#Coding workshops for kids

[stemrobotechnology]

Can Your Child Build the Next Hit Game? Here’s How to Start

First of all, let’s talk numbers.

Minecraft – Created by Markus Persson, sold to Microsoft for $2.5 billion.

Roblox creators – Many teen developers are earning ₹1–5 lakhs/month, just by building games on the platform.

Flappy Bird – Built in just a few days by a solo developer. At its peak, it earned ₹35–40 lakhs per day in ad revenue.

Adopt Me! on Roblox – Made by two young developers; now valued in millions, with over 30 billion visits.

These weren’t built by giant corporations — many of them were created by young, curious minds who started just like your child: by exploring and learning.

TinkerCoders — Where Young Minds Turn Ideas into Innovation

Kids are dreamers and it is the responsibility of the parents and teachers to make sure that they navigate safely towards the right direction. They need to develop the essential 21st century skills like digital literacy, creativity, critical thinking, etc that nurture them for the digital future.

At TinkerCoders, kids learn to build video games, websites, mobile apps, robotics projects, and even AI models, under the experts’ guidance who make sure every complicated equation is made simple, every query has a solution and every idea is explored!

This teaching technique ensures that students are comfortable enough to ask questions and get meaningful insights. This way, they can explore their creativity and gain more insights on their curiosity and questions.

Students can go through many processes of SWOT analysis or design thinking to create solutions for real world problems. We help students discover their true potential by offering a range of online coding classes for kids that are fun and engaging

From video game designing for kids to AI & ML classes for kids online, everything is kept in alignment with the young readers to match their pace, understanding and interest. They’ll not only learn how to build games, apps, websites, and robots, but they’ll understand originality, patience and other important skills.

Why Should Kids Learn Coding?

The simple answer is that the world is getting digitalised and because the future will be built by them, it is important to make the kids equipped with the necessary tools to adapt into the ecosystem

Coding is more than just computers and keyboards. It helps in building skills that live on for a lifetime-

Resilience

Perseverance

Patience

Creativity

Critical thinking, and the list goes on.

Our coding classes for kids go just teaching, they get to indulge in hands-on learning activities that makes sure that the knowledge gained is retained because of the learning by doing method.

Here’s how we make it happen:

Project-Based Learning – Kids don’t just learn; they build. Our experiential learning courses for kids ensure hands-on projects in every session.

Live, Instructor-Led Classes – Every class is guided by expert mentors who specialize in computer programming classes for kids.

Customizable Levels – From absolute beginners to advanced learners, we offer age-appropriate modules in online programming courses for kids and even AI & robotics classes.

Global Curriculum – Our lessons are aligned with international education standards and also NEP 2020 guidelines.

Real Results – Students create games, apps, and robotics models, and even participate in global STEM events.

Learning Game Development Isn’t Just Fun — It’s a Gateway to the Future

Game development blends creativity, logic, storytelling, and coding. It’s an ideal place to start for any child interested in STEM education for kids. That’s why our coding and programming for kids curriculum includes video game designing for kids and real-world platforms like Scratch, Roblox, and Python. The fun part is that they can create their own hero and customise the whole working as they want. From deciding the type, picking a coding tool, deciding characters, building, coding, decoding, debugging, however much the process might seem complex, doing it is much more fun!

Kids don’t just play games—they design their own, and that changes how they look at the world. They become more observant, more informative, more adventurous etc.

Flexible & Trusted — Learning That Adapts to Your Child

With online coding courses for kids, your child can start learning right from home. No matter where they are, they can access:

Coding workshops for kids

Kids computer programming classes

AI & ML classes for kids

Online kids programming courses

And even coding classes near me (via our virtual platform!)

Parents can rest easy knowing we’re not just offering computer coding classes for kids, but also encouraging creativity, independence, and curiosity. Now kids can learn any skill in the comfort of their homes and also revise the lessons on repeat through recorded classes

From Curiosity to Creation — TinkerCoders Makes It Happen

They’re making their own apps, games, and even AI projects. Kids learning through our academies and online classes have been recognised in global contests and featured in big STEM events.”

And the best part? They’re having fun while learning.

So, what are you waiting for? Make your kid tech savvy through TinkerCoder’s amazing game development and watch as your kid makes the next big game!

Contact US at : Email : sales@tinkercoders.com Toll Free : 1800-120-500-400 Website : https://www.tinkercoders.com/ Address : B-32, Block – B, Sector – 63, Noida, 201301, UP, INDIA

[makers-muse]

How STEM Labs in Assam Schools Can Elevate Academic Performance ?

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Internationally, individuals are gaining interest and putting efforts toward STEM (Science, Technology, Engineering, and Mathematics) education, realizing its essential contribution toward students’ preparation for the future. Therefore, there is a large acceptance of STEM Labs in Assam schools, the capital city of Mizoram, to modernize education. The establishment of STEM Labs in Assam Schools is therefore much more than an upgrade; it is a step towards better academic performance. Opportunities for student hands-on learning will nurture other skills such as critical thinking, creativity, and problem-solving. This blog thus explores ways through which the STEM Lab program in the Assam Schools can significantly enhance academic performance and gear students for future challenges.     STEM Labs in Assam schools are being introduced to create an innovative educational approach and would offer students an immersive, hands-on learning experience in real-time, making room for more than just classroom learning. Problem finding and problem-solving are crucial to practice for students, immersing them in the knowledge aspects of critical thinking, creativity, and problem-solving. Such innovative pedagogic information also enhances students’ educational levels and, more so, prepares them on how to cope and thrive in a complex, crumbling world.  

The STEM Lab program in Assam schools is more than a mere education initiative; it is an all-encompassing solution toward changing the modus of learning and engagement for students in STEM subjects. By creating an environment for exploration, experimentation, and collaboration, such labs help learners understand the core concepts of science better and how these work in real life. Want to explore more about STEM Labs?  Join makers’ muse. Current blog posts discuss the numerous ways such a STEM Lab solution would add value to the education in Assam schools in improving academic performance while equipping them with the skill sets necessary for success in the future. 

Enhancing Learning through the STEM Lab program in Assam Schools  

Building Students’ Future Careers with STEM Lab programs in Assam Schools  

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Fostering Inclusiveness and Diversity With STEM Lab program in Assam schools  

STEM Labs maintain a substantial focus on promoting inclusiveness and diversity within schools in Assam. Providing equal opportunities for all students to undertake and partake in STEM activities is a sure way to erode gender- and socio-economic-related imbalances. Thus, an inclusive approach assures that every student can realize her or his potential to the fullest in the pursuit of a career within STEM domains. 

Empowering Students Through STEM: A Bright Future for Assam Schools 

There is a transformational process in which the introduction of STEM Labs in the Assam schools works for the enhancement of academic performance today and the general preparation of students for the future. This will be through hands-on learning, critical thinking, and creativity, theoretical-practical gap closure via STEM Lab programs in Assam Schools, all of which serve to provide students with tools that help them survive in a rapidly changing world. The consideration of inclusiveness and diversity will further ensure that every student has an opportunity to succeed. As the STEM Lab solution for Assam Schools establishes itself, it provides a context for modernization of education and a path toward a new future for their students. Need help to set up the STEM Lab in your school?  school? Connect with us! 

[thecodelab]

Coding for Primary Schools | The Code Lab

At The Code Lab, we specialize in Coding for Primary Schools, offering fun and engaging programs tailored to young learners. Our lessons promote creativity, problem-solving, and digital skills, giving students the tools they need for a tech-driven world.

[ailithnight]

If the rest of the League thinks B and X are already together, what're they gonna think when they catch Constantine flirting with X? Scold John for hitting on a taken man? Or congratulate B on his new... interesting... throuple?

#7 dcxdp

Danny is a theif that stells cursed objects and has broken into the Drake's Manor when he thought they were in Rome instead he finds there son all alone well its the Drake's fault for leaving there son all alone

[darkdragon768]

If fnaf motivates me to try working with kids, warioware should motivate me to try to develop games.

[batsupernova]

To add on to my post about blushing virgin Bruce: just imagine the first time Clark calls him baby!?!?

It’s bound to happen because, come on. It’s Clark Kent, aka the walking country farm boy stereotype. Its practically ingrained into his system to say all those annoyingly sweet nicknames like sweetheart and darlin’ and fucking cupcake

Anyway, the first time it does actually happen, its when Bruce is having one of his little fits because he let the joker get away or something. Hes been ignoring everyone and refusing to come out of his cave for hours and Clark is getting worried; he’s been practically begging Bruce on hands and knees to just eat something when it slips out-

“Baby, will you please just come upstairs for dinner?”

Bruce then promptly freezes in his rapid typing, which causes Clark to freeze(woah! Domino effect) because he thinks something is wrong with Bruce.

“Baby? You okay?”

When Clark reaches out to rub his shoulder in an attempt at comfort, Bruce makes no sound and doesn’t even look at clark; he just stands up, grabs Clarks hand, and starts leading them to the elevator like this is a perfectly normal thing to do

Clark hesitantly lets himself be lead, feeling both triumphant and scared because theres no way Bruce Wayne just caved so easily after only like one hour of whatever you call what Clark was doing. (Begging? Torture? Manipulation? Depends on the perspective; bruce would probably say all three)

Clark is getting suspicious, so even though both the elevator ride up and dinner are dead silent and kinda awkward he doesn’t really mind, because it gives him time to workshop his theory

When he actually gets to test it out, its because Bruce is glued to his monitors(again), this time in his office instead of the batcave. Clark asks him 3 or 4 times to just come to bed because hes so obviously tired and when bruce doesn’t listen(as predicted,) Clark just leans against the doorframe, raises an eyebrow and says-

“C’mon baby, you know you want to”

He purposely uses that soft, kryptonian voice he has saved away for almost-end-of-the-world speeches. Bruce does that thing again where he freezes up and sort of stops breathing; and when he doesn’t move for a few moments Clark is about to furrow his brow and ask if hes alright, but then bruce is standing up and crossing the room at record time and. Guess what.

Hes blushing.

Bruce actually lets Clark lead them to his bedroom hand in hand. Are you kidding.

Clark hides the biggest smile ever in Bruces hair when he climbs into bed and starts clinging to Clark like a koala, because holy motherfuck he just cracked the code to the universe

This is half baked at best but you guys see what im going for right

[whetstonefires]

when i was a kid i made up a society where they tracked birth sex for reproductive reasons but it didn't particularly determine adult gender, because that was tied to your job--like at some point they got so attached to gender roles that they decided the performance of a role determined the gender. (which historically has been the case quite often, just not to this extent lol.)

it was in the context of a badly written short story where an anthropologist had just straight up failed to grasp that this was how it worked for a humorously long time.

If somebody pitched me traditional gender roles for the first time they would have me in the first half not going to lie.

Oh, in a complex society with a massive amount of required knowledge and responsibilities, two people traditionally partner together so that the knowledge and responsibilities can be divided between them? Awesome!

Wait what do you mean the responsibilities are assigned at birth.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN ONE HALF HAS FEWER CIVIL RIGHTS.

[moongreenlight]

Have you ever seen that corny ass skit where it’s the girl talking to her husband asking him to fix things and he says “I’m not a plumber” “I’m not a carpenter” bla bla bla and then one day he comes home and the girl’s like “oh yeah I had the neighbor come over to fix the things you wouldn’t” and the neighbor says she can either bake him a cake or sleep with him as payment so the husband asks “so what kind of cake did you bake him?” And the girl says “I’m not a baker?”

Very much Neighbor!Price x stay-at-home-mom!reader coded :)

Mdni. Nsfw below cut.

Neighbor!Price who’s found a quiet little cul-de-sac to settle in when he’s got some time off. It’s a little neighborhood, mostly older people who’re thrilled to have a man like him around to help bring out bins and offer to mow their lawns or rake their leaves or shovel their drives when he’s around.

But somehow he’s found the only other younger family in the area living directly next to him. Parents are a few years his junior, and they’ve got two young kids. He assumes the boy, the older one, is early elementary age- sees you herding him into the car in the morning with a pack lunch and a backpack that’s nearly the same size as he is to and from the house in the morning and afternoon. And the girl, the younger, must be in pre-k, because she’s only out for half the day and doesn’t get the same pack lunch her brother gets.

He’s gotten to know you pretty well. When he’s around, the two of you will chat while you’re tending your garden and he’s working in his garage carrying out some odd project or another. He thinks you’re sweet. Likes the way you wear overalls with a little top when you’re planting flowers in the beds out front. How when you bend over or stand at the right angle he can imagine you’re not wearing a top at all.

He hates your husband. He’s crass and rude and never waves hello to any of the neighbors- odd for such a friendly little community. Leaves for work early and comes home late and leaves you to fend for yourself all day. Doesn’t know how to interact with you or your kids. And Price is almost certain he doesn’t fuck you the way you deserve to be fucked because his bedroom window looks over your living room and he’s caught you on the couch with your hand down your pants more times than could have been coincidence.

He’s known to be the neighborhood handyman. Got a little workshop set up in his garage and a general knowledge about nearly everything, so it’s not uncommon that he gets a knock on the door a few times a week. Usually it’s some of the older neighbors popping over to see if he can fix their TVs or help their grandkids connect to the Wi-Fi, but it’s a pleasant surprise when you turn up on his porch mid-morning.

You’re scrunching the ends of your soaking wet hair in a towel. Apologizing as soon as you hear him turn the deadbolt. Feverishly going on about how you must have blown a circuit in the bathroom trying to dry your hair and you’d usually be able to manage but your husband shoved a bookshelf in front of the breaker and you can’t get through to it.

He’s sweet about it. Always is, but especially for you. Follows you over to your place and promises you no less than ten times that it’s really no trouble. He’s happy to help. It’s a quick fix, but he drags it out as long as he can. Insists on following you up and down the stairs from the basement to the top floor twice to make sure everything’s working properly.

He notices that the bathroom door sticks and that the fire alarm in the hallway is chirping from a low battery. You apologize for the toys in the living room and the clean laundry pile on the couch and the state of your house. Say that your husband is racking up a hefty to-do list with a small laugh that’s just a bit too forced.

He’s thrilled to tell you that he’s got some free time later in the week and says he’ll come over if only to help out your husband. Makes some backhanded remark about how your husband is clearly a busy lad. You refuse- of course- sweet thing that you are, but he turns up the next day after you’ve taken your kids to school anyway.

He tails you up the drive so there’s no way you can shut him out. Shushes you when you try to apologize for one reason or another and takes off to fix not only the sticky bathroom door and the fire alarm batteries, but also the dripping kitchen faucet and the garbage disposal that’s been broken for months.

You try to stay clear of whatever room he’s working in, chirping short responses to whatever nonsense question he asked in an attempt to lure you over. It was only when he was about to head out and he saw you leaning on the dryer to keep it shut that he saw his golden opportunity.

You were clearly trying to hide it, but even with a small load of clothes in, it sounded like you’d thrown a pair of boots into a tin garbage pail and shook it hard as you could. You tried to shoo him off, but he wasn’t having any of it.

There’s enough skirting around the subject to give you chance to turn down his advances, but when he realizes you’re not outright telling him to go fuck himself, he’s essentially taking it as a challenge to see if he can’t push you to that point.

Hoists you up on the still clanging machine and pushes between your legs on the weak pretense of needing you there to keep the door shut while he works. The machine shook the straps of your top down off your shoulders and made him acutely aware of the fact that you hadn’t had the time to put on a bra yet. It made his pants near painfully tight on the crotch.

He’d try and make idle chat. Your kids and plans for the day, but it’s entirely too hard for him to focus on anything other than the way your thighs are pressing together as the dry cycle started to bang the machine around more. He makes a light comment about how he’s not sure how you get anything done around the house with the dryer in this state. Your laugh is breathy.

And when he leans over you to reach to the back of the machine, he can feel the way your soft panting breaths fan his neck. Confirms his suspicions.

“Alright?”

You’re chewing the inside of your lip while you nod. Clearly starved for stimulation if all it takes is a dry cycle to get you off. Poor thing.

It’s stuffy in the laundry room. Adds to the appeal. Makes your shorts ride up and stick to your legs. Your thighs are dewy and glide together when you shift under his gaze.

“You sure, doll?”

The two of you are almost nose-to-nose. You’re leaned back, caged in by his big arms that look even bigger in his almost obscenely tight shirt. He’s smiling. Letting his eyes wander to your collarbones. The way your throat bobbed when you swallowed.

Before you could choke out your answer, the dryer stopped. Chimed the alert and slowly stilled. You took a shaky breath and nodded once more, looking like you couldn’t decide whether to be disappointed or relieved. He backed off, stretched out his hand to help you down.

You lead him to the kitchen. Ask if you can get him anything. Tea or food. He declines. You say something about stopping to get cash when you’re out picking up your daughter in a couple hours. He declines again.

“John, really, I appreciate your help. You have to let me get you back.”

You’re filling the kettle with water anyway, leaned just slightly over the sink. He knows it’s impolite to stare, but he’s never had very good manners when it came to things like that.

“Bake me a cake or somethin’, then. Sleep with me. Won’t take your money, though.”

You whirl around and end up sloshing some water down your front. Doesn’t seem to phase you. Your eyebrows are damn near at your hairline.

“I don’t know if that’s appropriate, considering…”

He snorts a soft laugh. It’s kind- not at all suggestive. Like he’s playing off a clever joke.

“What? Baking me a cake?”

You purse your lips and set the kettle on the stove.

“Never been a very good baker.”

He about hurdles the kitchen island like he’s running track.

“That right?”

You make a thoughtful sound before clicking on the burner. He can see you biting back a smile. You finally turn to face him. Leaned back on your hands with your head cocked slightly to the side.

“I just don’t know that it would be appropriate given our- my- situation.”

It’s his turn to hum and nod. Take a few steps forward, slow and slinky like a predator stalking toward its prey.

“Sure.”

You chew your bottom lip. Try to find some resolve in fussing with your wedding ring. It’s horrible. Small. He can’t help but think about how he’d be able to get you a much better one. He takes a few more steps forward.

“It’s complicated, John.”

Your voice is mousy now.

“I know.”

A few more steps forward and he’s back nose-to-nose with you. Pinning you against the counter.

“I just-“

“Then tell me to go home.”

The button of his jeans grazes your groin and sends sparks up your spine. You recoil slightly, but he’s got his massive hands on your wrists to keep you in place.

“My husb-“

“Don’t. S’not what I said. Tell me to go home. Tell me to go home, and I’ll leave. S’easy as that.”

The coarse hair of his beard brushes along your jaw. Visible goosebumps rise all the way up your neck and down your arms.

“John, he-“

A throaty growl from him.

“He’s not getting a lick of you.”

And then somehow he’s got you on your back on the couch. Shoved off the pile of laundry and pushed you down. His eyes are near pitch black and hungry. Ravenous. He tears off your shorts. Doesn’t wait for you to hoist your hips, just yanks so hard that you’re a little worried you’ll get thrown off the couch with them.

He is wretched. Planting wet kisses from the inside of your knee all the way up to your sex frustratingly slow. Big hands splayed over your hips to keep you from bucking up into his mouth. He’s got this maddeningly smug smile on his face like he’s waiting for the perfect moment to say I told you so. Like he knew this was going to happen from the start, you were just too stupid to see.

Your underwear is embarrassingly wet from your little go on the dryer. Your pussy puffy and sensitive underneath. You whine when he kisses over the damp spot. Laves his tongue over your folds without pulling them to the side. He makes some comment about the state of you that borders on snarky, but you choose to ignore it.

When he finally does rid you of your panties, there’s a moment of clarity where you realize what you’re doing. You push up on your elbows and try to roll out from under him, but he gives your clit a mean slap that forces you back onto the couch and ends your protest. Sends you to that liminal, clouded headspace where all you can focus on is how desperately you need to come.

It’s clear he’s savoring the moment. Running the point of his tongue through your folds. Teasing at your hole. Artfully swirling around your clit, but never close enough to give you the friction you’re so desperately craving. Planting hot, wet kisses on your inner thighs. Leaves a few love bites in his wake like he’s boasting; so certain your husband wouldn’t get close enough to notice that he had no problem decorating you as he pleased.

You’re a mess. Being taken apart stitch by stitch. Panting and whining and begging for more. Your orgasm is coiling tight under your belly without him having to do much. Any other time you’d have felt a little pathetic, but you were too preoccupied to care now.

He finally brings his hands up and you think he’s about to stuff you full, but he only lets his fingers drag slowly along your sensitive sex. Collects some of your arousal and pulls it up toward your naval. Watches the goosebumps form under his touch.

He rucks your shirt up with his free hand and immediately wraps his lips around your pebbled nipples. Tongues at them. Lets his teeth graze teasingly over them. And whatever one he’s not got currently in his mouth, he’s working his fingers over. Pinching and flicking until you’re teary eyed and squirming under him.

And then finally, fucking finally, he ducks back down and fixes his mouth on your clit. Sucks gently on the swollen bud for just a moment and then companies his mouth with two fingers bullying their way inside you.

The stretch is almost uncomfortable in its suddenness, but you quickly get used to it. The pleasure is blinding. Forces you to throw your head back against the cushion and screw your eyes tightly shut. A string of high, needy moans float through your gaped lips.

He’s sweet, Jesus, is he. Hums and groans with his mouth still on your bundle of nerves. Pulls away just enough to tell you how pretty your pussy is taking him before going back to work on your sensitive clit. You want to scream. You think you may actually come entirely undone on this couch if he doesn’t stop.

And then your orgasm coils so tightly within you that it explodes outward. Tears through you and leaves every square inch of your skin sizzling. He doesn’t let up. Pins you down by the stomach with his forearm and continues down his warpath. The sounds his fingers make when they sink into you are so pornographic that it makes your face hot.

You eventually find it in you to warble out something that sounded like please, too much. And he pulled off, still with that smug grin pulling his lips now surrounded by glistening slick caught in the hair of his beard.

He gives you one last kiss. Lewd and wet and so searing hot you’re worried it will actually blister the sensitive flesh of your cunt. He’ll sit back on his haunches and fuss with the button and zipper of his jeans before saying something horrible and cheeky like

“C’mon, doll. Thought you were set on payin’ me back.”

[paaatchm]

Oofs doodles of my old au ig

Something kinda like a self insert? Idk

Sun and Moon didn’t exist without the mekanik… and the mekanik no longer wanted to exist without them…

And I just found some phrases or ideas of it in my notes app so I shall put them here lol:

- The robot men were advanced but really damaged, they didn’t get a single maintenance since they were created- so it took long enough to make them functional again…They are not the most popular animatronics in the plex… so meh, who cared?

- Sun - talked a lot and always laughed uncontrollably, wanted to play, so energetic around kids… adults however… not his favorite kind of human lol

- Moon - whispered things and phrases with no purpose at all… he just liked to mess around and be annoying lol

Several accidents happened and trust was not there yet

- Old security protocol from moon almost left the mekanik with no eye sight-, crisis he had where interpreted as bad behavior…

-WHILE SUN AND HIS PARTY PROTOCOL kept destroying the mekanik workshop with his finger fireworks… sigh

Those two robots hold a horrible past… but the mekanik knew how it feels to be broken and alone… he is different and they are too. The perfect match.

Something dangerous hides in their codes but at least they could face it… together? Right?

What was I thinking LMAO HAHAHA I made that au when the whole obsession for this two robots started… woah time goes really fast bruh…

I was a lil embarrassed about this in that time, so bare with me lol

I might never come back to it lol idk psss I’m not great with storytelling l just like to draw :v

[idkwhatimdoinghere1655]

(3) So Special - Lando Norris

<word count - 5350> |part 1 - Nerd|part 2 - Rumours|

The weekend had gone by, and you and Lando had spent your time doing very different things. He had been productive, spending his two days in the garage with his dad, perfecting your DT project. He couldn't care less that you had told him not to finish it.

He had said he would do it, and now he was damned sure that it would be the best one in the class. Lando and his dad had come up with some genius ideas, even if it was only meant to be a simple little wood-work task. 

It would probably be quite obvious that you hadn't done it in the workshop, but Lando had a feeling that you wouldn't care. Also with the help of his dad, Lando had gotten his homework rattled out within an hour. 

It wasn't quite the same as having you there to help him through it, since your way of teaching him was a lot better than his dad's, but it was better than nothing, that was for sure. 

You, on the other hand, had spent your weekend holed up in your bedroom, not wanting to come out for anyone or anything. Your parents had offered to take you out to any restaurant of your choosing, go somewhere with your friends, anything. 

But, you had declined all of their suggestions. You simply didn't feel like going anywhere. All you could think about was how much you were dreading going to school on Monday, how much you didn't want to see anyone in any of your classes.

It genuinely seemed like your worst nightmare at the moment, but you still had to go in. The minutes ticked by slowly over the weekend, every single one heightening the anxiety of being back in school. 

The most likely scenario was that people would have forgotten it by now and moved onto something else, but the feeling that that wasn't the case was overwhelming, crippling and soul-destroying. 

Even doing your maths homework felt near on impossible. A task that would normally only take you a few minutes took you nearly 2 hours, since trying to work with the numbers made nervousness swirl in your stomach. 

The ever present thought was Lando. If anything, you figured he had it the worst out of all of this. His friends mocked and ridiculed him at any chance they got, he couldn't even get the bus anymore without throwing in the towel and getting off early, and you didn't want to be around him anymore. 

Guilt mixed into the cesspool of emotions that you were feeling, but the pure fear of being in school and getting the mick taken out of you overshadowed that. You just wanted to get your education and run as far away from that damned place as you could. 

Once Monday morning had rolled around, you reluctantly got onto the bus, not wanting to walk in the frosty weather. Lando's mum would've given you a ride, but you didn't want to be seen getting out of his car. Now that would be pure social suicide. 

On the bus, you saw that Lando wasn't there, which made things easier. But, you sure as hell weren't sitting at the back near his friends. You shuffled onto a seat next to some random kids in a year below you, but you'd much rather do that than be subjected to Lando's friends.

School was relatively empty when you got there, most people going to sit in the canteen before the bell went for their first lessons. You made a beeline to the lockers, hoping that no one would be there.

Thankfully, there wasn't a soul in sight as you quickly punched the code into Lando's locker. You knew the code since you'd had to leave his homework in there a few times in the past. You pulled his jumper out of your bag and stuffed it in. On the top, you placed a small note of gratitude, before closing the locker back up and going over to yours to put in some of your textbooks.

To your surprise, your locker wasn't empty like you thought it would be. Inside was a small, plastic bag. Just like you had put on Lando's jumper, whoever had been in your locker had put a note on top of it. 'I promised I'd get this finished, and I am a man of my word'. 

You knew that handwriting off by heart, since it was one you often plagiarised. Opening the bag, you saw your fully finished, absolutely faultless DT woodwork project. You were baffled by how clean the cuts and joints were, and it was surely going to get you the best mark you had ever gotten in DT. 

The first genuine smile that you had cracked in days grew across your face, truly touched by the gesture. You had told him not to bother, that you'd do it yourself, even if you really didn't want to. "I did it right, yeah?" a voice suddenly broke you out of your small bout of happiness.

Lando was leant against his locker, hands in his pockets as he looked at you. His face was tired, it didn't have the life to it as it used to. His eyes were equally as lethargic, no longer holding that cheeky spark that they always had. It was like the colour had dulled out, leaving them more greyed over than blue. 

"Yeah, you did. It's great, thanks," you mustered up a small smile, barely even a fraction of the one you had earlier. For some reason, your brain still couldn't make you look him in the eyes as you talked to him.

"Anytime," he replied, his gaze fixed on your side profile. He was thinking the same about your appearance too, your face had sunken and your eyes weren't as bright as he remembered them being. 

"I don't think anyone's going to say anything, you know..." he mumbled, half hoping you'd heard him, half hoping you hadn't. The words sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than he was trying to convince you, since he wanted to believe that they were true. 

He didn't want to see you upset anymore, he didn't want to have to distance himself from you, he didn't want to have to change his entire routine. All he wanted was his life right back to the way it was. 

The life when you two were friends, where he'd get to spend time with you. The life where he got to be Lando Norris, the cocky little shit to the rest of the year, but a softie for you. The life where everything was perfect again. 

"I don't think it's that easy, Lando," you said, your eyes still glued to your feet as you avoided eye contact with him. Even the sound of his name on your lips made his heart flutter uncontrollably. He wanted to hear more of it, he wanted to hear it every goddamn day of his life if you'd let him.

"Please? Can we just... just try to ignore it and still be friends? I just want to be your friend again, I mi-" he started to plead, the desperation evident in his tone. His face fell as he was cut off, knowing that both of you were in deep shit before the day had even started. 

"You what, Lando? Bit of trouble in paradise for our most prolific love birds?" some random guy in your year interrupted him, standing beside Lando. He had never seen fear in a person's features like he did on yours in that very moment.

You didn't think you could handle hearing another word of it, so you dashed past the both of them and down the hall, trying not to let the tears fall down your cheeks. He hadn't even said anything overly hurtful, but the panic of what he could have said had set in.

"Not gonna run after your girlfriend, Lando?" he further teased, and Lando could feel his fists clenching at his sides, his knuckles turning white due to how hard he was holding them. He knew that a comment like that wouldn't have normally set you off, but it just showed how bad the situation had gotten. 

"Go fuck yourself," he spat, walking to the canteen and sitting down on a table away from his friends. They had seen him come in, but he didn't care. They were the last people he wanted to talk to. 

For the first time in his life, he was desperate to get to lessons and have some much wanted distraction from everything that was going on. As soon as the bell had gone, he jumped out of his seat and took the shortest route that he could think of to the science labs for biology. 

Not to his shock, you were already sat in your seat, hunched over your textbook and exercise book. Lando took his seat, a few down from yours on the long, wooden benches. The start of the lesson was silent to begin with, before you were all assigned to do some questions with the people sat around you.

Lando tried to keep focused on the questions, but he couldn't help but hear his own name coming from your side of the table. As he discretely watched from the side, he saw as your head snapped up to the girl next to you. Lilly. 

Goddamnit, of course it had to be Lilly. The one girl who Lando was for sure certain was desperate for him. "Sorry?" you said, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. You hadn't been listening to a word she was saying, so you had to do a double take now that she was suddenly talking about Lando. 

"You spent the weekend with Lando, no? Since he's your boyfriend and all, I assumed what I heard was true," she said, her voice laced with a sickly sweet venom. The jealousy she felt was obvious, and it did give you a slightly masochistic sense of satisfaction. 

"No," you curtly answered with a small shake of the head, before returning to answering the questions by yourself. Lando couldn't see Lilly's face since she was looking at you, with her blinding mop of bleached blonde hair being the only thing he could see. 

"What? So it's not true?" she pressed, clearly looking for a reaction that you weren't willing to give her. 

"No, no it's not," you declined again, your leg bouncing up and down nervously. Lando grinned to himself, proud of you for sticking up for yourself and not giving in. He just hoped you had the willpower to carry on being as strong as you were, since he knew how sensitive you were at the minute.

"So the two of you didn't spend this weekend, practically locked in his parent's house by the lake while the bed was creaking-" 

"Right that's enough." you said, your voice firm and leaving no room for disagreement. Lilly looked a tiny bit shook by your defiance, but Lando was sat there, wide-eyed. He never told anyone about the house by the lake apart from Max, and the likelihood of him telling Lilly of all people was slim to none. 

But he was more taken aback and impressed by your steadfastness. He had expected you to be in tears by this point, but it was a more than pleasant surprise. He still couldn't see Lilly's face, but he could imagine the annoying pout as her lips were pursed together.

"I don't know who you heard that from, but that is complete and utter bullshit. I spent my weekend at home. As for Lando? I couldn't really give a shit, but he wasn't with me. Much to your dismay, he wasn't with you either,"  you carried on, and your conversation had pricked up some of your class' listening ears. 

Lilly looked like you had just slapped her, her mouth agape and eyes wide as she looked at you. "I... you..." she stuttered, unsure of how to respond. As much as Lando was glad that you were sticking up for yourself, he was also feeling a slight stabbing pain in his chest. 

You 'couldn't really give a shit'. The worst part was that he couldn't tell if you meant it or not. He doubted that you did, but there was always the small question of what if? What if you had meant it?

If he was being honest, the thought of you not caring scared the life out of him. It wasn't something that he wanted to believe, not at all. He knew that the two of you weren't on the best terms, not by either of your faults but you still weren't friends, yet that didn't warrant you not caring at all, right?

The one person whose opinion he idolised, the one person who he wanted to see everyday, the one person who he could be himself around didn't care. It simply didn't register in his mind that that was even possible. 

By the time Lando had snapped out of his thoughts, the teacher had resumed his lesson and you and Lilly were sat in silence, a scowl still plastered on her face. The rest of the lesson wasn't focused on biology, at least not for Lando. 

Both of you left as quickly as you could and went to your favourite respective places to spend your break times. Lando didn't know where you'd be this time, since you moved just about every five minutes. 

He knew that your little outburst would get back to his friends by the end of the break, and he didn't want to be there when they inevitably found out. He couldn't figure out what they'd say to him or how they'd react, but he knew there would be more teasing. 

He was upset enough as it was, and he didn't need them to make it worse. Lando stayed away from the canteen, just aimlessly wandering through the near-empty halls. As he approached the lockers on his third lap of the school, his ears picked up the sounds of a familiar voice. 

"You think you're so special, don't you?" she said, and he could have sworn that all he could see was red. Lilly. And there was no doubts in his mind over who she was talking to.

"I bet you're loving all of this attention, aren't you? You probably started these rumours yourself, didn't you?" Lilly carried on, Lando staying behind the wall while he listened to her onslaught. He hadn't seen you, but he could picture the look on your face. 

"Why the hell would I make up such awful things about myself? I'm not an attention seeker like you, I don't want this happening," you retorted, a smirk growing on Lando's face as he heard you. He was glad you weren't running off and crying anymore, but he assumed you were bottling it all up as a way of coping. 

"Please, you're just annoyed that Lando would never actually date you, aren't you?" she said, and you were both gobsmacked. You knew that that was why she was getting pissy with you, but you didn't think she'd spell it out point blank. 

"What, like he'd date you either?" you shot back, stunning Lilly into silence. Initially, she was right to assume that her saying all of these things would reduce you to tears, but today you had built a shell around you - one that almost seemed impenetrable. 

But, hidden beneath the tough exterior and firm words, Lando could hear the faintest of a wobble in your voice. Lilly wouldn't pick up on it, but he had. Maybe it was just because he knew you so well already, or maybe it was just because he liked you so damn much that he noticed all of the tiniest little things about you. 

"Please, I think anyone would rather date me over you," she said after a few moments, the come back taking longer for her to think up than she would have liked.  You nearly laughed in her face, nearly told her what a massive bitch she was and how most people would rather be dead than date her. 

However, someone swooped in. "I know I wouldn't."

"Oh, hey Lando, we were just talking about you," Lilly instantly stepped in, her voice suddenly turning nauseatingly sacchariferous. She stepped closer to him, batting her false eyelashes at him as if it would put him under her spell. 

"Yeah, I heard." he said, his voice betraying none of his emotions. Lilly could tell that something was up with him, but she chose to ignore it and carry on trying to woo him. 

"I was just saying how-"

"I heard it. And I don't think you have any right to say any of that about Y/N. She is a much better person than you, and you're stupid to think she'd make those rumours about us. That's something you'd do. Also, I'll reiterate. I would rather date her than you any day of the week." he said, not missing a beat between sentences.

Lilly stayed quiet, that familiar scowl finding its place back on her face. "Fine, yeah, whatever," she scoffed, rolling her eyes as she stormed away from you. 

You let out a breath that you hadn't realised you had been holding, finally feeling the weight of the day pressing down on you. You had done so well to keep it all bottled up as you stood up for yourself, but now it felt like the adrenaline had worn off and your resolve was crumbling. 

Once she had gone, Lando turned to you and saw the tears in your eyes. "Hey, no, don't..." he softly said, approaching you. He was unsure whether he was allowed to hug you or touch you or if he was supposed to just leave you alone to cry. 

He contemplated it, but he couldn't force himself to walk away. You had let all of the fear and the upset of the weekend and the past couple of hours to build up, and now it was finally too heavy for you to hold up. 

"Can I... can I please just..." he started, not knowing how to ask the question. He didn't want to outright ask if he could hold you, but he didn't know what else to say. Instead, he hovered his arms awkwardly around you as if he was gesturing at hugging you. 

"Mhm," you hummed, your arms going around his neck as his wrapped around your waist. It was nice to be close to you again, to have you again. He also felt a rush of affection. He didn't know how long to hold the hug, how tightly to hold you, where to put his head. 

Did he rest it on top of yours? Bury it in the crook of your neck? Just... keep it there? 

Despite his inner turmoil, his instincts took his hand up the the back of your head, fingers tangling in the strands of hair. "Please don't cry, c'mon, it's OK," he mumbled, hating the way you shook with silent sobs in his arms. 

He knew you had kept your emotions all bundled up inside all day, but he couldn't handle you being so upset. "I'm sorry..." you mumbled, but he couldn't make out the words as they were muffled by his chest. 

"Hm? What did you say?" he gently asked, looking down at you as you looked up at him. It had just dawned on him how close you were, and how easy it would be just to lean down and kiss you like he- no, no. Not the time. Not yet, at least. 

"I said I'm sorry," you repeated, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. 

"Sorry for what?"

"I'm sorry for... avoiding you, not being your friend, being a complete and utter bitch to you, and-" you started to ramble, more tears falling from your eyes. 

"Hey, no, no, I won't hear it. None of this is your fault, absolutely none of it. OK?" he reassured you, needing you to know that you hadn't done anything wrong. All you did was nod, before hugging him tighter and resting your head back on his chest. 

His white button up was slightly see through with tears, but he'd be able to hide it with his blazer no problem. "Shh, please don't cry," he carried on trying to soothe you, his mind going through thousands of other things he wanted to say.

'You're too pretty to cry...' was the first thing that came to the forefront of his brain, but that was too much too soon. He felt your shudders against him stilling as you opted to just stand there in his embrace. He wasn't complaining, he would stay like that for as long as you'd let him.   

From down the hall, he could hear the faint pattering of footsteps. Lando didn't want to say anything, he just wanted to let them walk by and they'd likely ignore the two of you. Once you heard it too, you pushed back from him so that there was a sizeable gap between you both. 

He was disappointed, to say the least, but he understood your trepidation. It was a good job that you had stepped away, since the person that walked by was one of Lilly's friends. She was probably already floating around, spreading as many lies as her single-celled brain could muster. 

"I'll... see you later, yeah?" you weakly smiled, checking the time and seeing that it was nearly time for your next class. 

"Yeah, course. You getting the bus or do you need a ride?" he asked, confident that his mum would happily pick you up down the road and take you home. 

"A ride would be nice," you nodded, and he was slightly taken aback by the fact that you hadn't argued with him. You were as stubborn as the day was long, but he was happy you had relented  quickly on this occasion. 

"You just start walking home and we'll find you somewhere along the road," he told you and you nodded. 

"Sounds good," you lightly chuckled, the sound welcome to his ears. He hadn't heard any semblance of a laugh from you in nearly a week, and he was unbelievably grateful that he had gotten to hear it again. 

"See ya," he smiled as you walked away, a wave of contentedness washing over him. Even if it has come as a result of some of the toughest days of both your life and his, he had gotten to hug you. To actually hug you, to touch you more than your fingers just brushing together when you handed something to each other. 

It was what he had wanted, and he had finally gotten it. The price was hefty, but he had gotten it nonetheless. Now, he was counting down the seconds until he'd get to drive you home, spend more time with you, talk to you again.      

The rest of the day wasn't actually too bad. Just the odd comment or two, but it was nothing compared to what the pair of you had been getting over the past few days. Lando actually found a few of them quite funny, when he thought about it. 

"Hey Norris, your girlfriend is feisty, eh? Bet that makes her fun for you," one of the boys in your year said, as if it was meant to hurt or upset him. Instead he just laughed, shaking his head. 

"Feisty? Very," was all he could get out before walking away to get to his next lesson. Lando had never been so prudent with getting to his lessons, but he found that it was the best way to spend his time. 

Hour after hour went by, and before he knew it, Lando was practically running out of the front doors of the school and towards his mum's car. She was parked in the same spot that she always was, and he hopped in the back in preparation for you to get in too. 

"Why are you sitting back there?" she asked, looking at him in the rear view mirror. 

"We're picking Y/N up down the road," he said, leaning over the center console to turn on the heated seats on your side, as well as leaving his jumper from the day on your seat. He had found the one that you had returned to him in his locker, but he wanted you to have the one he had already worn.

There was something strangely intimate about you wearing his jumpers as a source of warmth and comfort, but he wasn't opposed to it. He knew that a lot of girls stole their boyfriend's hoodies, but this wasn't quite that scenario.

He wanted it to be, there was no doubt about that, but this made him feel like you two were a few steps closer to that. You were always happy to wear his jumpers, but he sometimes wished you wouldn't return then just so that he could ask for them back. Not that he wanted them back. If you wanted them, they were all yours. 

"Oh are we now?" she smirked, finding her son's actions towards you as endearing as hell. He was shaping up to be the boy she wanted to raise, and she was so proud of him. She could tell his crush on you was definitely developing, and the distance between you clearly made him want you more. 

"Yeah, we are," he said, leaving no room for her to say no. Well, she wouldn't have said no since it was cold and she didn't want you walking such a distance in such cold temperatures. 

"Does she know we're taking her home or have you just decided?"

"I asked if she wanted a ride and she said yes, so we're picking her up," he reiterated, plugging his seat belt into the socket and getting comfortable against the leather of the seats. 

"OK, OK," she chuckled, shaking her head. Igniting the engine, Lando's mum pulled away from her parking spot and started driving down the road, looking out for you. As she glanced at the rear-view mirror, she could see Lando's eyes glued to the window, searching for you on the pavement. 

She knew he had seen him by the way his eyes lit up and a small smile crept its way across his lips. Pulling up on the pavement, she rolled the passenger side window down as she called out to you. "Your chauffeur awaits," 

Clambering in the passenger side, you saw Lando's jumper on your chair, instantly taking your blazer off and replacing it with the garment. It was so much warmer than your coat, and you felt so much more comfortable in it too. 

You didn't fail to notice the heat that emanated from the seat as well, the added care making butterflies spark in your stomach. "You really don't have to go to the effort of picking me up, you know." you said, feeling slightly bad that she was going out of her way to take you home. 

"Well it was Lando's idea. He just told me we were picking you up and here we are," she told you, and you could sense the blush that coated Lando's cheeks. 

"Mum c'mon, don't..." he mumbled, crossing his arms and avoiding her gaze in the mirror. He had a slight pout on his face, and it reminded her of when he didn't get what he wanted when he was little. He was always adorable. 

You just giggled at him, and it was music to his ears. Seeing you warm and cozy in his hoodie was definitely something he wanted more of, and he wasn't sure how much more waiting he could do before he cracked and acted on his impulses. 

Yet, he didn't know what he'd do if you rejected him, or said you just wanted to be friends. He never wanted to be just friends with you, he wanted it all with you. He wanted you to be his first real girlfriend, the one you can never really forget. 

And he could only hope that you wanted the same from him. His gut feeling told him that it was obvious that you were feeling the same. Why else would you hug him, accept a ride home from him, wear his jumpers?   

He didn't care, all he did care about was the fact that his heart was dead set on the notion that you did like him back, but his head was throwing doubts at him. 

After a short drive and light conversation, you pulled up outside of your house. Instead of his mum this time, Lando wanted to be the one who walked you to your door. Getting out of his seat and taking a few steps forward to your door, he opened it forward and stood to the side. 

Grabbing your bag out of the footwell, Lando carried it to your front door as you walked together. "Do you think we could go to the library tomorrow at second break? I tried to use the textbook to do the biology, but I really couldn't understand. Plus, I think my knowledge of female anatomy could really be helped out by you," he joked, and it was refreshing to see a bit of Lando's regular cheek coming to the fore. 

If someone else had made the comment, you would've been pissed off, maybe a little upset. But not when it was Lando. His usual sense of humor was coming back, and it was like things were slowly returning back to normal. 

"I think the textbook is a better help on that subject than I am," you countered, and Lando just smirked at you. 

"Probably, but I'm much more of a hands-on learner. I'd like to have the real thing in front of me, you know?" he quipped, and you couldn't help but laugh at him. Now this was how things were meant to be. Just you two, laughing and enjoying being in each other's company. 

"Sure," you agreed. Well, not to the hands on learning, just to teaching him the stuff he didn't understand. Your way of explaining things was good for Lando, it made him understand it a lot better than the teachers could. 

"Can I get a hug before I go?" he tentatively asked, his brain working overtime to try and think of a joke to play it off in case you said no.

"Course you can," you said, your arms finding their place back around his neck as you leant into him. Just the feeling of you in his arms was enough to get his heart racing, and he felt the ever similar urge to just lean down and kiss you. 

A soft smile found its way onto his mum's face - who was watching on from the car. Seeing the both of you so miserable was dreadful, so now seeing you making up and going back to the ordinary was more than enough for her. 

There was no missing the fond, soft look in her son's eyes. It was nothing but pure affection and admiration, and it was clear how much he cared for you. She had never seen such adoration from him, and she should have guessed that it'd be you. 

From the first time your name had ever slipped past his lips, she should've known just by the way he spoke about you. And now, there you were. The two of you, as you were meant to be. 

You and Lando bade each other farewell, and he waited until you were safely inside the confines of your own home before walking back to his mum's car and getting in the passenger seat. "You two seem to have made up," she said, a slightly teasing tone to her voice. 

"Yeah, something like that," he agreed, knowing it was more than that. Or so he hoped. If only he knew that things weren't that simple, that the rose tinted glasses would be ripped from his face just as quickly as they had been put there. 

A/N - Hello lovely people! Chipping away at all the stuff I have half finished, which is part 2 to Hotel Girl, the requested part 2 of Ceilings, a little old Charlos thing, a Lando thing and Max's birthday special! I have to do one for old Maxie since we have the same birthday so we can roll our birthday specials into one. Have a great night, love y'all! 💖

tag list: @oh-austin @avni-sarai @cheriladycl01 @mariedeyes223 @daemyraforever56 @toriiez @robotchickenmerp

|masterlist|the full series|

[smashingveteransandnewcomers]

The Security Breaching Kids: Retrekking through the Ruins.

@astral-multiverse

Time for another tale that may sound familiar, but I assure you is quite different. Not many familiar faces will be joining, but some new ones will. And it starts in the workshop of Delta Astral Aran, where he was joined by a surprisingly uncommon sight working with him....Montgomery 'Monty' Gator!

The Animatronic lifted their shades as they look over the schematics for the new separated bodies of The Daycare Attendant, AKA Sun/Moon. "Uh...You sure this is gonna work, kid? I mean not only did we have to build these from scratch, but we gotta find a way to split their shared coding into one..."

[makers-muse]

What are the challenges in implementing STEM education in india? 

STEM education, which integrates Science, Technology, Engineering, and Math, is vital for preparing students for future careers. With the growing emphasis on digital skills and innovation, India has made strides in introducing STEM programs in schools. However, the implementation of STEM education in India comes with several challenges that limit its widespread success. 

Here are some of the common barriers schools face when trying to introduce and implement STEM education effectively. 

1. Lack of Infrastructure and Resources 

A significant challenge that schools in India encounter is a lack of adequate infrastructure. STEM education often requires well-equipped labs, computers, internet access, and other technological resources. Many schools, especially those in rural areas, struggle to provide even basic facilities, making it difficult to offer hands-on STEM learning experiences. 

2. Insufficient Teacher Training 

For effective STEM education, teachers must be trained not only in subject matter but also in modern pedagogical approaches, including project-based learning and the integration of technology. In India, a significant number of educators have limited exposure to STEM concepts, and teacher training programs often do not adequately prepare them to teach STEM subjects with confidence and creativity. Explore more 

3. Cost of Implementation 

Implementing STEM programs can be expensive. The cost of setting up labs, purchasing equipment, and maintaining the technology needed for these programs can be a financial burden for many schools. Without sufficient funding from either the government or private organizations, schools struggle to provide the resources needed for effective STEM education. 

4. Rigid Curriculum Structure 

The conventional education system in India often emphasizes rote memorization and standardized assessments. This rigid structure leaves little room for the exploratory, project-based learning that is essential to STEM education. As a result, many schools find it challenging to integrate STEM learning activities into their existing curricula. 

5. Limited Awareness and Interest 

In many cases, both students and parents have limited awareness of the importance of STEM education. Cultural biases towards traditional career paths, such as medicine or engineering, can discourage students from exploring diverse STEM-related fields. Schools must also work to spark student interest and demonstrate the practical applications of STEM subjects in real-world situations. Contact us now 

Ready to overcome STEM challenges in your school ! 

Despite these challenges, STEM education is essential for preparing India’s students for the future job market, which will increasingly rely on technology and innovation. To overcome these obstacles, schools must receive adequate funding, provide teacher training, and create flexible curricula that encourage hands-on learning. 

Partner with MakersMuse to bring innovative STEM programs to your school, helping students develop essential skills for the future! 

[vitalverstappen]

Color Me in Your Key - L. Lawson

summary: Between paint-stained mornings and moonlit melodies, something between you and the late-hired music counselor begins to bloom

pairing: Liam Lawson x reader, arts camp counselors au

warnings: swearing, use of y/n

word count: 9k

masterlist

It wasn’t unusual for camp to smell like pine needles, paint thinner, and possibility. Every summer it came alive with barefoot artists, off-key singers, and wild-eyed counselors who’d given up their city internships to live in the woods and create things that might fall apart in the rain. You were one of them. 

As the visual arts counselor, your kingdom was the art barn: a sprawling open-air studio strung with fairy lights, lined with battered easels, paint splattered tables and pottery wheels. It sat on the edge of the woods, nestled between the lake path and the amphitheater, and you could always hear music or laughter drifting in with the breeze. You lived in a permanent state of half-day acrylic and sunburn, your fingers always stained and your clothes dotted with last week’s color palette. 

The kids adored you. The other staff respected you. The new music counselor? Undecided. 

Liam arrived on the first day of counselor training with a dented guitar case, a crooked smile, and no idea where anything was. He was technically a late hire - someone dropped out, and the director had texted you in all caps the night before with: “WE GOT A MUSIC GUY”

You met him fifteen minutes into the first staff meeting. Your camp director, Molly, was off putting out literal or metaphorical fires (no one ever really knew which), leaving you in charge of orientation and the half-asleep group of counselors clustered in the dining hall.

The door creaked open and in stumbled the new kid - sleep tousled hair, camp brochure sticking out of his back pocket, and a cardboard tray with two different coffees.  

“You’re late,” you said, crossing your arms as the room turned to look.

“I’m Liam,” he said, stepping over a duffel bag someone had abandoned and offering you one of the drinks. “Peace offering?” 

You narrowed your eyes. He had that look: boyish, confident, very used to charming his way out of things. City boy swagger wrapped in forest-inappropriate sneakers. The guitar case slung over his shoulder looked like it had lived five lives already. You accepted the coffee anyway. 

“Orientation started at eight,” you said, voice dry.

“Technically,” he said, blowing on his drink, “so did I. But I was making friends with a racoon behind Cabin Monet. We have an understanding now.”

You didn’t smile. Not really. But the corner of your mouth might’ve twitched. 

The meeting continued, but you felt his eyes on you. Not in a creepy way, simply curious. Intrigued. Like he couldn’t decide what kind of person you were yet. You hated that you were wondering the same. 

By the time the group dispersed and you were back in the art barn prepping for the first set of workshops next week, Liam had wandered in. 

“This place smells like turpentine and ambition,” he said, leaning against the doorway. 

“That’s how you know it’s working.”

He wandered between the tables, touching nothing, just looking. His fingers hovered over a half-finished candle holder you had been working on. “You in charge here?”

“What gave it away?” 

He grinned, pointing to the whiteboard filled with your neat handwriting, the first lesson plan already scrawled in bullet points and color-coded arrows. Beneath it sat your infamous chipped ceramic mug, the one boldly labeled in red paint: “Do Not Touch Unless You’re Bleeding.”

“You always this intense?”

You glanced over your shoulder, arching a brow. “You always this nosy?”

He didn’t answer immediately - just gave a lazy shrug and went back to slowly wandering the room. But there was a stillness to him now, like wasn’t just killing time or poking fun, but really looking. Taking things in. 

His eyes drifted from the tangled fairy lights drooping across the rafters to the shelf of mismatched mugs in the back corner, each one donated by a camper or rescued from the dining hall’s “lost and found” pile. He lingered on the aprons hung like flags along the wall, their fabric stiff with years of dried clay, gesso, and glitter. His fingers ghosted near the worktable you’d commandeered as your own - covered in half carved candles, unfinished sketches, and a jar of murky paint water that definitely hadn’t been changed in a few days. 

You weren’t used to people being quiet in your space. Not like this. Not the music department. They were usually louder, messier, and a little too in love with their own chaos. Liam… didn’t fit that mold entirely. At least not yet. 

Finally, he said, quietly, “My mom was a painter.”

You blinked, surprised. That wasn’t where you thought this was going. 

You glanced at him. “Yeah?”

He nodded once, still not looking at you. “Watercolor, mostly. Landscapes. The soft, sad kind. I used to sit in her studio and try to paint along. I was awful.”

Your lips twitched “That tracks.”

He laughed, and the sound echoed in the rafters, warm and open and entirely unfiltered. It startled something in you - a laugh that easy shouldn’t be allowed this early in camp. Not when everyone else was still caffeinating and pretending to be more organized than they were. 

“She used to say good art isn’t always pretty. Sometimes it’s just true.” He shrugged, suddenly self-conscious.

He glanced at the candle holder sitting near the window, your latest half-finished project - dripping with glaze, shaped like something between a flower and a flame. “Anyway. That’s cool. That piece. Looks like it’s about to tell me my future or light on fire. Maybe both.”

You raised a brow. “You always get sentimental before lunch?”

“Only when I’m trying to impress the hot art counselor.”

Your brush slipped from your fingers and clattered to the floor, leaving a streak of wet blue across the wood. 

He winced. “Too much?”

“Just bold,” you said, turning back to your workspace like it didn’t matter. Like your ears weren’t burning. Like you hadn’t already replayed the way he’d said hot art counselor three times in your head.

He didn’t leave. He didn’t fidget. He returned to leaning in the doorway, one foot resting against the frame like he had nowhere else to be and no intention of moving. 

You busied yourself with organizing brushes that didn’t need organizing, mostly just to get your heart rate back under control.

“Do you know where your workshop space is yet?” you asked, mostly to change the subject. 

“Nope.” He popped the p. “Pretty sure I was supposed to follow someone, but I got distracted by the tiny frogs near the garden.”

You sighed, more fond than annoyed. “C’mon, I’ll show you.”

The music cabin was tucked down a short trail behind the amphitheater, half swallowed by blackberry bushes and shaded by a canopy of old pines. It looked like someone had once tried to repaint the exterior dark blue but gave up halfway, leaving sun-bleached streaks that looked like watercolor washes in a storm.

Inside, it smelled like old wood, dust, and the faint, lingering sweetness of someone’s long-forgotten vanilla candle. 

The windows were streaked. The floor creaked. Someone had left a pile of cracked percussion instruments in one corner, including a tambourine that had been attacked by at least five sticker-happy campers and one lonely maraca with googly eyes stuck to it.

A keyboard sat near the front window, missing its middle C. A ukulele hung on the wall by a nail and what looked suspiciously like duct tape. You spotted a coffee cup still full of something suspiciously green You didn’t ask.

Liam turned in a slow circle, soaking it in. “Alright,” he said. “This place is falling apart.”

You leaned against the doorframe, watching him. “So are most of us. Welcome to camp.”

He looked back over his shoulder at you - and this time, the grin was different. Not his earlier smirk, Not performance. A smaller one. Softer. 

“I like it here already.” He paused, head tilted slightly. “Though I do think this place needs a bit of fixing. What’re you doing tomorrow?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Depends. Are you about to lure me into manual labor with charm and vague promises of creative fulfillment?”

Liam put a hand over his heart and scoffed in offense. “I would never.”

You stared at him. 

“Okay,” he amended, “I absolutely would. But also - I’ve got big dreams for this room, and zero spatial planning skills. You seem like the kind of person who alphabetizes your paintbrushes.”

You rolled your eyes, stepping into the room beside him. The floor groaned under your feet. 

“This place needs more than alphabetization. It needs Lysol. And an exorcism.”

“Perfect,” Liam said brightly. “You bring the cleaning supplies, I’ll bring the snacks. And the emotionally supportive playlist.”

You glanced around again - the warped floorboards, the half-collapsed music stand, the broken stool that was probably a lawsuit waiting to happen - and sighed like someone accepted a noble burden.

“Fine,” you gave in. “But only because I can’t stand to see that ukulele suffer another day.”

Liam grinned, victorious. “Meet me here at eleven?”

“You mean before or after I question all of my life choices?”

He laughed. “During. Definitely during.” 

That night, after the first full day of counselor training, you found him again. Not on purpose. You were just looking for somewhere to sit that wasn’t buzzing with small talk and oversharing games. 

The staff bonfire was halfway through a s’mores war. Someone was trying to stack flaming marshmallows three-high. Connor from Theater was quoting Shakespeare dramatically with a mouth full of chocolate. The lake glimmered in the distance.

And there was Liam - perched on one of the logs, head tilted down, plucking at his guitar with the kind of quiet focus that made the whole world feel a little more in tune. 

The firelight turned everything golden - his face, the curve of his hands, the worn wood of the guitar. His expression was soft, brow furrowed in concentration, as though he was chasing a melody through smoke. 

No lyrics, simply music. Raw and half-formed and full of space.

It made you think of skies before a storm. Of bare canvases. Of everything unfinished. 

You weren’t watching him. Not really.

But you noticed the way the other counselors drifted toward him. Like warmth, or gravity. Like he was his own kind of campfire.

Someone asked him to play a song, and he didn’t even look up. He nodded and kept playing, sliding into something richer. More sure. It started low and rough and grew into something that made you stop mid-step.

And stay.

You sat on the edge of the circle, watching the flames flicker, letting the music wrap around you like a thread you didn’t mean to follow. 

You stayed longer than you meant to. 

And later, walking back to your cabin under the hush of pine needles and stars, you realized something. 

You were humming.  

It was the song he hadn’t finished. 

The one you kind of hoped he’d play again. 

You showed up to the music cabin at exactly 11:02 a.m., half hoping he’d forgotten. Or bailed. Or slept through it, like the other counselors who’d spent too long at the bonfire. 

But there he was. 

Sitting on the front steps, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, a broom balanced across his knees like a makeshift sword. In one hand, a coffee cup. In the other, one waiting for you. He wore the same band tee from last night, layered under a flannel that looked like it had lived through several garage bands and one mild emotional crisis.

“You’re late,” Liam said, squinting up at you like he’d been waiting exactly that long to make a joke. He held out the extra coffee. “I considered calling a search party. Or the racoon behind Cabin Monet.”

You took the drink, trying not to let your fingers brush his too long. “I had to emotionally prepare for the smell in here.”

“That’s fair. It’s…layered.”

Inside, the cabin was exactly as tragic as you remembered. Maybe worse in the daylight. The sun, slanting through the dusty windows, illuminated every flaw: the fraying curtains, the warped floorboards, the uneven stacks of sheet music curling like dried leaves. A spider had now taken up residence on the keyboard. The maraca with googly eyes sat on a cracked plastic chair like some kind of cursed mascot.

“Still think this is a good idea?” you asked, popping one of the windows open with your elbow. A cloud of dead flies dropped to the floor in a delicate little puff of doom.

Liam looked around slowly, then nodded with utter seriousness. “It’s a fixer-upper. With potential. Like a deeply weird indie film character.”

You smirked. “Charming, but needs therapy.”

“Exactly,” he said brightly. “And maybe a humidifier.”

You started with the rest of the windows. They resisted. Each one fought you with years of grime and stubborn hinges, but eventually opened, letting in a breeze that immediately made the place feel more alive. 

You stripped the sagging curtains and balled them into a corner. “Donation pile,” you said, knowing full well no one would touch it again until August.

Liam grabbed the broom. And promptly proved he had no idea how to use it.

“Have you… ever used a broom?” you asked, watching him attempt to wrangle dust into a pile and mostly spread it into the air.

“I was more of a vacuum kid,” he replied

“Rich.”

“No, lazy. We lived in an apartment.”

You sighed. And took over.

Liam slunk to the corner, tasked with the instrument graveyard. He rolled up his sleeves - forearms streaked with dust and old ink from somewhere - and started talking to the maraca like it was helping him sort.

It took hours. 

Dusting. Sweeping. Arguing over whether to keep a poster of some indie band no one had ever heard of. You hauled a trunk full of tangled cords from behind the little stage while Liam unearthed a disco ball and promptly wore it on his head like a helmet until you threatened to paint it pink.

You used some of your leftover paint to repaint the peeling window sills in a soft, buttery gold. Liam found a half-broken milk crate and turned it into a shelf for pedals and cables. He strung up a line of twinkle lights across the rafters, stepping carefully along the wobbly bench while humming something soft under his breath.

At one point, you found a warped box of sheet music stuck behind an old filing cabinet. Pages were stuck together, water-stained and curling. 

“These any good?” you asked, holding one up. 

Liam took it from you, thumbed through the wrinkled pages. “Nope, but they weirdly smell like my childhood. That’s gotta be worth something.”

You tilted your head. “You grew up around music?”

He nodded. “My dad played guitar. He was in some cover band for a while, played a bunch of bar gigs in the area.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you didn’t. 

Instead, you simply watched him - soft in the light, sunlight painting extra gold into his hair, fingers ghosting across the keys of a piano that didn’t quite work. There was something about him that made the dust feel less heavy. Like even the messiest parts could be music if you listened right. 

“You’re not what I expected,” you said before you could stop yourself. 

He looked over, brow lifted. “Yeah?”

“I figured you’d be cockier. Louder. More… theater kid energy.”

“Oh I have theater kid energy,” he said, mock offended. “I just hide it until it’s time to monologue.”

You snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”

“True. But I also found the replacement key for the piano, built a shelf out of a milk crate, and survived your glitter bomb drawer. So I think that makes me officially useful.”

You tilted your head. “Marginally.”

By the time the sun began its slow descent behind the trees, the cabin looked different.

Still imperfect. Still crooked. But brighter. Lighter.

The walls glowed in the soft, slanted light. The new shelf stood proudly under the window. The corner stage had been cleared of mystery boxes and dead pens. The spider had been politely relocated. 

You ended the afternoon sitting on the cabin steps with the door wide open, sipping the dregs of cold coffee and watching birds dive across the treetops. Liam settled beside you, guitar balanced on his thigh. His elbow brushed yours. Neither of you moved.

“I’ve been trying to finish that song,” he said. 

You looked at him. 

“The one from the fire,” he added. “But it keeps changing. Like it wants to be something else.”

You didn’t say anything, just watched him, gentle and golden and halfway to something vulnerable. 

He met your eyes. “It kind of reminds me of this place. A little messy. A little magic.”

Something lodged in your throat. Something you didn’t know what to name yet. 

“Play it for me,” you said quietly. 

And he did. 

Camper arrival day was a storm.

At exactly 10:07 a.m., the camp exploded with life. The quiet hum of the morning gave way to a full-blown sensory stampede: the crunch of gravel under tires, car doors slamming, parents calling out reminders with one foot on the gas, and teens tumbling out of minivans with backpacks bigger than their actual bodies. 

The parking lot buzzed with movement and nerves and oversized tote bags. Music blared from open windows - everything from obscure indie tracks to full-volume show tunes that rattled the trees. One car had three kids singing along to Wicked at top volume, choreographed hand motions and all.

Camp had finally begun. 

You stood near the check-in table with a clipboard in one hand and an iced coffee sweating in the other. Your shirt was already smudged with streaks of ochre from loading paint crates into the barn that morning. You wore it like armor. 

To your left, two of the theater counselors were mid-argument over whether Cabin Sondheim could accommodate six or seven drama kids without imploding. To your right, the film counselor was frantically trying to stop a drone from getting tangled in the overhead pines while three teens shouted ideas for their “cabin intro short film.” One of them was already wearing a beret.

And in the middle of it all, unbothered, sunlit, and completely himself, Liam was perched on the porch rail of the office cabin, guitar in hand, legs swinging like this was just another easy Sunday.

He glanced over when you walked past. “Look at them,” he said, not even pausing his strumming. “It’s like a musical just vomited all over the parking lot.”

You didn’t break stride. “They’re excited.”

“They’re terrifying.”

Right on cue, a girl with pink streaks in her hair ran past yelling, “I HAVE FIVE NOTEBOOKS AND A VISION BOARD.”

Liam blinked. “...And mildly inspiring.”

You arched an eyebrow. “You’re scared of teens?”

He gave you a look. “They can smell weakness. And insecurity. And I haven’t fully memorized the camp song yet.”

“That’s what the lyric sheets are for.”

“I used mine to swat a mosquito.” He paused, then added, deadpan: “It survived.”

You sighed and pulled a spare from your back pocket, expertly folded into quarters. Without ceremony, you tossed it at his face. He caught it midair, grinning. 

“God, you’re prepared for everything. I respect it. I fear it.”

By mid afternoon, the cabins were filled, the parking lot was clearing, adn the dining hall had devolved into a mix of nametag swaps, water bottle trading, and spontaneous “who packed the weirdest snack” contests. The bunk assignments had mostly settled - along with the usual amount of minor drama and someone sobbing over a forgotten retainer. 

You strolled down the gravel path toward the art barn, relishing the first quiet moment in hours. The buzz of camper noise faded behind you. For a blissful second, it was just you, the warm wind, and the smell of pine and pencil shavings. 

Until-

“Hey, Picasso!” 

You turned.

Liam jogged to catch up, hair a mess from what looked like an intense game of human knot. His cheeks were flushed, shirt rumpled, clipboard clutched in one hand and a marker tucked behind his ear like it had grown there. 

“They’re already asking about your classes,” he said, breathless but smiling. “I had one kid corner me about acrylic vs. gouache for dramatic expression.”

You smirked. “Gabe. Cabin Van Gough. He’s a returning chaos gobin. Last year, he turned the entire ceramics wheel room into a recreation of the French Revolution.”

Liam flipped the clipboard, scanning quickly. “Yeah that tracks. He lit up like a Christmas tree when I told him about Music and Movement.”

“I’ll send thoughts and prayers.”

“You’re not even worried,” he muttered, mock-offended.

“He once made a flute out of bubble tea straws and tears. You’ll be fine.”

Liam laughed. “These kids are wild.”

“They’re brilliant,” you corrected. “They just don’t have any filters yet. No fear of failure. It’s…refreshing.”

He glanced sideways. “Kinda like you.”

That made you blink. 

“What?” you asked. 

He shrugged. “You just… seem like the type who paints first and figures out what it means later. Brave in that ‘please don’t look at me while I’m being vulnerable’ sort of way.”

You rolled your eyes to cover the flicker in your chest. “I am exactly that type.”

He nudged you gently with his elbow. “I like that.”

You tried not to smile. 

Tried harder not to look like that sentence was still echoing in your chest when you reached the art barn steps and waved him off. 

“Don’t let the chaos goblin eat you alive.”

“I’ll try. No promises.”

As he turned back toward the music cabin, you watched him go - clipboard in hand, sunlight curling around him like it belonged there.

The sun was dipping into the treetops when the amphitheater filled with noise. 

The campers flooded in like a living watercolor - streaks of dyed hair, glittered cheeks, cargo shorts covered in patches and pins. The older ones claimed the back rows like royalty, legs slung over benches. The younger ones bounced between counselors, wide-eyed and smelling faintly of sunscreen and nerves.

You stood backstage, just out of sight, clipboard in one hand, watching it all unfold. 

“Remind me again,” Liam said from behind you, voice low, “what exactly happens at this thing?”

“You pretend to be awake and well-adjusted for about forty-five minutes,” you said, not looking at him. “We introduce the staff. The kids scream. The director makes a speech that’s twice as long as it needs to be. And then we let them loose on the elective board like wolves.”

“Sounds cute and terrifying.”

“You’ll fit right in.”

You felt him glance sideways at you. “Was that a compliment?”

“Don’t let it get to your head.”

Before he could reply, the camp director - Molly, in her signature Hawaiian shirt and combat boots - strode onto the stage, holding a megaphone she didn’t need. Her voice carried without it. 

“Alright artists! Writers! Drama queens! Music nerds! Beautiful chaos goblins - welcome to summer!” 

The crowd erupted into cheers and applause. 

Molly held up a hand, grinning like a conductor waiting for her orchestra to settle. “Before we release you into the creative wilderness, it’s time to meet the incredible staff that’ll be guiding you through glitter glue disasters and emotional breakthroughs alike.”

“Let’s start with Visual Arts, give it up for y/n!”

You stepped out to polite clapping, which turned into loud whooping when a few returning campers recognized you. One of them shouted, “We missed you, Van Gogh Vibes!”

You gave a little salute, trying not to blush. 

“And joining us this year for Music,” Molly said, her voice taking on that slight tone of mischief, “a new face with plenty of strings attached - literally - give it up for Liam!”

Liam walked out with that lazy kind of confidence you had come to expect, one hand waving, the other shoved in his pocket. The applause was immediate - mostly from the theater kids, who were clearly already planning to adopt him - and someone shouted, “HE’S CUTE!”

Liam shot you a sideways grin. 

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. 

He leaned a little closer as Molly moved on. “Hot art counselor and a fan club? You’re crushing me in approval ratings.”

“Keep talking during announcements and I’ll ‘accidentally’ assign you the recorder ensemble.”

His smile widened. “Tempting.”

You turned your attention back to the front of the stage where Molly was now introducing the electives list, and the energy of the amphitheater shifted like a storm rolling in - campers whispering and plotting, eyes scanning for clipboards, crushes, and chaos. 

“We’ve got returning favorites and a few new surprises!” Molly announced. “Yes, the pottery wheels are fixed. Yes, we brought back Advanced Stage Combat. And yes, Liam will be leading a songwriting workshop, even though he just found out five minutes ago.”

Liam blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

You didn’t suppress your laugh fast enough. 

“Oh don’t worry,” you said. “I’ll help you make a sign for your table. Something tasteful. Like glittery music notes and a warning label.”

“‘May spontaneously burst into sad guitar solos’?”

“‘Hot mess, but teaches harmony.’”

He bumped your shoulder, laughing. And maybe - maybe - you didn’t lean away.

As the assembly wrapped and the kids swarmed toward the elective sign-up boards like a living tide, you caught one last glance at the stage. 

Liam was helping a camper tune her ukulele, crouched beside her and smiling like he had all the time in the world. 

You felt something shift. Not huge. Just… a click. The kind of moment you’d normally sketch later, trying to catch the quiet of it in lines and ink. 

You turned away before he looked up, your chest a little too warm. 

Summer had officially begun. 

And you had no idea what it was going to make of you. 

The morning sun was already too bright, slicling through the trees like a spotlight as you fumbled with the art barn’s stubborn lock. Your arms were full - canvas panels tucked under one, your sketchbook wedged under the other, and a cup of coffee balanced dangerously on top of a container of charcoal sticks. 

You kicked the door open gently with the toe of your sandal, and the world had changed. 

Inside, the barn was golden.

Fairy lights still glowed faintly along the rafters, even though the sun had taken over. Dust danced in shafts in the morning light. The long work tables were already dressed in chaos: dried paint, gouged cutting mats, a collection of unclaimed brushes resting like forgotten relics in a mason jar. You breathed in deep. 

Turpentine. Wood shavings. Clay dust. Possibility. 

You smiled.

It was time. 

Your first group trickled in just after 9 a.m. - ten kids from a mix of cabins, all different energy levels and outfit choices. Some came quietly, eyes big and nervous behind wireframe glasses. Some already had paint under their nails. One girl wore a hand-sewn cape. No one questioned it.

Gabe from Cabin Van Gogh entered like he was storming the Bastille. 

“Are we doing expressive self portraits?” he asked before even sitting down. “Because I brought colored pencils and trauma.”

You didn’t even blink. “We’re starting with blind contour drawings.”

“Same thing,” he declared, already unzipping a pouch full of oil pastels and strange intent. 

You introduced the lesson, stepping into the rhythm of your role like muscle memory. Already you could feel the hum of creation settling in - the slow, warm buzz of kids unlocking something in themselves. The new girl from Cabin O’Keeffe hadn’t said a word, but her lines were delicate and sure. 

At the far table, two boys were arguing about whether emotions had specific shapes. You let them. You encouraged it, even. That was the point. 

By the end of the hour, there were portraits hung with clothespins along the twine wall, some beautiful, some messy, all strange and wonderful. 

You were still scraping dried paint off a brush when a familiar voice floated in from the path. 

“Permission to steal your chaos gobin?”

You turned. 

Liam stood just outside the barn, framed in morning light like some scruffy storybook hero. Clipboard under one arm. Guitar strap across his chest. His camp tee was half tucked into a pair of track pants, and his hair was a windswept disaster. He looked like he’d already run a mile, lost a bet, and made three kids cry - inspiringly. 

“Gabe,” you called, not taking your eyes off Liam. “Music class.”

Gabe sprang up with the energy of a caffeinated squirrel. “Do we get to scream into the woods?”

Liam raised an eyebrow at you. “What are you teaching them?”

“I only plant the seeds,” you smiled sweetly.

His first class was a mess. But somehow, a beautiful one. 

The kids were feral - in that glorious, overstimulated-artist kind of way. They had zero interest in sitting still. Half of them were more interested in the weird noises they could make with the old tambourines than any kind of chord structure. 

Liam didn’t fight it. He leaned into the wild.

“This isn’t about scales,” he said, leaning against the edge of the cabin’s tiny stage. “This is about sound. Feeling, Chaos with rhythm.” 

That got their attention. 

He ran through warmups that involved clapping in odd patterns, making beats with their feet, and pairing sounds with movement. By the time he passed out small instruments, the cabin was alive with accidental harmony. 

You dropped by the back of the room mid-lesson, totally just to bring him the pack of extra mallets he’d forgotten. Really, you just wanted to watch. 

Liam caught your eye as he guided one of the kids through a clapping game in 6/8 time. His smile was a little breathless, a little proud. He gestured towards the girl who was too nervous to speak earlier - now shaking a rain stick in perfect time. 

Liam pointed to her, then looked at you, mouthing: She’s amazing. 

You smiled and mouthed back: You’re doing good.

His ears turned pink. You didn’t mention it. 

By lunch, the kids were buzzing with stories - “Did you see how good the music cabin looks now?” “We made art with our eyes closed!” “I accidentally invented a drum rhythm and it gave me emotions!” 

You found Liam in the shade behind the dining hall, sitting in the grass with his shoes off and his lunch tray balanced on his knees. A breeze moved through the trees. 

He looked up at you with that same quiet, open grin you were starting to associate with real things. Not performance or charm. Just Liam, peeled back a little. 

“You survived,” you said, settling down beside him.

“Barely. But I’ve been offered three bands, two interpretive dance troupes, and one marriage proposal.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Gabe?” 

“Gabe.” 

You laughed, head tilted back toward the sky.

He nudged your foot with his. “Hey.”

You glanced over. 

“Thanks for stopping by earlier,” he said, quieter now. “The kids kinda lit up when they saw you. You’ve got that… safe place energy.”

You blinked. A little floored.

“...Thanks,” you murmured, unsure what to do with the warmth blooming in your chest. 

“Also,” he added, more casual, “you have blue paint in your eyebrow.”

You groaned and shoved him gently. He caught your hand without thinking, held it just for a second too long. 

The horn blew in the distance, signaling the afternoon rotations. 

He let go. You stood up. 

But when you turned to glance over your shoulder as you walked away, he was still watching you. A little dazed. Like maybe the paint in your eyebrow had nothing to do with why his heart just stopped. 

That night, after lights out, you couldn’t sleep.

The camp had settled into its soft summer hush - the kind that only happened when every flashlight was finally off and even the squirrels had given up their drama. You heard the gentle chirp of crickets, the rustling whisper of pine branches, and, faintly, the occasional distant “shhhhhh” from a counselor trying to stop a giggle fight in Cabin O’Keeffe.

Your bunk felt too warm. Your mind wouldn’t quiet. So you slipped out from under the covers, pulled on your hoodie - the one with the paint-streaked sleeves - and grabbed your sketchbook just in case the sky gave you something to draw. 

The porch boards creaked under your feet as you stepped outside barefoot. The air kissed your skin, cool and clean, thick and pine and dew and the faint trace of lake water. Your breath fogged slightly in the moonlight. 

And there he was. 

Liam.

Leaning against the porch rail of his cabin, hoodie pulled over his messy hair, sockless, strumming softly at his guitar like it was part of his heartbeat. Just sound - quiet, open chords without lyrics, notes that wandered without needing to land anywhere. Like something he didn’t want to forget. 

You didn’t say anything. Just slipped on your flip flops, padded down the steps, and stood next to him, letting the melody settle into your bones. 

He looked over, startled for half a second, then smiled, gentle, tired and glad. 

“You too, huh?” he said quietly, voice barely above the crickets

You nodded. “Too much paint in the bloodstream. Can’t sleep.”

He hesitated. Then reached out his hand.

You took it. 

He didn’t say where you were going. You didn’t ask. 

You walked down the moonlit path together in silence, dodging the glow of motion-activated lights, stepping over roots and pinecones, muffling your laughter when you nearly fell over a rock neither of you saw in time. His hand stayed warm in yours. 

When you reached the lake, the world opened. 

The trees fell away into shadows, the dock stretched into darkness, and the water - god the water - looked like it had swallowed the sky. Stars were everywhere. In the trees, on the surface, tangled between the ripples. The moon hung low and soft, a silver coin held gently between the lake and sky. 

You both slipped off your shoes and sat on the dock, your bare feet just brushing the water - cool, shivering, alive. You could feel your heart slowing, synching with the sounds of the lake, the hush of wind through pine needles. 

Liam set his guitar down beside him and laid back on the wooden planks, arms behind his head.

You glanced at him, surprised. 

“You don’t wanna play something?”

He shook his head, the motion lazy. “Nah,” he said softly. “Just listening.”

You didn’t ask what for. 

Instead, you laid back too - sketchbook on your chest, hoodie hood pulled halfway over your eyes - and stared up with him. 

The sky was impossibly loud with stars. Infinite. Blinking. Watching. 

After a while, Liam spoke again, voice distant and close all at once.

“You ever feel like it’s… too much?”

You blinked. “The sky?”

He paused, “The everything.”

He said it like he wasn’t expecting an answer. Like he didn’t need one. Just a place to put the feeling down. 

You let the silence stretch before answering, soft and real. “Yeah,” you said, “all the time.” 

Another beat. Another breath.

“Same,” he murmured. “But you help. Somehow.”

Your chest fluttered - something quiet and warm and true blooming behind your ribs. 

You turned your head toward him. He was already looking at you. 

His eyes were soft in the dark, unreadable and entirely honest. You could see the shape of him in the starlight. The line of his jaw, the mess of hair shadowing his forehead, the corner of his mouth twitching up just slightly like he was thinking something he might say or might not. 

Neither of you moved. 

You didn’t need to. 

Everything between you was lit with something bigger than the moment - something shy and ure and waiting.

You didn’t kiss. Not yet. 

But you were close. 

Close enough to count freckles. Close enough to breathe the same space. 

And when you finally walked back, just before dawn, your feet were muddy and your hands were cold, but your chest felt full. Tethered. 

You snuck back just before dawn - feet muddy, hearts full. 

At breakfast the next morning, he passed you a cup of orange juice like nothing had changed. 

But when your fingers brushed, he didn’t pull away. 

And when your eyes met across the table, you knew. 

Everything had. 

Sunday evenings only meant one thing: the weekly assembly.

The amphitheater buzzed with the barely-contained chaos of ninety something teenagers attempting to sit still after dinner and dessert. The stone benches radiated leftover heat from the sun, fireflies blinked lazily at the edges of the woods, and the air smelled like marshmallow residue, dried pine, and faintly of glitter. 

On stage, Molly was in rare form, clipboard in one hand and megaphone in the other, though she again, didn’t need it. 

“Cabin cleanliness rankings are posted outside the dining hall,” she was saying in a tone that suggested doom. “Cabin Monet: Congratulations on surviving your war with the squirrels. Cabin O’Keeffe: You are on very thin ice. And if I hear one more story about campers in Advanced Stage Combat actually fighting again, I swear to god, I will cancel it.”

Groans and gasps erupted. 

Usually, you’d be halfway zoned out by now, mentally editing lesson plants or imagining a world where Molly’s megaphone had an off switch. But tonight, you had an announcement to make. An important one. 

You stood near the edge of the stage with your clipboard, pretending to study your notes while actually watching Liam try - and fail - to adjust the mic stand for the third time. 

“Do you need it to be crooked?” you whispered as he squinted at it. 

“It’s for dramatic effect,” he whispered back. “The chaos adds tension..”

You raised a brow. “It adds confusion.”

“Same thing, if you’re doing it right.”

You rolled your eyes as Molly raised her hand with theatrical flair. Instantly, the crowd quieted - not silent, never truly silent, but the kind of organized chaos she could work with. 

“And for one last announcement…” she called, grinning wide. “Quiet down - especially you, Cabin Sondheim!”

A ripple of shushing and snickering spread across the benches. You felt the buzz begin - that almost electric current that only came from anticipation. 

“Now,” Molly continued, drawing the moment out like a master conductor, “I know we’re only a couple weeks into the session, but you all know what’s coming. It’s time to talk about one of the most chaotic, most glitter-infested, most legendary nights of the session…”

There was a long pause - just long enough for the campers to start vibrating with anticipation. 

“The Annual Mid-Camp Talentttt Shooowwwww!”

The amphitheater erupted. Cheers, screams, one air horn (somehow?), and the unmistakable sound of someone from Cabin Frida already beginning a victory chant. 

You stepped forward, barely containing your smile. “That’s right,” you said into the mic, “in exactly fourteen nights, this stage becomes your playground. Your spotlight. Your chance to shine.”

Liam leaned in beside you, grinning like the stage was home. “Singers, dancers, spoken-word poets, jugglers, people who can balance spoons on their noses - this is your time.”

“And yes,” you added, “group acts are allowed. As long as no one loses a tooth this year.”

A voice from the crowd yelled “It was worth it!”

You and Liam both cracked up. 

“Sign up sheets will be outside the dining hall starting tomorrow morning,” you continued, regaining your balance. “You’ll have time to rehearse during electives, after dinner, and any spare moment you can beg, borrow, or bribe for.”

“We will also have a very official panel of judges,” Liam added. “Me, the raccoon behind Cabin Monet, and the ghost of Beethoven.”

You shot him a look. 

“...Kidding,” he muttered into the mic. “It’s just the counselors. But we will be dramatic about it.”

He gave the crowd a smirk. Somewhere, a camper swooned audibly.

You stepped back, giving the mic back to Molly, who wrapped things up with a campfire-style chant that had everyone stomping and clapping along. 

As the sun vanished completely, lanterns flickered on around the amphitheater and the campers scattered back toward their cabins, chattering excitedly.

You and Liam stepped off the stage and watched them go - some already strategizing routines, others doing group cartwheels, one kid trying to convince their bunkmate to let them do shadow puppets with interpretive dance. 

“This is going to be chaos,” you said under your breath.

He grinned. “The good kind.”

And you believed him. 

The talent show was a week away, and camp had officially tipped from playful chaos into full-blown creative mania. 

Every corner of the woods pulsed with rehearsals. The amphitheater thudded with tap shoes and spoken word. The path to the lake had been turned into a catwalk for costume testing. Ukulele chords floated through the trees, interrupted only by the occasional shriek of “That’s MY hula hoop, Gabe!” - followed by someone sprinting past in full costume.

Even your sacred art barn had been overtaken. Half-finished set pieces leaned against the paint-splattered walls. Paper mache planets dangled from the rafters. Your canvases were now roommates with three cardboard trees, one paper mache volcano, and what appeared to be a confetti cannon made from recycled water bottles and hope. 

So when you finally carved out a moment of silence - real silence - it felt like stumbling into a clearing after being lost in the trees. 

It was just after dinner, golden hour stretching long and soft across the hills. Most of the campers were still in the dining hall, finishing dessert and arguing over group names. You’d slipped away without telling anyone - without telling him - and wandered to the only place that still felt like yours. 

The music cabin. 

The lights were off, except for the soft golden glow of the string lights Liam had hung up a few weeks ago. The window was open. Crickets and cicadas chirped. The room felt lived in - worn and warm and kind. 

You had curled up on the edge of the stage, sketchbook in your lap, the image of the stars above the lake coming alive on the page, when you heard footsteps. 

Then guitar strings. 

Then: “You always steal my hideout”

You looked up. 

Liam stood in the doorway, backlit by the last blush of sunset. His guitar was unsurprisingly slung over one shoulder, clipboard tucked under his arm like a half-forgotten accessory. His shoelaces were uneven. He looked like he’d run across the whole property just to be here. 

And from the curve of his grin - tilted and warm - maybe he had. 

“The dining hall was loud,” you offered, smiling just a little. “I needed somewhere that smelled less like ketchup and sugar.”

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a gentle click. “Yeah, they were arguing about whether or not a tap routine could be done in crocs. I left before it got violent.”

You laughed softly. “Coward.”

“Survivalist,” he corrected, settling beside you on the stage. He dropped his clipboard with a thunk and sat cross-legged, his knee bumping yours in the process. Neither of you moved.

For a while, you didn’t talk.

The night hummed. Crickets, distant guitar chords, the faint murmur of someone’s bluetooth speaker out by the fire pit. Inside the music cabin, it was just the two of you. And breath. And space.  

Then he glanced sideways at you. “You looked tired today.”

You blinked. “That obvious?”

He shrugged. “Only to me.”

You let your pencil fall still against the page. “I think I hit the part of camp where everything feels like too much. My brain’s glue. My hands are shaky. I forgot my coffee this morning and actually cried.”

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. 

He just nodded. “Been there.”

Another beat. 

“You know,” he added, voice quieter now, “You don’t have to do everything alone.”

You looked over at him, surprised. 

“I see how much you do. For the kids. For the other counselors. For Molly. You keep everyone running.” He strummed a soft chord, like punctuation. “But you don’t let anyone help.”

You looked down at your sketchbook again, now slightly smudged from where your thumb had pressed too hard. “It’s easier sometimes. Doing it myself. At least if it falls apart, I know whose fault it is.”

“Yeah, but that means you don’t get to fall apart. And that’s… kind of unfair.”

You didn’t know what to say. 

So instead, you just looked at him, 

At the way his crewneck sleeves were pushed to his elbows, wrists freckled and ringed with a bracelet one of the kids had made. At the way the gold of the string lights warmed the edges of his face. At the quiet way he was watching you, like you were something sacred. 

Then he set his guitar aside - carefully, like it was something living - and reached for your hand. 

You let him take it. 

His fingers laced with yours like it was muscle memory. 

“I missed you today,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.  

His thumb brushed over the back of your hand. “You never have to.”

Silence stretched between you. But it was good silence. Full.

Then he leaned in.

Slow. Careful. Like he was giving you time to say no, to pull away, to change your mind. 

You didn’t. 

Your lips met in a hush of warmth. Gentle at first, like a discovery. Like the beginning of something that had been building for weeks. But then his hand rose to cradle your jaw, and your fingers curled into the hem of his sweatshirt, and it deepend. 

The kiss turned into color and quiet and all the wild softness the rest of the world didn’t make time for.

When you finally pulled back, your foreheads touched. Your breaths mingled. 

“Hi,” you whispered, half breathless. 

He smiled, lips still close. “Hi.”

You stayed like that for a while, foreheads pressed together, breath shared, hearts slowly stitching themselves into something braver. 

Liam’s hand was still resting against your cheek. Yours had slipped beneath the fabric of his crewneck, fingertips brushing the warmth of his side, like you needed proof he was real. 

The kiss had settled something in you. But it had also cracked something open. 

You pulled back slightly, just enough to see his eyes. They were soft. Unshielded. 

“I didn’t think this would happen,” you said quietly.

Liam cocked his head. “Us?”

You nodded, eyes drifting to the worn wood of the cabin floor. “I don’t usually… I don’t let people in. Not really. Not here.”

“Camp or this cabin?”

“Both,” you admitted. “I’m the one with the clipboard. The one who knows where the extra scissors are, and how to fix paint spills, and who needs a snack before they snap. I’m not the one who gets distracted by guitar boys with crooked smiles and unfinished songs.”

He laughed - just a breath of it. But it wasn’t mocking. 

“You’re not distracted,” he said gently. “You’re just… human. And maybe a little guarded.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Little?”

He smiled, eyes crinkling. “Okay, medium guarded. But you care. So much. And you pretend it’s control, but it’s not. It’s heart.”

That hit something deep. You looked away again, swallowing.

“Hey,” His voice was soft. 

You looked back, and found his gaze still steady on yours. 

“I didn’t come here looking for this either,” he said. “Honestly? I thought I’dbe here for eight weeks, teach a few kids how to strum chords, maybe eat some marshmallows, and leave with sunburn and a funny story.”

“And now?”

He exhaled. Ran a hand through his hair. Let the truth settle. 

“And now, I think I’m going to leave with something I don’t know how to name yet.”

That made your chest ache in the best way.

“I’m scared,” you said suddenly. “Not of you. Just… how easy this feels. How much I already want you to stay.”

Liam leaned in, brushing his nose against yours. “Then be scared. Me too. But I’m still here.”

You closed your eyes. Just for a second. Letting it settle. The weight and lightness of it all.

When you opened them, he was still watching you like you were the most important thing he’d ever seen. 

“I like you,” you whispered. “A lot more than I planned to.”

“I’m really glad you said that,” he murmured. “Because I think about you when I’m falling asleep. And when I wake up. And basically every second I’m not being hit in the face with a kazoo.”

You laughed into his shoulder. He pressed a kiss to your hair. 

Outside, the night breathed around you. 

Inside the music cabin, something quiet and real was beginning. 

And this time, it wasn’t just a song. 

The day of the show, the camp woke up buzzing. 

Not the usual sleepy rustle of morning bugle calls and cereal spoons clinking - but real, kinetic energy. Like every kid had mainlined sparkles and adrenaline for breakfast. 

Kids sprinted past the cabins in full costume. Someone blasted Queen from a speaker at 7:14 a.m. sharp. Even the frogs seemed louder, as if they knew something big was coming. 

The art barn was in chaos by 9:30 a.m.

Cabin Kahlo’s paper mache wings were missing in action. Theater was demanding last-minute paint touch-ups for their backdrops. The film kids begged you for fake blood for their zombie-musical parody. You shut it down quickly. You didn’t even own fake blood.

Your usual camp shirt had acquired three new paint smears - turquoise, gold, and something you were afraid to identify. Your hair was a mess of bobby pins and pipe cleaners. Your clipboard was clutched like a lifeline. But the rehearsal schedule was color-coded, your iced coffee was still mostly cold, and you were ready. 

Well. Almost.

You hadn’t seen Liam yet.

He’d slipped out of the dining hall early, guitar case in hand and something unreadable in his eyes. He gave you a two-finger salute from across the oatmeal station and disappeared out the side door before you could corner him. 

He was up to something. 

You knew it. 

But there wasn’t time to investigate. Someone was actively attempting to hot glue sequins to their eyelids and another counselor was chasing down a rogue stage curtain like it owed him money.

By lunch, the nerves had started to settle in. You caught glimpses of campers rehearsing in corners, mouthing lyrics to themselves, trying to psych each other up. Even Gabe was quiet. Gabe. 

You found Liam backstage at the amphitheater around 2 p.m., helping set up lights with theater counselor Connor and rewiring a mic that definitely hadn’t worked since 1988.

“Hey,” you said softly, nudging his foot with yours. 

He looked up from where he was crouched beside the soundboard - cheeks flushed, hair tousled, screwdriver in one hand, smile slow and sure. “Hey.”

“Everything holding together?”

“Barely. But we’re running on zip ties and blind faith now, so what could go wrong?”

You grinned. “Any surprises I should know about?”

He tilted his head. “Define surprise.”

You squinted at him. “Liam.”

He stood, brushing his hands off on his jeans. “Okay, so I may or may not have rearranged the closing slot.”

“You what-?”

“For emotional impact,” he said. “And also because I finished the song.”

You froze. 

“The song?” you asked, softly now. 

He met your eyes. That look - the one that always felt like the moment before a summer storm. Gentle, but charged. 

“The one from the bonfire. From the dock. From…this whole summer.”

You didn’t say anything. Simply reached for his hand and squeezed. 

He squeezed back.

That evening, the amphitheater glowed.

Lanterns swung from the tree branches. Campers buzzed like lightning bugs, tugging on costumes, whispering nerves, adjusting microphones. The air smelled like hairspray and nerves.

Molly gave a rousing pre-show pep talk that turned into a dramatic reading of a Shakespeare monologue, and someone from Cabin Monet had already spilled lemonade on the lightboard and a raccoon was spotted near the stage twice.

You stood in the wings, headset slightly askew, heart pounding with secondhand adrenaline. The show had started, and the acts were better than anyone expected - heartfelt and weird and wonderful. 

A group of kids tap danced in swim fins to “Eye of the Tiger.” One trio read haikus about the camp showers. Gabe delivered a spoken word piece about macaroni art and heartbreak that nearly brought the crowd to tears. 

And then, just before the closing act, Liam walked onstage. 

Alone. 

The chatter stilled. The night held its breath. 

He stood at the center of the stage, guitar slung low, dressed in his usual attire - hoodie sleeves pushed up, laces untied. But his voice was steady when he leaned into the mic. 

“This one’s for someone who made this place feel like home,” he said. “Someone who sees the world in color, even when everything feels black and white.”

Your heart cracked open. 

Then he began to play. 

It was the song. His song. Your song. The one you’d heard in pieces, in fragments, around corners and under stars. But it was now full - complete - and it was beautiful.

Soft at first, a slow build. Like memory. Like a sketch becoming a painting.

Verses about summer air and tangled string lights, about paint-stained fingers and hands that felt like safety. The chorus swelled with hope. With want. With something that sounded like falling in love, softly and completely. 

You didn’t even realize you were crying until Connor handed you a tissue without looking away from the stage. 

When the last chord faded, there was a heartbeat of silence. Then the amphitheater erupted. Campers on their feet, stomping, screaming, howling. A standing ovation. 

But Liam didn’t look at them. 

He looked at you. 

And smiled like he already knew your answer. 

[forsaken-headcanons]

"YOU CAN'T ON FROM LOVE, LOVE IS THE ONLY THING THAT NEVER DIES" - Kelley Lynn

It's more like an AU after what happens after

Post-forsaken [John doe and C00lkid tragically dies]

Jane doe

• Would distract herself with various works to not think about her loss

• Would really avoid talking about John doe as she assumes nobody will either really listen to her or care

• ^^She would try to isolate and distance herself due to this belief and not wanting to need to experience this all over again

• She tries to avoid places, items, or just anything that gives her the memories of her beloved late husband

• ^places like John's workshop (where i hc he likes to build and try stuff with the access of builderman's tools as an act of hobby, and he used to build various things for her)

• In mid- forsaken, she saw her husband die in front of her with their final goodbyes because the spectre decided John is useless and made his corruption worse

• She is quite jumpy and a bit aggressive due to forsaken and the trauma developed

• The common saying "get over it" affects someone a lot and makes them wonder if their love (both platonic and romantic) for somebody is in an expiry date, this ultimately drives Jane to avoid this very grief she needs to process

007n7 [no way i am letting this man slide without at least a sprinkle of this]

• Previous (very first headcanon of mine): He lost c00lkid pre-forsaken

• C00lkid was revived unnatural by the spectre like a zombie, hence his sunken fleshy appreance and how the minions spawn from the ground like zombies do in movies

• When he first saw c00lkid like this, he had a panic attack due to his developed ptsd from child loss and depression

• Shedletsky saw this and told 007n7 to 'snap out of it' and slapped his face (something you SHOULDN'T do when someone is having a panic attack!!)

• At the end of the round, 007n7 survived the round as a lms luckily, and when Elliot saw 007n7 still being put off by the whole "run or be killed" idea and is in the verge of crying or having a breakdown, he couldn't help but be an mean to him. He tries to hide this inefficiently with the quote "Get over it." [Elliot don't understand nor remember what he was thinking in that moment and feels guilty afterwards knowing that quote is anythingbut helpful]

• The last time 007n7 sees c00lkid is in his arms, in the position he used to cradle him as a pill baby, on the ground, on his kness, with tears rolling down his eyes, and singing one last lullaby to his poor little baby boy.

• This time, though, he handles the grief better. Even if his whole purpose of living isn't here anymore, that boy wouldn't be lost if he kept his legacy with the team C00lkid

• He experienced this exact same grief over again. While the pain isn't any lighter this time, he knows he needs to let himself grieve over his kid and the methods that help him. It's not easy, but it won't be easier to hold onto that either

• [No, he doesn't start exploiting again under the name of c00lkid, but instead with his coding skills he starts a small website that grows big for not only parents but also a friend, a child or a spouse grieve over their loved one anonymously and support] eachother (may be a bit cliché idea, but he would def start something under the name of team c00lkid to honour his son and bring out the joy his son brought to him to the world... with hacking 101)

Jane and 7n7: (These are all meant to be platonic)

• 7n7 would definitely help Jane to process her loss of John doe better, as they are in the same boat, and 7n7 knows how lonely it can be when losing a beloved one and being a somewhat outcast due to them being a killer

• He would ask Jane how her husband was pre-forsaken and what she loved about him and try to talk it little by little

• They would visit John doe's grave together, Jane would first hesitate as she can't bring herself to go there, but with support beside her she faces the ugly, sad, and depressing emotions while also feeling a bit of relief in her heart

• She later holds dearly to things John has crafted for her and preserve them neatly as pride for her lovely husband and displays them in their home

•[ She'd help 007n7 with the website and later on expanding it to a non-profit organisation to help others go over their grief. With one of John's work with the roblox logo as the main logo and a slogan of "team c00lkidd! Join today!"]

Thank you for listening to my yap session

🔫🐟

Aww. I like that they help each other get through it. That's adorable.

[libraryofloveletters]

A Visit To Santa

Jude Bellingham x Fem!Reader

Warnings: jobe is being treated like a kid, pranks from you and jude, miss denise gets new photos for her house, childhood coded lol, jobe is like your little brother too, miss denise thinks y'all finna crash her bmw lmao

Word Count: 768

Author's Note: this one is for bookie @themandaloriansdiaries - our favourite brothers :)

--

Jude decides now that you two are back home in England to take his brother to do the one thing they always did as kids; visit Santa.

England welcomed you two home, a change from the Spanish sunshine was welcomed; though you missed it the moment you got off of the plane.

You and Jude were spending the holidays with his family, both Bellingham brothers, you and their parents were at home. Mark and Denise were making dinner or something of the sorts in the kitchen, Jobe was in his bedroom and you and Jude were in his room.

Jude's head rested on your belly, your fingers tapping on his forehead as you scrolled through your phone with the other hand.

"I'm bored," your boyfriend announces.

"Congratulations," you tell him, as if you were supposed to do something about that.

Jude rolls his eyes, "let's go do something."

"Like what?"

"I don't know," he sighs, sitting up. You look over at him, "how about shopping? Or we could go for a drive or something?"

"The shopping mall?" he asked, looking over your shoulder. There's a look on his face that you've seen before, pure mischief. Your brows raise, waiting for him to continue. "Yeah, let's go."

"What're you up to?" You asked him, Jude pulls you off of the bed.

"I'll go grab Jobe."

You stop your boyfriend, grabbing his hand. "What is this? What's all this excitement? You hate the mall."

His eyes crinkle as he chuckles, "let's take Jobe to see Santa."

You can't help the laugh, letting go of his hand. "Okay babe. Go get him, I'll get the car keys from your mom."

Jude and Jobe meet you downstairs, Denise hands you her car keys. "Be careful please," she warns her sons, not you. She knew you'd handle them.

"We'll be back for dinner," Jude tells his mom, kissing her cheek before grabbing your hand.

You shout a bye to her and Mark as you three are out the front door and pile into the car. You drove of course, Jude doesn't drive and Jobe was a designated back seat driver. Jude had told his brother that you wanted to go shopping and he agreed to join you, saying he could use some fresh air.

The mall was a madhouse, it was T-minus 2 days to Christmas and everyone was rushing to get last minute shopping done.

You made a B-line for Santa's workshop in the mall, making it seem like you wanted to take a couple's photo of you and Jude with Santa.

Jobe shakes his head, "this is ridiculous," he tells you, waiting in line with you two.

"Do you not believe in the magic of Christmas, Jojo?" You teased him, pinching his cheek gently; you looked at Jobe like your little brother as well, teasing him the same way his brother would, having your own little nickname for him.

Jude smiles, watching as Jobe swats your hand away, making you laugh.

It takes a few minutes to get to the front of the line, the woman dressed as an elf calling you up to take your photo.

Jobe feels a light shove, Jude pushing him to Santa. "What?" he asked his brother, looking a bit lost.

"Go take your pic, mate."

"What?" Jobe scoffed, "I'm not going."

You take his coat from him, "go on, Jojo. Santa's waiting." You tell him, lips pressed together so you don't laugh. Jobe grumbles under his breath, something about hating you guys as he begrudgingly walks over to Santa.

The younger Bellingham sits beside Santa, the fakest smile you've ever seen on his face as the camera flashes.

Jude takes your hand, bringing you over to Santa. The two of you joined in. Jobe and Jude on either side of Santa and somehow you ended up on Santa's lap.

"On three, say merry Christmas!" The woman behind the camera says, counting to three before it flashes.

You let Santa speak to Jude and Jobe while you went to the counter to get the printed photos. You got two prints of the photo with the 3 of you, one for your home in Madrid and one for their home here in England. You also got a printed version of the solo shot with Jobe and Santa for the fridge at home.

The boys met you by the counter, Jude handing out his card so you can pay. "I can't believe you made me do that," Jobe mumbled, huffing.

You laugh, kissing his cheek. "It's okay, buddy."

Jude holds your hand, the bag with the photos in hand. "You're still a kid to us, mate." He laughs, pulling you into his side. "Let's go before we get in trouble for being late to dinner.

[cyberpunkonline]

THE AESTHETICS OF ABANDONWARE: WHY DEAD SOFTWARE FEELS HOLY

By R A Z, Queen of Glitches, Rat Prophet of the Post-Crash Pixel-Chapel

INTRO: Oi, you ever boot up a DOSBox emulator and feel your soul whisper "Amen"? No? Then saddle up, you absolute fetus, 'cause we’re going full pilgrimage through the haunted cathedrals of dead code, cursed shareware, and disc rot salvation. This is for the ones who dream in .BMPs, weep in MIDI, and hit “Yes to All” when copying cracked ZIPs from forgotten FTPs at 3AM. Abandonware ain’t just nostalgia—it’s digital necromancy. And some of us are bloody good at it.

DEAD SOFTWARE = HOLY SHRINE

Let’s be clear: abandonware is software that’s been, well, abandoned. The devs moved on. The publisher collapsed in a puff of VC smoke. The website's now a spammy shell selling beard oil or crack cocaine. The software? Unupdated. Unsupported. Gloriously obsolete.

So why does launching Hover! or Starship Titanic in 2025 feel like entering a chapel with weird lighting and a dial-up modem choir?

Because it’s sacred, mate.

We’re not talking about the games themselves being perfect. A lot of them were janky as hell. We’re talking vibe. These programs exist outside capitalism now. They’re post-market. Post-hype. They don’t want your money, your updates, your logins. They just want your attention—pure and simple. You’re not a user anymore. You’re a curator. A digital monk brushing dust off EXEs and praying to the Gods of IRQ Conflicts and SoundBlaster settings.

WHY IT HITS DIFFERENT

Dead software doesn’t update. It doesn’t push patches or ads. It won’t ask you to connect your Google account to play Math Blaster. It’s a sealed time capsule. Booting it up is like receiving an artifact from a parallel dimension where the internet still had webrings and every kid thought Quake mods would lead to a dream job at ID Software.

But it also represents a lost sincerity. These weren’t games made to hook you for eternity with algorithms. These were games made by six dudes in a shed with a caffeine problem and one working CD burner. And their README files were poetry. Half of them end with “Contact us on AOL or send a floppy to our PO Box.” What do you mean you don’t know what a PO Box is?

FOR THE ZOOMIES: YOU JUST MISSED THE GOLDEN ROT

Listen up, juniors. If you were born after 2005, you missed the age when the internet was held together with chewing gum, JPEG artifacts, and unspoken respect.

Back then, finding a rare game was an adventure. Not an algorithm. You didn’t scroll TikTok and get spoon-fed vibes. You climbed through broken Geocities links and begged on IRC channels. You learned to read. You learned to search. You learned that “No-CD crack” doesn’t mean what your mum thinks it means.

So here’s your initiation: go download something weird from a forgotten archive. No guides. No Discord server. Just the raw, terrifying joy of not knowing if you’ve just installed Robot Workshop Deluxe or a Russian trojan. Welcome to the cult.

THE TWO-YEAR RULE

Online communities? They’re mayflies with usernames. Peak lifespan? Two years.

Here’s the cycle:

A niche game/tool/art style gets revived.

People form a forum/Reddit/Discord.

A zine or remix scene emerges.

Drama. Mods quit. Someone forks the project.

Everyone vanishes.

This cycle has always existed. The only difference now is that it’s faster. But dead software bypasses this. It’s post-community. You don’t have to join a scene. You are the scene. Every time you open it up, you’re plugging into a ghost socket. You’re chatting with echoes. It’s beautiful.

CONCLUSION: THIS IS A RELIGION NOW. PRACTICE IT.

Abandonware isn’t about gaming. It’s about reclaiming reverence. About saying “This mattered” even if no one else remembers it did. It’s about surfing the ruins, not for loot, but for meaning. There’s holiness in opening a program that hasn’t been touched in decades and seeing it still works. Still waits for you. Still loads that same intro MIDI with the confidence of a god.

So light a candle. Install a CRT filter. Screenshot that low-res menu and print it on a t-shirt. You’re not just playing with the past. You’re preserving the bones of the digital age.

See you in the BIOS, kids.

—

RAZ out.