and sensuous. Helping Casey grind against the solid mass of her thigh.

The feeling doesn’t ebb and flow once Vale is in charge of Casey. It’s good. So much better than she had managed on her own. And the feeling keeps building, the electric feeling all over her skin has heat pooling low in her stomach and makes her clench around nothing.

Casey can’t help the moan she lets out. The hand that she has been biting down on trying to keep herself quiet has long since dropped to the table, and it’s the only thing keeping her vaguely upright as she shakes against Vale’s thigh. 

She drops back against Vale like a puppet with it’s strings cut. Exhausted. The way she feels when she has to ride sick. Like she could melt into the ground at the slightest touch. The world is unreal and shimmery when she opens her eyes again. 

The couple is gone now. A dozen new bodies filling the space they had occupied. 

Vale is still touching her. Gently stroking her hand up Casey’s side like she’s a child or pet - something that needs to be soothed and coddled. That washes down her spine like ice water. The knowledge that this, whatever it was, was just a game to Valentina. Something she thinks will show Casey her place on track, that will make her cede position or hesitate to overtake Valentina the next time they’re gunning for the same piece of tarmac. 

When she stands up it’s sudden and lurching, her legs feel boneless and slow to respond. Their feet are tangled together under the table and Casey almost trips over Valentina’s brightly coloured basketball shoes. 

She says something, makes some excuse about why she has to leave and now. Casey doesn’t even know if anyone hears or cares to hear. Doesn’t even remember what she said after she finishes saying it. 

Valentina doesn’t stop her.

Casey isn’t sure if it’s a relief or not. Having to admit she lost by virtue of not knowing what kind of game Rossi was playing with her. Or not being important enough for her to make sure the lesson stuck. 

She has more important things to think about, like not rolling her ankle in the death trap shoes she’s wearing and how the inside of her thighs keeps sticking together as she pushes her way through the crowd towards where the Adrian and her team are.

They accept her excuses easily when she’s bought the drinks in front of them.

It’s a relief to sink down beside her husband and she lets herself be tucked under his arm. To smell the familiar cologne that Casey had bought for him on his shirt when she tucks her face against his neck and whispers that she wants to go home now.

They don’t spend long saying goodbye, everyone drunk and happy enough to let the lovebirds go early.

Casey wants nothing more then to strip off the night and fall into bed. But the cool night air sounds like a decent compromise at the minute. They’re not too far from the exit when someone stops Adrian with a hand on his shoulder.

“Have you seen Casey?” 

It’s Valentina’s voice that rings out, piercing through the sultry air inside the bar.

“She’s right here,” he turns them around to face her.

Rossi is smiling at her, and Casey feels something rise thick in her throat.

“Casey, it was a good race today. Maybe we can have a nice race again next time, like Qatar!.”

It’s nothing, just banal pleasantries. That should soothe whatever is choking her, but Casey can’t tear her eyes away from the wet spot on Valentina’s shorts. It’s irregular - oblong - thicker in the middle and towards her knee. Nothing like the perfectly circular ring left behind by the condensation on a beer. No one is looking at it except for her.

She knows she should say something, can hear Adrian speaking to Rossi overtop her head, but if she opens her mouth Casey thinks she’ll be sick.

Rossi laughs, it’s nasally and ugly but Adrian joins in anyways. The same way the journalists do, like it’s infectious. 

“It was nice talking to you, good luck in Turkey.”

Valentina reaches out, it’s the one she used to touch Casey and take her apart, he takes her hand and shakes it. It’s the kind of handshakes men give each other, the way no one ever does to Casey. 

Adrian’s hand is warm against her back. His thumb slides smoothly over the textured cotton of her shirt with no calluses to catch on the fabric as they leave the bar.

Casey doesn’t feel any better now that they’re out. The air is just as thick with humidity as it was inside, just cooler. Quieter.

“You know,” Adrian says as he walks them towards their car, “I’ve never seen Valentina wear makeup before. I think the red looks nice on her.”

[moonshynecybin]

meee i love vale i really truly do, 2004 forever one of my fav season to rewatch, and i love giving him grace cause that’s really the only fun way to engage with the whole dynamic (his dad, sic, marc is no saint and is indeed crazy etc) but like those bikes were on marc’s shelf. and he was 22. we can spin it how we want but he did release the italian media hounds on 22 year old marc who still went to sleep under 30-40 valentino mini bikes! and i think you handle this sooo well in your posts like in any au setting i’m always like “yup they’re both flawed and yet there is a Villian here!”

(and sidenote but i like that you’re firm on sepang 2015 cause a couple weeks ago there was a weird shift here where i think people overcompensated a bit too hard and i’ve seen more than one post along the lines of “maybe vale had a point”) (i blame lorenzo for this tho)

i do try to come at with some nuance (marc wasnt racing like an angel and wasnt handling his failures like an angel etc) but then i think about the line of toy vale bikes in his childhood bedroom that he collected throughout 2013, and how the only book on marc's stupid shelf was a vale book (love conquers illiteracy <3), and how vale incited a media backlash against marc that got him death threats for literal years and caused him to lock down large facets of his personality in public at the age he shouldve been idk. graduating college if he did that sort of thing. and then im like should we KILL this guy chappell roan

[coimbrabertone]

A Not-So-Quick Roundup on 2025's Motorsports Christmas

Yesterday was the biggest day in racing. You had the traditional three of Monaco, Indianapolis, and the Coke 600, but you also had a cool lead-in because MotoGP decided to host the British Grand Prix at the start of the day as well.

Or the Grand Prix of the United Kingdom, as the race turned out to be called.

Dorna do know that Great Britain and United Kingdom are not interchangeable terms, right? The Irish do not like when they are treated as the same thing.

Anyway, whatever Dorna wants to call the race, the first race of the day was MotoGP at Silverstone.

A chaotic start saw Alex Marquez go down in turn one, Marc Marquez go down in Maggots and Becketts (quick admission for y'all, I don't know which is which and I don't particularly care, it's the fast corners at the top of the circuit at Silverstone) and then Aleix Espargaro and Morbidelli crashed in Vale at the end of the lap, spilling oil on track in the process.

This brought out the red flag.

Now, MotoGP's red flag rules are that if a red flag comes out before the end of the third lap, then the first start is invalidated, and the race restarts as if nothing had happened. Thus, both Marquez brothers, Morbidelli, and Espargaro were able to restart from their original starting positions on their backup bikes.

Now, if you ask me, three laps is a bit long for that - especially at a track like Silverstone - but even if you don't agree, I think it's reasonable that if you go to a backup bike, you should start at the back of the grid. That's what Formula One does with pitlane starts, it's what NASCAR does with the to the back penalty, and it's what Indycar used to do (more on that in a second).

Anyway, it turned out not to matter all that much, because surprisingly enough, Ducati kinda shit the bed in the restarted race.

Fabio Quartararo shot off into the lead, Jack Miller worked his way into second early on meaning we had a Yamaha 1-2 at one point which I don't think anybody could've predicted, and the fastest bike on track was Marco Bezzecchi working his way through the field.

Marco would get through the Hondas, the factory Ducatis, Alex Marquez, and eventually Jack Miller as well.

He had a built of help when both factory Ducatis, Marc Marquez and Pecco Bagnaia, went wide at Copse at the same time in a rather bizarre incident.

Pecco Bagnaia would also crash not long after that.

Anyway, Fabio Quartararo was leading, Bezzecchi second hunting him down, and Johann Zarco on the LCR Honda was sticking with Bezzecchi on pace, showing some impressive form.

It was setting up for an exciting duel, with Fabio five seconds ahead, then seeing the gap evaporate to about 4.3 seconds after Bezzecchi set some very fast laps, but then Fabio responded and dragged it back out to around 5.0. It went down to around 4.5, but then it was holding around there.

Bezzecchi had the speed, Quartararo could hold him off for now, but for how much longer? Both of them, plus Johann Zarco behind, were on the soft front tyre - could that last the distance? Did it even matter given they were on a Yamaha, an Aprilia, and a Honda, respectively, while Marc Marquez on the Ducati had worked his way back up to fourth?

A lot of questions, but it came to a grueling end when Fabio was going slowly all of a sudden.

What had happened? Engine failure? Gearbox? Tyre?

Nope. Fabio's ride height device was stuck down from the Wellington straight and try as he might, Fabio couldn't get it to disengage.

The ride height device causes the bike to hunker down and extend off the start and on straightaways to make the bike function almost like a drag bike. This is worth a precious few miles per hour down the straights, but it makes it impossible to turn - after all, making it like a drag bike is a double-edged sword.

It's supposed to function like DRS in that it disengages when a rider gets on the brakes, but for Fabio? It didn't.

This left Marco Bezzecchi in a clear lead because Johann Zarco was fading a bit - a camera shot would show how shredded Zarco's front tyre was at this point - but there were so many laps left that, for me, it became the tensest period of the weekend.

The thing that MotoGP has, above all over forms of motorsport, is the uncertainty. Nothing is ever guaranteed. It's so easy to go a little wide and slide off the bike, or worse, your bike could slide, grip up in an instant, and snap back furiously as it bucks you off into the stratosphere. It's just as possible to crash five seconds in the lead as it is in a wheel-to-wheel battle with another rider.

Furthermore, MotoGP still has some of that prototype charm that series like F1, Indycar, and the rest have lost as things became more and more spec, or put into tighter boxes even if they aren't spec. The most obvious example is the different engines: Yamaha runs an Inline-4, everyone else has V4s, but at Silverstone, that didn't stop the bikes from being competitive with one another.

Racing prototypes at the very limits of new technology also means that reliability is always a factor, which is what caught Fabio out despite being over four seconds in the lead.

All of that means that, when Bezzecchi was in the lead, I was just hoping desperately that he'd make it. I even started bargaining mentally, saying that I could accept a Marquez podium so long as Bezzecchi stayed on the bike and got the win. I didn't care about the championship, I just wanted to see one of my favorite riders win a race on my favorite bike.

I wanted nothing more than for the race to end, every lap that it went on was agony because I knew the tyres were worn, I knew Bezzecchi could be a bit of a crasher, and Quartararo's retirement just demonstrated that even if everything else goes well, reliability can be a cruel mistress.

Fortunately, Marco Bezzecchi made the finish. His first win since India 2023 and Aprilia's first win of the season.

Thank God.

After all the tension and hope and uncertainty of that only to be rewarded with the result I wanted, I was fine with whatever else happened today. I got a result I could be happy with.

Which was probably for the best because F1 decided to be an embarrassment.

A new rule deemed that teams had to stop twice at Monaco, and the teams will always find ways to ruin these little directives, but the way they ruined it at Monaco just demonstrates everything wrong with these cars. Teams would have one car go deliberately slowly to hold up the rest of the field so that their other driver could get a cheap pitstop.

Traffic was so bad that when Lewis Hamilton was lapping them, he lost fifteen seconds to Max Verstappen despite coming out of the first pitstop just a few seconds behind.

Nobody could overtake.

This reared its ugly head again at the end when Max Verstappen, still needing to stop, decided to hold up Lando Norris, the provisional leader, for no reason other than shits and giggles, quite frankly.

Red Bull say they were waiting on a red flag but they didn't pit until like lap 76 or 77, right before the end of the race. If they got a red flag at any point after lap 70 it was probably just going to end the race, at which point Max would've been disqualified for not having completely his two required pitstops. So yeah, I don't really believe the whole red flag restart thing, I think Red Bull was just so and they decided to make it everyone else's problem.

So, despite Lando Norris, Charles Leclerc, and Oscar Piastri in first, second, and third being bunched up together, none of them could pass. They'd finish in those exact positions.

It really was a farce.

I know that Monaco gets a bad rap but these cars really could not pass at all. They need to do something about that. Ideally, they'd shrink the cars, reduce weight, and maybe even go onto smaller, less grippy tyres to make the drivers have to work harder, but since we all know they won't do that, how about this:

Remove the Nouvelle Chicane.

Widen the entry to Tabac using the access road to the right of the main track.

Make the first element of Tabac a slower, more 90 degree-ish corner before transitioning into the Tabac we know and love.

Add a DRS zone from the tunnel exit to this new Tabac to create an overtaking opportunity.

I know that DRS overtakes are bleh but if it's a choice between DRS overtakes and literally nothing, I think I'll take DRS overtakes.

Either way, they gotta do something, because Monaco is this super-historic venue and because the racing is utter shit, the calls to get rid of the GP have only grown louder and louder. I don't want to see one of the mainstays of F1 history go.

At the same time, it can't go on like this.

Speaking of historic venues, next up was the Indianapolis 500...after a bit of a rain delay anyway.

This was an interesting race and I think the main factor in it was that you did not want to be considered the favorite at any point in the race. Being considered the favorite was bad luck this year, and it came into effect before the race even started.

Scott McLaughlin was swerving to keep heat in his tyres when he lost it and slammed into the wall, ending his race before it even began. The anguish was clear on his face.

Scott Dixon, at the same time, had a completely unrelated brake fire fire that would eventually drop him three laps down and he'd stay there all race long.

Next up, the ECR cars cycled to the front, were working together well to save fuel, and having the 2016 win under his belt, Alexander Rossi emerged as one of the favorites. That was dashed in brutal fashion with a smoking engine and a pitlane fire on Rossi's second pitstop. This one also resulted in a fire that engulfed the hands of his fueler, Mike Miller.

Miller appears to be okay, with just minor burns to his hands. Thank God for that.

The pitlane wasn't done taking out favorites.

Rinus Veekay got onto a good fuel strategy despite starting on the final row, went in for a pitstop on lap 82, lost the brakes, and slammed into the inside wall on pit entry, sliding down pitlane. Thankfully, Rinus' crew was the only one out there at the time and nobody was hurt.

The same could not be said about the next incident, because Robert Shwartzman, pitting under caution, also lost his brakes as he was going into his box, and he ended up slamming into his own crew as well as the wall behind them. I can't find the details so I apologize for that, but one of his crew members appeared to have a foot injury, so here's hoping it's nothing severe.

Robert's front left suspension was destroyed from this as well, with one of his mechanics attempting to kick the brake rotor into place before giving up and retiring the car. The polesitter was out of the race before even hitting half distance.

Likewise, around this time Takuma Sato would overshoot his pitbox, resulting in one of the best cars in clean air in the field falling back into the pack. Taku would never be able to recover the track position. He walks away from the 2025 Indy 500 having led the most laps with 51.

Kyle Larson, attempting the double, didn't even get to do anything worth being considered a favorite over when he spun out and caused a three-car accident on the lap 92 restart. He'd collect Kyffin Simpson, while Sting Ray Robb would lose control trying to avoid the wrecking cars and got buried in the inside tyre wall. Thankfully, all three drivers walked away alright.

Next up, Josef Newgarden, who started in the back but was considered the fastest car all month long - and indeed, he worked his way up from 32nd to roughly 6th place by this point - would have a somewhat clumsy pitstop and then immediately pit again as his #2 Penske experienced a fuel pressure issue. The Newgarden team would try everything they could to get him back out, but come lap 134, it was over.

Cars like Conor Daly and Christian Rasmussen would lead laps on a different fuel strategy, but it wouldn't work out for either of them. Rasmussen had to take an ill-timed pitstop and would end up 8th, while Conor Daly was out there with an ill-handling car that was losing buckets of time, eventually leaving his crew with no choice but to take an early final stop, dropping Daly to tenth.

Thus, the three lead cars became Ryan-Hunter Reay, Alex Palou, and David Malukas.

Ryan-Hunter Reay in a one-off Dreyer-Reinbold Racing entry had the best fuel strategy of the three, but when he took his final pitstop, he ran out of fuel on the exit of turn four and the tank wasn't taking on new fuel. RHR's Indy 500 came to an end on lap 172.

A new contender emerged, however, as Marcus Ericsson for Andretti went long on fuel and this allowed him to take his final pitstop with 26 to go. Not only did Ericsson cycle out in the lead, but he had the best tyres and fuel for the end of the race. With Alex Palou needing to make a fuel number behind him, it seemed like Ericsson was going to snatch this one. Ericsson became the favorite.

Unfortunately, the two RLL cars of Jack Harvey and Devlin DeFrancesco had cycled out at the end of the lead lap, directly in front of the leaders. They were working together McLaren 2024 style to save fuel, and this meant that Marcus had no way of getting past them, so he could only go as fast as the RLL cars could.

This is when Alex Palou realized something: he could save fuel behind the RLL cars just as easily as he could behind Marcus Ericsson.

Thus, on the frontstretch, Alex Palou opened it up, caught Ericsson napping, and made the pass.

Palou was the fourth car in a drafting train, Palou had worse tyres than Ericsson, Palou was saving fuel, it should have been impossible, but Alex Palou pulled it off anyway. Alex Palou pulled off the impossible pass to put himself in the lead of the Indianapolis 500 with mere laps to go.

The draft from the RLL cars ahead and a message from Barry Wanser that Palou made the necessary number and was good on fuel now meant that Alex could push just as hard as Ericsson could under these circumstances.

Ericsson may have had the tyre advantage and might've had more fuel than Palou, but Palou had what he needed, and he held on to take the win of the 2025 Indianapolis 500!

If Ericsson was saving up for a Sam Hornish on Marco Andretti style pass to the line, he didn't get the chance either, as Nolan Siegel hit the wall to bring out the caution and the checkered flag at the same time. Marcus lost the lead, and never got the timing quite right to try and take it back.

Thus, Alex Palou took his first oval win, his first Indy 500 win, and his fifth win in the first six races of the season.

I will admit I'm not exactly the biggest Alex Palou fan, and in fact, I was rooting for Marcus Ericsson in those final laps - and maybe holding out a faint hope that Pato O'Ward in fourth could get involved in this battle - but Alex Palou's performance this season is simply undeniable.

You don't have to like the guy, but you have to acknowledge he's been, by far, the best driver in the Indycar paddock these last couple of years.

He shows no signs of stopping either.

Onto NASCAR then, the Coke 600.

This blogpost is already way longer than I intended - it was going to be called "A Quick Roundup of 2025's Motorsports Christmas" and I've already had to change it to "Not-So-Quick" - and I was kinda dozing off during most of the race anyway, however, I was awake and alert for the final battle in the race.

Ross Chastain chasing down William Byron for the win of the Coke 600. Hendrick #24 against Trackhouse #1, with Denny Hamlin having to bail on the fight thanks to a refueling issue of his own.

Side note but I really liked the graphic and explanation that Amazon Prime did for that. It was the kind of thing that can be informative to new fans while also giving existing fans something they could appreciate. It was demonstrative without dumbing things down, it was a fancy graphic that they used organically and when appropriate rather than shoehorning into the race to justify the expense, and as soon as they were done with it, they went right back to the battle for the lead.

I will admit that I wasn't in a state to see most of the coverage between being sleepy and slightly drowsy after taking Tylenol for a headache, but everything I've seen from Prime's NASCAR coverage is fantastic. It beats Fox by miles and dare I say it even gives NBC something to think about.

Anyway, Chastain is setting great lap times and just pulling in to the back of Byron like it was nothing, but once he catches up, Byron puts on a defensive masterclass. Byron aeroblocks perfectly, making sure that Chastain has to work for it, fighting for a crown jewel NASCAR race like it really is worth everything they say it's worth.

Chastain doesn't give up though, and bit by bit, he gains in spite of the dirty air.

Once Byron starts getting the dirty air from the lapped car of Logano ahead, then Chastain is able to pounce and pulls off a pass for the lead, going side-by-side down the frontstretch, sending it deep into turn one, and then sliding up in front of Byron to block his momentum. Byron tries to hang it out though, not giving up, and even brushes the wall because of how hard he's fighting this. It's fucking amazing!

Not only that, but Byron doesn't give up now that Chastain is in the lead, he tries to pass him back, which forces Chastain to put a defensive masterclass of his own. Byron at this point is stronger coming off of turns two and four, so he's gaining on Chastain on the straights, but Ross is able to send it deeper into the corners and claws out an advantage on entry, one that then fades on exit, but Ross is doing just enough to keep it right about even.

And it's enough! Ross Chastain wins the Coca-Cola 600! We got a watermelon smash at a crown jewel event for the first time.

Not only that, but Ross seemed absolutely thrilled and exhausted to have won the race - just as Palou did earlier - and goddammit, I love an appreciative winner. That happiness, that elation from winning, there's something infectious about it, and I couldn't help but be happy for both Palou and Chastain today.

As well as Bezzecchi and Norris earlier in the day. Bezzecchi's first win of the season meant a ton for him and for Aprilia, while for Norris, it's a win at Monaco after a run of races where Oscar Piastri had his number. This is the kind of thing that could give Norris confidence again, and I hope it does, because I want to see the McLaren teammates fighting for the title, I want to see a race where Norris eventually gets the better of Max Verstappen, and I want to see competition and variety in Formula One most of all.

So yeah, those are your Motorsports Christmas winners from 2025.

That's two blogposts out of me in less than a week. I don't know when the next one will be about, but I am enjoying this "post what I want, when I want" format a lot more than I was enjoying a weekly schedule.

Hope y'all enjoyed this one!

[howi99]

Project ARC remake 18

Vale

Cinder: Urgh, i can't believe i have to work with the likes of you.

Tyrian: *chuckling* Well, the pleasure is all mine, it seems. Her grace wasn't too pleased with your recent... failure.

Cinder: Tsk, the thing that attacked me, it wasn't human.

Tyrian: *shrug* Human, Faunus. They all bleed the same.

Cinder: *roll her eyes* Maybe, but they also die when you plant your sword in their heart.

Tyrian: *intrigued* Oh?

Cinder: The thing only stopped when i took a part of gis aura. *Sigh* What a waste. I had her in my grasp!

Tyrian: *smiling* Well? Did he at least give you a name before you killed him?

Cinder: IF i killed him... And yes, he said Jaune.

Tyrian: *stop in his march* Jaune, eh? *Chuckle* What an... Interesting name.

Cinder: *looking at him* You know something?

Tyrian: *shaking his head* Oh nothing, i was just remembering one of my most wonderful pieces of art. His scream was... Ah, a melodious song to my ears. I sadly didn't have the time to finish my concerto before the police arrived. *Sigh* Such a waste.

Cinder: ... "I hate that guy".

_____________

Meanwhile

Jaune: *looking down at Glynda* ... Did you get shorter?

Glynda: *tears in her eyes* No! *Hug him* It's you who became taller!

Jaune: *surprised* I did?

Glynda: *smiling while still hugging him* Oh Jaune, i have so much to tell you!

[syndrossi]

Rhaella and Daemon telling the twins that they are going to have a new sibling.

Of course I can't do anything fully happy, but it's still cheerful enough, I hope!

x~x~x

The way her sons’ brows furrowed in determination when preparing to argue for something they knew would meet resistance never failed to make Rhaella smile, because they were perfect mirrors of one another. She knew what would follow, of course. Jon would make his appeal to reason, and Rhaegar would neatly tailor his argument to best complement it—citing precedence, or invoking sentiment.

What made it all the more endearing was that they held the greatest of power in their hands. The mere mention of their childhood in the Vale—a childhood that wrenched her heart to glimpse in moments of great stress or vulnerability—would shatter any resistance their father might think to mount. And yet neither would ever use it.

Not for the fear of his rage, which burned the hottest for those stolen years and occasionally stirred dark memories for her of another rage, fueled by vanity and wounded pride. But rather because they knew their father’s heart and sought to guard it against such pains.

It did mean that they had to employ their arguments more creatively, which is how she found herself listening to their third attempt at persuading Daemon that they should be allowed to ride their young drakes.

Jon was adamant that it would allow them to better defend themselves, to more efficiently plan journeys by dragonflight, and that it was the safest means of travel from one point to the next. Rhaegar meanwhile cited ancient dragon texts that claimed the deepening of bond between rider and dragon was most crucial when it neared drake size. Then, ruthlessly, he pointed out that Daemon’s council business left him with less time for flights with them on Caraxes.

It took Daemon a brief pause to recover from the blow. “Does the prospect of flight on Vermithor not excite you?”

Rhaegar’s gaze shifted to Rhaella, suddenly uncertain, and her stomach fluttered. He knows.

It should not surprise her. He had been present for so many pregnancies, long and short, and all of them bitter in the end. He would know the fear that haunted her. Aerys had not been cruel, at first. But with every failure, both within her womb and without, he had come to resent her. To blame her.

To join the chorus of doubts within her own mind. Had she eaten this, or not eaten that. Had she slept more. Had she endured the maester’s examinations with more grace. Had she managed to drink his vile concoctions—or tossed them out the window.

It had been so difficult to know where the poison lay, the garden or the seed.

Or perhaps she had been cursed at Summerhall itself. Or perhaps all those lives had been spent so that her firstborn could breathe.

“I shall not be riding Vermithor for much longer,” she said gently, and the faint grimace on Daemon’s face told her that he had forgotten that approaching limitation.

Jon regarded her with confusion. “Why? Is he hurt?” His gaze swept her, then flicked to Rhaegar and back. “Are you hurt?”

“I am with child,” she said, forcing her lips into a smile. This body had not devoured its young yet. Perhaps it would be different. “I shall need to be careful for a time.”

“Oh.” Jon blinked, then he smiled at her, the radiant in his elation. “Those are happy tidings.” His hand reached out, then faltered, and his eyes went to hers in question. She nodded, and he gently touched her stomach. “Hello, little sister—or brother.”

She felt the babe within kick, as though in response. “That is the hope.”

Rhaegar’s hand clasped hers. “Whatever you need, you need only tell us.”

She squeezed his hand, and took a breath, commanding the fear away. “I shall need your help in choosing an egg for the cradle.”

Jon’s smile turned sly. “If we were allowed to ride our dragons, we could more easily attend to our mother’s needs.”

His boldness startled a laugh from her, and she felt the babe kick harder. This one is strong. She pressed a palm to the swell of her belly. Out here awaits all the love and joy your heart could desire, little one.

[spectralpixelsredone]

You Can't Thwart Stage One (Cinder/Salem Circle Analysis)

RWBY Volume 3 Analysis

This analysis focuses on the events of RWBY Volume 3, particularly the Vale Arc, and the villains' success in achieving their goals. It draws on insights from TV Tropes and the RWBY wiki. Feel free to share your thoughts or conclusions in comments or reblogs.

The Vale Arc: Villains' Triumph

Despite numerous opportunities, the heroes fail to thwart the villains' scheme in Volume 3, achieving only minor victories. The villains' plan unfolds successfully due to the heroes' repeated failures:

They cannot prevent the villains from infecting the control tower with a virus.

They fail to stop a bomb-laden train from releasing Grimm into Vale, allowing the villains to pose as allies by "saving" the city.

The villains manipulate Yang into attacking a seemingly defeated opponent during a live broadcast.

They orchestrate Pyrrha's accidental killing of Penny during another broadcast.

Using these moments, the villains seize global airwaves to deliver a speech that triggers a massive Grimm invasion.

As a result, Beacon Academy is destroyed, many lives are lost (including two key characters), Cinder gains the Fall Maiden's full power, and Salem confirms the Relic of Choice is hidden at the school. Salem concludes the volume with a speech to Ozpin, vowing to extinguish humanity's hope and destroy all he holds dear.

The heroes' limited successes include:

Saving Vale city, which the villains deem unimportant.

Freezing the Grimm Wyvern to Beacon's ruined tower, inadvertently attracting more Grimm and preventing Huntsmen from reclaiming the school.

Permanently injuring Cinder, fueling her obsession with vengeance against Ruby. (Which is useless as Cinder and Salem get Vale destroyed anyhow)

Villains' Strategy: Flaw Exploitation

The villains' success stems from exploiting the heroes' weaknesses during a vulnerable period when training and systems prioritize strengths over addressing flaws. Their "Stage One" plan is meticulously crafted to succeed without interference, leveraging deep intel and preparations. However, there is no equally strategic "Stage Two." The chaos they create prevents them from immediately targeting another static objective, making their victory a surprise escalation in a cold war rather than a bid for world domination. The lack of a clear endgame contributes to their success by obscuring their ultimate intentions, slowing the heroes' responses.

Villains' Dynamics

Surprisingly, Salem commands a small inner circle, with few minions. Unlike larger villain groups like DC's Legion of Doom, her team is effective despite internal tensions and mutual dislike, with occasional villainous friendships. They outmaneuver larger organizations and make fools of their opponents.

Cinder Fall

Cinder, initially presented as a formidable antagonist, self-destructs due to her flaws. Her obsession with power lacks a clear purpose, mirroring Salem's ambiguous goals. Her backstory reveals a desire to avoid pain and gain strength, but she has no defined endgame. This vagueness inadvertently aids her, as her unpredictable motives make her plans hard to counter. However, her role as Salem's intermediary with the White Fang creates tension with Adam, who views her as a threat.

Adam Taurus

Adam, a key White Fang leader, is more popular than his predecessor, Sienna Khan. Salem values his loyalty, entrusting him to secure the White Fang's cooperation. Adam kills Sienna to assume control, resolving Salem's concerns about her reluctance. However, his actions backfire. Using his power, Adam attempts to kidnap Blake Belladonna and kill her parents, who later form a Faunus militia that foils his mission to destroy Haven. His self-destructive tendencies, like Cinder's, undermine their cause. It’s unclear if Salem knows or cares about Adam’s death.

Salem

Salem's goals remain enigmatic—possibly seeking the Relics to rule the world or to end her own existence, though the cruel Brother Gods are unlikely to grant the latter. She operates indirectly, relying on her minions, who often dislike each other, underperform, or lack resources. Watts and Tyrian are exceptions: Tyrian excels in his role, while Watts identifies issues but is ignored. In Volume 8, Watts achieves success when acting independently, but Cinder’s ego-driven actions lead to his death. Salem’s indifference to losing a competent minion like Watts highlights her detachment. A potential "Stage Two" could have succeeded if Watts’ warnings had been heeded.

Salem’s Inner Circle

Salem’s small, fractious inner circle is remarkably effective despite its dysfunction:

Arthur Watts: Highly competent but ignored, achieving success when independent. Dies due to Cinder’s actions.

Cinder Fall: A dangerous "big bad" wannabe whose lack of clear goals makes her unpredictable.

Hazel Rainart: Motivated by irrational goals, eventually turns against Salem.

Mercury Black: Skilled but low-ranking, likely to defect.

Tyrian Callows: Highly effective but dangerously unstable.

Emerald Sustrai: Defects from the group.

Neopolitan: Motivated solely by vengeance against Ruby, indifferent to Salem’s goals.

Roman Torchwick: Unaware of Salem’s existence but effective. His death indirectly aids Salem’s Volume 8 victory via Neo’s actions.

Vermillion Raddock: Status unknown, possibly dead.

Other groups like human supremacists, Silver Bullet, Starhead Industrial Company, or the SDC are not directly tied to Salem. The White Fang aligns with her after Adam eliminates Sienna, but his self-destruction leaves Salem without their support. The Grimm serve as cannon fodder, relying on zerg-rush tactics, exploiting weaknesses like Atlas’ lack of air defenses. (Prob. cause they would hate Salem also, the somewhat help her goals by accident)

The Heroes’ Dysfunction

Salem’s small, dysfunctional team triumphs because the heroes are equally disorganized and weaker. With major militaries neutralized, Salem holds a strategic advantage despite her reduced forces. The heroes’ reliance on Ruby’s optimism as a “Morality Pet” exacerbates their failures. Her “Silly Rabbit, Cynicism Is for Losers!” personality allows teammates to justify their flaws:

Weiss uses Ruby’s optimism to avoid confronting her father’s influence over her family and company.

Blake condemns even sympathetic White Fang members, driven by Adam’s extremism and her aversion to violence.

Yang frames their journey as a fairy tale, blaming Salem for all problems (including Summer Rose’s death). (Granted she's not wrong if Salem been in the background pushing causing strife...but who knows)

The villains’ blunders, particularly Cinder and Adam’s “Bond Villain Stupidity” in pursuing revenge, temporarily mask the heroes’ flaws. However, when the villains adapt, the heroes falter, ignoring the strain on Ruby, assuming she’ll recover due to her outward resilience.

Key Takeaways

Cinder: Mysterious enigmas are often just grunts, unlikely to evolve beyond their role.

Adam: Leaders prone to self-destruction undermine their own causes.

Salem: Her ambiguous, ever-shifting goals make her unpredictable, giving her control over the planet’s fate.

The Forces of Good: Disunity and dysfunction allow weaker villains to dominate, leaving the heroes dependent on the villains’ mercy—or facing defeat.

Other Drabbles

(Roman sudden death allows Salem to win.)