#So sleeping is virtually nonexistent

[gaywatch]

No stream today? No pressure, just clarifying

Nope, no stream. There are posts on Youtube and Patreon about it. <3

[designernishiki]

woke up at 6:50am after getting two (2) hours of sleep just to get some merch from the recieve you kazumaji zine leftover sale i am dedicated and miserable

[caffeinewitchcraft]

AITA for being proud of my job as a regional Nightmare?

My sister told me she’s making her own post and that if I was so sure I wasn’t TA then I should make my own so here I am.

I’m a regional Nightmare. I’m very proud of how hard I worked to get here. Not many terrors in their 20s get this high up and it’s because I do the work. I get up at 8pm and I’m out in the woods grinding out those quotas until dawn. Sometimes I sleep out there in my uniform just so I can be the first on scene for the multi-part jobs. I’m efficient, I’m punctual, and I’m committed. My goal is to be a Cyptid by the time I’m 30 and, to do that, I have to stay on at all times.

As a result, I work a lot. I’m often not home for days at a time. I have a very strict training regimen and my time for friends and family is virtually nonexistent. That’s why when I do get the time to hang out, I prefer to spend my time intentionally. What I mean by that is that I don’t want to sit on a couch when I could be lifting weights. I don’t want to chill in the pool when I could be volunteering for new scares. I especially don’t want to gossip over tea when I could be getting overtime.

Last Saturday, my sister invited a bunch of family over to her house. My job in the Virginia woods fell through, so I decided to go. Silly (her childhood nickname) said she had something important to tell the family so I thought it wouldn’t be a waste of my time.

Key word: thought.

When I got to Silly’s house, I was surprised to see so many cars out front. Our parents were there and our older brother. The house was packed. There were cousins, aunts, uncles and a ton of people I didn’t know.

At first the event was fine. Silly’s always been a good cook (see, I know you’re reading this, Silly, and see? I do compliment you when do something actually good) and everyone was really enjoying the flank steak (though I did have to save it before she cooked it medium well). But as the day wore on, I could tell people were getting bored. Silly and Mom were focused on cleaning up and said that dessert would have to wait until her fiance got home. Which was kind of rude to be late and I felt really bad for Silly. It seems like my soon to be brother-in-law (BIL for short) is never around when she needs him.

In an effort to help, I engaged some of the people I didn’t know in conversation because the party was getting a little dead and I didn’t want one of my sister’s parties to fail. I was trying hard not to think about the time I was wasting waiting for my future BIL so it also served as a distraction.

It turns out one of the guys was a fellow terror. He worked a corporate job and we talked for a while about the pros of being freelance like me. He asked me a lot of questions and I was happy to mentor another terror.  Corporate can suck the art out of what we do. My clients only care if the quota for their mission is met and don’t enforce such strict timelines. They come to me for quality. Poor guy barely had time to mend his uniform between scares (his cloak was tattered and his hook hand was rusty) so I recommended my tailor and blacksmith.

The guy and I exchanged information. I gave him my business card and he looked for one of his. While he looked, I felt nature calling so I headed upstairs to use my sister’s bathroom (like hell I was going to use the same one as my Uncle Joe). From up there, I saw my future BIL pull into the driveway.

 Being a regional Nightmare is a tough job. Like I said, I have to train a lot to keep my certification. So I thought it’d be a good idea to get a scare on my BIL both to punish him for being late and to make up for all the time I’d already wasted at the party.

So I waited for him to come upstairs to change and, when he did, I pulled out the works. I darkened the room and fell back into the shadows. Then, while he groped for the light switch, I stretched out my leg (I have an extra joint in them) and tried to nudge him. I honestly didn’t expect for him to trip and I DEFINITELY didn’t expect for him to fall backwards. I’ve been practicing this skill on my family since I was sixteen and got the leg extension mod and none of them ever fell like that.

My future BIL fell down the stairs. I panicked and raced over to look over the banister. He was fine! He wasn’t bleeding or anything and, when I saw that, I started to laugh.

Everyone freaked out though. They all said I was being immature and bullying my BIL. I told them it wasn’t bullying, it was my actual job. I said that I was just joking and didn’t know my BIL, a former “Cryptid”, would take it so hard.

My mom jumped in and backed me up, but my sister has always been the Queen of the castle. Silly and Dad kicked me out ( I mean, I let them, I’ve got enhanced strength and I didn’t want to hurt them). Dad called me a disgrace and to not come back home.

I asked him if he was really kicking me out just because I wanted to show off my skills a little? And he said yes. And Silly said I had it coming to me for a long time.

I don’t even know what went wrong.

 So AITA for taking pride in my work?

---.

SillyCreeper says: Oh my god, you actually made this post? You’re an actual idiot. For anyone who believes this story, read mine before you vote. My brother left out a few details like how the party was my GENDER REVEAL PARTY and that he’s not a regional Nightmare, he’s a  Slasher for hire.

OP replies: I am TRAINED to operate as a regional Nightmare. That makes me an independent regional Nightmare.

SillyCreeper replies: Regional Nightmares don’t steal failed missions from corporate Slashers

OP replies: Get your own post, Silly

SillyCreeper: Oh, I already did. Have fun being torn apart on yours, dumbass.

-----

Thanks for reading! If you'd like to read Silly's AITA post a week early, please consider becoming a patron (X)!

Aita for going no contact with my brother after he pulled a Scare on my husband?

I'm working on this anthology during November and I'm having a blast with this story in particular! The family drama keeps going on and on

[casuallyanidiot]

The Beta Test | Prologue

[yandere male x gn reader]

Local party animal and known social butterfly [name] wakes up to find that they've been abducted by their very reclusive and very wealthy classmate. Why, you might ask, did he do this? Well for one reason of course! He needs to know how he's going to talk to his crush! So now, with their freedom on the line, [name] has to figure out how to get this kid with the one of his dreams or risk never leaving at all. Lots of weird conversations ensue, of course.

600+ words Tw. Swearing, mentions of alcohol and drug consumption, kidnapping, drugging Table of contents

The first thing that came to your groggy mind was: “Shit, I need to work on that research paper.”

The second was: “Oh my god I’m absolutely going to die right now.”

Now, normally when you would wake up somewhere random it wouldn’t be too weird considering the fact that you were a frequent presence at many parties occurring on and off your campus, but you couldn’t say that you had ever found yourself laying on the floor behind a set of bars. Well, the on-the-floor part you had. Just not all that other stuff. 

The first thing, and the most logical thing at that, to consider was that you had somehow wound up being arrested last night. While you would like to say that you were a very responsible person when it came to substances of various degrees, there would be times when you would end up getting swept up in the heat and frenzy of a good time and good music, hence the whole waking up in strangers homes thingy. You had never gotten into any trouble while being in a state like that, but hey, there was a first time for everything. You could only imagine how embarrassing you had behaved last night if you ended up in jail.

It really sucked that you had been arrested though. “What the hell am I going to tell my parents?” you thought with a groan as you pressed your hands to your face. Your knees were placed to your chest and the soft material of your pajamas-

Wait a damn minute.

You looked down to find that you were in fact wearing something that would only be taken to bed or to take out the trash. The stains and faded fabric were proof enough of their use, and there was absolutely no way you’d be wearing sleep clothes while getting blacked out at a party. When you actually thought about it for two seconds, it became apparent that yeah, you had been in your apartment wearing comfy clothes, preparing to actually study, and winding down for the evening before BOOM, Nothing. 

Your brows were furrowed and your lips were pursed as you wiped at your eyes. Your brain felt fuzzy, and the room ( cell?) was blurred. Though the second it cleared up you realized that you were utterly and unequivocally fucked.

Yes, you were inside a cell, on the floor, sitting on a little mat. The floor was gray and cold and hard, but on the other side of the solid metal bars was a kitchenette and a dining table. From what you could see with the virtually nonexistent lighting were clean white marble countertops and sleek wood accents decorating the entire other half of the room. It looked nice, like one of those backdrops that you would see some social media model posing in front of, pretending that they were cooking.

Oh, and there was this guy sitting on a chair just staring at you.

You blinked harshly in surprise. How you hadn’t noticed him before was beyond you, but to be fair you weren’t exactly in the clearest state of mind. Still despite the terror growing in your gut like a weed, you put on a wobbly, awful, nervous smile and said,

“ Oh hi, what’s up?”

[madameisaacpereire]

First off I just want to say I love your writing, I’ve reread it sm tbh, and can I ask for a fic where Henry helps the reader when she’s in a depressive episode? Sorta like the one you already wrote where she’s ill but, here she doesn’t rlly speak and her mood is rlly bad, and struggles with everything and having a will to do it etc?

ok hiiiii i hope this is ok! unedited first draft, might go over it again later, might not. i had some fun with this one, hopefully he isn't too OOC because i think this is the sweetest thing i've ever written about henry.

a month of winter

henry x reader, standalone.

   It starts gradually, the way these things so often do. A late assignment, a single class skipped in favor of lying in bed all day. But these things always snowball so rapidly. Late work turns into work left undone, a skipped class into weeks worth of missed classes, and you very soon aren’t leaving your bed for anything.

You’re not even cognizant of it happening until you’re drowning in work, graduation on the line, and you haven’t so much as brushed your teeth in... an amount of time you’d rather not disclose. You haven’t showered, or changed clothes. Your dorm room reeks of dead skin. Your sweater is covered in crumbs leftover from days ago, when you finished the last of your snacks. 

   The thing is, you know your classmates would help you in any way they could, if you only were to ask. They’d take down extra notes, sit with you until each paper has been written, or a particularly difficult passage translated. You’re sure they’d drive you out to the country in hopes of the fresh air helping your sensibilities. They operate much like a dysfunctional little family, in that way.

But everything has spiraled so far out of control that you’d find it embarrassing; it might strike pity into their eyes. You absolutely detest being pitied. And along with that, you’re having a difficult time truly caring whether you graduate or not. 

   Which leaves you at a sort of impasse for awhile. Work piling up, dehydration building, personal hygiene virtually nonexistent. The first day without food or water is nearly unbearable enough to snap you from your stupor, animal impulse seconds away from overriding this dead feeling. The following two days, however, you mostly spend asleep. It’s dreamless, painful and dry. But you find this type of emptiness more bearable.

   This is how Henry finds you. He wouldn’t typically drop in on you in such a fashion– you don’t tend to get along very well at the best of times– but Julian asked that he make sure you’re alright, and he’ll do anything Julian requests. You aren’t conscious of his presence at all, allowing him to survey the damage with a pinched expression you’ll never be aware of. 

   Your room’s level of disorder is incredibly disturbing to him. Things seem to surround your bed in circular layers. Circle one is mostly dust, circle two used clothes, circles three and four the wrappers of any and all snacks you managed to choke down (as though you threw your refuse as far from you as you could.) Circle five is more clothing, a much thicker carpet than before, six a heap (or several,) of different books, seven your school supplies. And the worst circle, in his opinion, is the one closest to you. Circle eight, fittingly enough, is little more than a wasteland. Two empty soda cans, an empty chip bag, crumpled school work, and you. 

    You’re the most terrifying sight in this room, if he’s honest. You almost look dead. He considers leaving but you shift in your sleep, movements weak; he catches sight of your cracked dry lips and sunken in eyes. That’s what kicks his sense of responsibility into high gear. If he were a less respectful son, he’d curse his mother for this internal obligation to assist distresssed women. Instead, he begrudgingly begins to pick up the pieces. 

   He heads to the hall, bringing a few handfuls of trash along with him, and dials Richard to ask for advice. Richard suggests he bring you to the hospital. He even offers to come along, which Henry shuts down. This feels personal, somehow, and he’d rather not involve more people than strictly necessary.

Henry clears a path to your bed, picks you up as carefully as he can, and brings you out to the car. He ignores the curious, half alarmed stares he gets from other students. They’re irrelevant to him. What matters is ensuring that you’re alright; because what good is an academic rival if she isn’t well enough to actively challenge him? 

   You wake a few times on the drive, but dehydration has you so delirious that you don’t comprehend what’s happening. You think it’s a strange dream and you don’t speak, so he doesn’t know you’ve woken. You fall back to sleep again, and only wake once more when nurses are fussing over you. The IV fluids filling your veins are making you shiver. It’s disorienting and more than a little terrifying. But it isn’t the worst part of your hospital stay.

   The worst part is Julian’s visit. He looks sorry that you’re ill, tells some long winded story about a time he was ill himself, and then mentions Henry. Offhandedly, as though it doesn’t matter or you must already know, he lets you know that Henry happens to be the one that found you. Your favored intellectual sparring partner. The classmate you love to hate. The man with the worst superiority complex you’ve ever witnessed.

You could pass away right then. Melt through the bed and into your grave. Since you aren’t chatty in response, Julian doesn’t stay long. A relief if ever you’ve felt one, and the rest of your stay is quite tolerable in comparison.

   They rehydrate you over the following few days. You’re cold for most of it, thanks to the near constant stream of fluids. They feed you clear liquids the first day and work you back up to solids painstakingly slowly. They try to make you talk with a counselor. Words still won’t come out of your mouth, but your doctors throw around a lot of words all on their own: psychiatric unit, facilities, transport, major-depressive-disorder, catatonia. They start you on a pill of some sort called Amitriptyline as soon as you can keep liquids down, which you take without question because you still don’t fully care what happens to you. 

   You sleep for a large chunk of that stay, and this is the main reason why you aren’t aware of how much arguing Julian and Henry do with the hospital on your behalf. You’re unaware of their insistence upon your release into their care, and how adamant they are that you don’t get shipped off to some facility or other. You’d be mortified if you did, so perhaps this is for the best. 

   You still can't speak as you’re being signed out. Henry’s the one bringing you back home. Shame and defiant anger prickle beneath your skin. He brings you fresh clothes that look suspiciously like your own. You’re sure they couldn’t possibly be yours, because they’re too soft and clean. You wear them anyway. It gives you the slightest hint of pleasure, however dull. 

   The car ride is fairly quiet. You’re still on verbal strike, and Henry isn’t really sure how to handle a version of you so silent. The only time he does speak is to give you some more humiliating news:

   “Julian and I agreed that you’ll stay with me until you’re well.” Henry says, pulling to a stop in front of his place. 

   Your face is redder than a stoplight, you’re sure of it. How can you stand staying with him for any significant length of time? Especially without speaking? You’re even angrier about this, but you let him usher you indoors all the same. He directs you to what seems to be the only bedroom in the place. The bed itself is perplexingly small. You toss him a questioning look.

   “I don’t sleep in here,” He answers as if you've spoken, “Now. Some of your things have been brought over, so you should find yourself plenty comfortable.”

   He explains that he is to be your companion for a few weeks, as if this is some sick Daphne Du Maureier novel, and only leaves your side long enough to allow you to settle into bed. The thing that makes you angriest is the fact that you’re already beginning to feel slightly better. You sit in silence that first evening, Henry reading to himself in a chair he unceremoniously places in the corner. You fall asleep glowering at the wall.

   The next day isn’t much better. Henry brings you tea and toast once he notes that you’re awake, as well as a cup of water and an empty cup besides. This, he explains, is so you might brush your teeth without wasting energy to get up. In the end, you do brush your teeth, and feel better for it. But there’s still a sullen, silent sort of argument beforehand. He hands you a pill, too. The same thing you’ve been taking at the hospital. An antidepressant.

   “Julian doesn’t think you should take these. He says all they’ll do is make you worse. But I’ve spoken with Richard and the doctor about it, and they both say you’ll get well much sooner if you do.” He doesn’t give you any further input.

You get to decide whether you continue on with this course of treatment, one which won’t even be semi-destigmatized for another thirty or so years. He files your choice away for later, once you've made it, and doesn't ask again.

     Today, he begins to read to you. He reads selections you’ve missed from classes. You find his voice comforting despite the cool monotony of it, which sickens you. Every now and again he pauses and launches into some of his own thoughts on the selection. You have plenty of thoughts yourself, but you don’t contribute. You do, however, make rather nasty faces at him when you disagree. It’s hard to tell, but you think he finds this amusing. 

   You have a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch, along with some sugar-sweet coffee. For dinner, there are two foil covered plates delivered. It’s Sunday, you realize when he sets it in front of you, and this is a special delivery from the twins. There’s a glass of your favorite wine to go with it, chilled and set on the bedside table. 

   “I thought you wouldn’t like to see anyone yet.” He explains.

   The next day passes similarly. Tea and toast. Coffee and tomato soup. Wine and a suspiciously full plate of food. Tonight, however, Henry runs a bath for you. You sit in it, wearing your underclothes, and let him mechanically wash your hair. He doesn’t seem to enjoy this any more than you do. That brings you some solace, at least. The only thing you have to do is peel your wet underthings from your body and replace them with pajamas. 

   You bathe this way once every other day. Breakfast is always the same, lunch and dinner only slightly more varied. The readings change as he catches you up on classes, but they always last the same amount of time. You’re dragged into a comfortable routine with absolutely no responsibility to uphold it. Sometime after day four, you begin to make noises in response to things. A derisive grunt, a loud huff, even (once) something that sounds laughter adjacent. He gives you a moleskin and a pen to write with, which you do, and this is your first real communication with another person in two months.

   He asks why you didn’t come to anyone for help. You don’t answer this. But you do answer other questions, like ‘Would you like ham on your grilled cheese?’ Yes. Or: ‘Which sweater would you prefer to wear today?’ The black one. You also use this notebook to emphatically disagree with his musings on Plato. And it doesn’t even seem like he really minds, which puts you on edge. He’s rather indulgent. He actually pretends to consider your points.

   These disagreements are how you begin to work on overdue translations in the afternoons on week two. You work through them quickly, because there’s very little else to do, and find that you’ve caught up with the class in record time. You eat Sunday dinner alone in your room again. But he promises whoever's actually bringing these plates by the apartment that they’ll be able to see you soon. Quietly, of course, but you hear it all the same. 

   Week three is when he catches you smiling at something for a fraction of a second. He begins bringing you out to the yard for thirty minutes every morning. You take your tea and toast out there, bundled in enough sweaters and coats for at least four of you. The fresh air does you good, though you won’t admit it. This Sunday, he sets out proper clothes, and you make a physical appearance at Sunday dinner. You’re overwhelmed by all the hugs and well wishes you’re met with. But it’s in a good way. 

This Sunday, you say the first thing you’ve said in nearly three months.

   “Pass the salt?” You aren’t even fully aware that you’ve said it. 

   A hush falls over the table, anyway, and the salt appears before you in record time. This Sunday, you laugh at an awful joke Bunny makes. You’re still very clearly a shell of a person. But you’re getting better. You fall asleep in the car on the way back to Henry’s, exhausted from the excitement. He carries you in, carefully undresses you to your under-things, and tucks you into bed. 

   You continue to take your tea and toast outside in the mornings. You bathe every other day, with Henry’s clinical assistance. You talk more. You still won’t tell him why you never told anybody how poorly you’d been doing. But your lips are far from cracked by now, eyes no longer sunken in. You’ve begun to wander the apartment some. 

   You help him make lunch on Sunday, and you go along to dinner again. This dinner is less stilted and awkward than the last. It’s normal, or something like it. You chime in your usual amount and drink Charles under the table. And even though you fall asleep shivering on the car ride back, you feel warm all over. 

   The following week is spent moving back into your dorm room. You find that it’s pristine when you first show up, which surprises you most pleasantly. You bring your things back in small increments. Your first night back, Henry stays over. He doesn’t sleep, but works on something or other at your desk. It’s a comfort to have him there. If he weren’t, you’d likely be anxious about falling back into that pit of despair. He stays a few more nights, leaving earlier and earlier until he isn’t visiting your room in the evenings at all. 

   Your arguments, once hot and spiteful, have managed to fizzle out. What you have now is a calm enough friendship that you miss his presence. He misses yours, too, so once a week, he shows up at your door with tea and toast. When it’s nice enough, you take a leisurely half hour walk outdoors. You contradict him far less during classes, now preferring to bring up your differing opinions on those weekly walks. The resulting discussions are far more civil than they ever were.

   You still have bad days, of course. Days where getting out of bed seems pointless. Where you hope it’s true that smoking causes cancer. On these days, you spend the night in the bed Henry doesn’t use. You'll never address this, but you suspect it's all, somehow, Julian’s doing. The way his eyes twinkle when he watches you and Henry speak after class suggests as much.

[anonymous-hopeful]

Gelato (Francis x Angus) is my TNMN otp. If I'm being honest I mostly just ship them because of aesthetics but I think Angus's shady extroverted nature contrasts well with Francis's overworked demeanor

Gelato is a super cute name- I didn't even know Francis x Angus had a ship name till now.

Headcanon below!

Angus is for sure a wildcard, but in a loveable kind of way- I'm sure that by the time Angus moved into the apartment, Francis was already dealing with enough as-is, and the last thing he needed was a very respectable and totally not shady businessman hanging around him while he just wanted to get a good night's sleep...

...or maybe he did need him. Despite being a couple of floors apart, Angus (or anyone with two eyes, really) could see that Francis is overworked and needs to take time to destress. Angus would absolutely take the time out of his day to go up to floor three and drop by to make sure that Francis has a little fun in his day, whether it be having a drink, taking him out on the town, or just taking to each other in their apartment until it's time to sleep.

At first, Francis was overwhelmed by the constant surprise visits and the thought of going outside of the apartments for something other than work, groceries, or paying bills was virtually nonexistent to him since the dopplegangers became a significant threat. The fact that Angus doesn't seem to care about the threat of dopplegangers confused the heck out of Francis, but he couldn't bring himself to not hang out with the most interesting person he's been around in a long time.

The longer they hung around each other, the more understanding Angus was of Francis' situation (working hard to support himself and make sure he's still in Anastacha's life) and Francis loosened up a bit so he wasn't just working and sleeping every day. In spite of his usual look of indifference, Francis genuinely can't wait until his dates with Angus.

...though asking about what kind of business Angus does still hasn't come up yet. If Angus smirks in the face of a doppleganger, Francis doesn't want to know what he does for a living.

[riley-coyotl]

Fifth Monthly Puppy Report Card for Kelpie!

Kelpie’s progress from 6 – 7months (posting almost 2 weeks late, RIP.) Be prepared for these to contain Too Many Notes because that's just how I am. Categories subject to be added to or change as she matures and things become more or less relevant.

Food (drive, appetite, sensitivity): 🟢 - Doing well, about the same as last month, but she’s maybe doing a bit better at taking treats in very stimulating environments!

Toys: 🟢 - Doing well, about the same as last month. She’s a fun puppy to play with!

Sleeping: 🟢/🟡 - She’s usually been pretty good this month, has improved since last month re: sleeping in on weekend mornings! But...as for sleeping through the night, whether during actual nighttime hours, or during the day, this past month it seemed her groove was thrown off a bit--we had visitors this month for the holidays (my brother and his partner, along with their dog) and their dog developed a health condition requiring him to eat small meals of stinky wet food throughout the day, along with more frequent potty breaks. I think this disrupted our routine as Kelpie would start waking up whining wanting to go out correlating to the times my brother’s dog was being fed. So 6-8 hours of uninterrupted sleep became more like 4 hours again. Nothing too egregious, but still a backslide on her progress here. Our visitors left a few days ago so we’ll see how she improves again over the next few weeks.

Crating/separation: 🟢/🟡 - Usually been good but sometimes she’s been antsy/frustrated at being crated/left alone over this past month. Nothing excessive but there’s sometimes been some barking, and not napping/relaxing as much. Again, still usually doing just fine. But I think she’s in general just been less chill this month for some reason...I suspect again partially because of our groove being thrown off (see above re: sleeping.)

Potty training: 🟢 - Doing good, we had a small handful of accidents this past month but all could be attributed to us missing her asking to go out. She’s pretty darn reliable, just not always very patient (and sometimes she rings the bells pretty softly and we miss it.)

General training: 🟢 - She’s a good girl, her attention span continues to improve, as has her resistance to frustration, and her willingness and interest in working with me. Still learning more tricks and having fun with it!

Recall/Off-leash skills: 🟢/🟡 - About the same as last month, maybe a bit of improvement. I think I will need to double down on my efforts here over the next month(s) as I can tell she is becoming a teenager!

Leash walking: 🟢/🟡 - She’s gotten a bit better compared to the last month! Still not where I want her to be, but I feel like we’ll get there.

Biting: 🟢 - Much better! She’s only been biting when super amped up, and when she does her bites are not as hard, and if she does end up biting too hard, she is quicker to realize when it’s too hard will regulate better.

Manners: 🟢/🟡 - Doing alright in this regard, even a little better than last month in most ways. Leg-humping has been virtually nonexistent (thank Dog..) and she is jumping up on people less. Door/threshold manners are getting better. But on the other hand...she is still very nosy and curious and wants to check every surface she can, and has gone back to getting into things more—Mischief Mode Kelpie is making a resurgence! I have had to block off the bookshelves because she kept pulling books off the shelf wanting to chew on them. She’s been taking papers/pens off the coffee table. Running off with shoes. Etc. A lot of this comes down to people leaving their things out where she can easily grab them (I swear to fuck, training friends/family not to leave their stuff in reach of the puppy is way harder than training the puppy herself! 🥲) But like I said above, she’s becoming a teenager...and “fuck around and find out” is her motto.

Grooming/Handling: 🟢 - Excellent. At grooming time, she is so enthusiastic about volunteering to go first for grooming...and second, and third (she will jump up onto the grooming table volunteering to get groomed even when there is already another dog up there now!) She even regularly jumps up on the grooming table when it’s not grooming time, waiting expectantly (grooming table = treats!) As for the development of her gear shyness re:harnesses, I first took a break from harnesses entirely for a little bit, then started training again and after only a couple little sessions, she was displaying almost no gear shyness at all.

Car rides: 🟢 - She does great in the car still!

Outings/socialization: 🟢 - This past month has been very hectic, so we have not done hardly any outings except for taking her to the dog pool, but from what I can tell, her confidence has increased from last month. And nothing happened this past month to make me angsty with paranoid anxiety about her potentially becoming reactive, so I’m calling that a win!

Dogs: 🟢/🟡 - Pretty much the same as last month. She loves the other dogs and loves to play. She and Juni have figured it out quite well, Juni has successfully taught her to respect her “not right now” or “hey that was too rough” signals, but I really wish Maple was a little less patient with Kelpie and more willing to go to harsher corrections faster, because Kelpie just isn’t getting it--she’s just being a blockhead and doesn’t pay close enough attention to Maple’s body language/communication because Maple’s so gentle and patient with her, so she can easily bulldoze her and thinks Maple is still playing when she’d really rather not. Still, I’m trying to remind myself that “too exuberant” is a much better problem to have than fearful or aggressive.

Humans: 🟢 - She is easy-going, friendly but not over-the-top friendly when meeting new people.

Cats: 🟡 - We’ve had some improvement in this category. When she is bored she still really likes to mess with the cats (bark at them and goad them into either swatting at her or running off, which rewards her with either a one-sided game of bitey-face, or a one-sided game of chase…) but she’s gotten quicker/more easily responsive about calling off when she starts bothering a cat (or when she’s looking for them to bother them,) and typically has been less fixated on the activity compared to last month, but...still sometimes the mood strikes her that it’s all she wants to do, and she has to be removed from the environment to “reset” before she’ll leave ‘em alone. I’m still unhappy with this behavior but I at least am feeling hopeful that it’s improving.

Small animals: 🟢 - Interest but no obsession, no complaints.

Bonding/affection: 🟢 - I love her dearly but I want more cuddles!! She has overall been very not chill this past month, so I haven’t gotten many chill snuggles. I am hoping she gets more interested in cuddling more often/for longer as she matures. That said, she’s been quite in tune with me this month in general, emotionally, and I’m happy with that. And she is very affectionate and sweet in general. She’s a sweet puppy.

Overall grade 🟢, despite sometimes driving me insane with her mischief, she’s a good puppy and she’s trying her best. We both are! Same as last month, my only real complaints are her pestering the cats, and bothering Maple, and we’re working on it. We’re phasing solidly into “teenage puppy” territory now so I anticipate yet more challenges in the coming month(s,) but we’ll get through it.

[stumbling-towards-the-light]

Free Folk & Their Adaptive Strategy

Adaptive strategy was a term first coined in 1974 by anthropologist Yehudi Cohen to describe a society's means of economic production. Cohen also further postulated that certain means of economic production adopted by a society also led said society to adopt certain social features, by which I mean shared political organization, and similar ways of choosing leadership, if they had any.

Now, in most anthropological circles, it's generally agreed there are five adaptive strategies to be linked to five types of political organization. This is a general pattern across a majority of human societies, but not a written-in-stone rule; some societies do not land in these neat, categorized boxes. However, this is a fictional culture, so for the sake of mine and the dear reader's sanity, we are going to assume the Free Folk fall into these categories.

It is largely implied that the Free Folk's main adaptive strategy is foraging, employing “traditional” hunter-gatherer means of survival. Now we see some Free Folk use pastoralist means of survival, with mentions of sheepfolds and pigstys found in various Free Folk villages, as well as a mention of a reindeer herding, however, baseline the Free Folk are foragers. Usually, in forager societies, the main type of political organization are bands, relatively small groups of people all tied together by some form of kinship. This seems to be supported in the text itself, where Jon refers to Rattleshirts’ group as a “band” several times.

This type of society does not lend itself well to permanent homes, usually moving seasonally in accordance with where herds of wild animals have moved. The idea of private property is virtually nonexistent. However, there are reports of forager societies all coming together in one place, usually when there is a surplus of food. This occasion is usually treated like a holiday, with lots of celebrating, dancing, singing, and trading being done.

Leadership: Fascinatingly enough, forager leadership structure is usually based around who can give the most, rather than who is the strongest or the toughest. This is due to the tendency of forager societies to develop social mores involving hospitality and shared social responsibility. 

Social Values: We already know the Free Folk hold proper hospitality to be absolutely sacred, with even Crastor, the worst of the worst, following it like gospel. (He is not the one to break hospitality during the Night’s Watch coup, after all.) The shared social responsibility part is simply an expansion of this core idea. If you can’t even take care of your own, why should your hospitality, your word be trusted? Societies like this one, also will ostracize any hoarders who take more than they need. We see this pattern with Crastor, with every other Free Folk we meet despising him. Granted, this is probably due to his practice of marrying his daughters, but he is also the only Free Folk to have a designated “keep”, where his family lives, with it’s own pigsty and sheepfold. Every other pigsty and/or sheepfold we see north of the Wall, appears to be shared. Some of that disgust could also be due to his hoarding tendencies.  

Gender Roles: White there is the traditional idea of men doing the hunting and fishing and women doing the majority of the foraging, these roles are not set in stone by any means. Again, this is supported by the text, where both men and women are raiders and accepted leaders of their groups. This is even supported in the Free Folks’ concept of marriage, which doesn’t seem to be set in stone. They do have a concept of one man and one woman being tied together, but it doesn;t seem that the two are bound by marriage; there is no expectation of fidelity for either party, or at least there are no social consequences for sleeping with someone who isn’t your spouse. This kind of openness is usually found in societies that give their women a lot more freedom.

Religion: Due to their heavy reliance on the land, almost all foraging societies are animistic, worshiping the spirits found in and around nature, rather than a specific, titled entity. Again seen in the Free Folk, who worship the Old Gods, nameless spirits inhabiting the world around them. 

Inheritance Customs: As there is no concept of private property, there is no concept of someone inheriting that private property. Further support the Free Folks’ lax gender roles. When there is nothing to inherit, why should there be a huge fuss over whose child is whose child? Why should a husband need to control who his wife sleeps with, when he has nothing to pass down? 

Descent Customs: Forager societies are often bilineal, children are considered to be descended from both parents and thus kin to both parents’ extended families. This is a way to ensure that there will always be someone to rely on in hard times. I see no reason why the Free Folk would not adopt a similar strategy. 

This is just some of the things, affected by the Free Folks’ larger adaptive strategy, there are probably a hundred more different ways this idea could be expressed. But anyway, let me know what you think!

[anarchoherbalism]

Hi I'm teaching herbalism online this winter like usual. Honors-system sliding scale + no one turned away for lack of funds. Topics include pain management, rash care, and sleep support. As always these workshops focus heavily on independent/self guided practice in quality-of-life situations where available options from Industrial Western Medicine range from unsatisfactory to virtually nonexistent; & cover EBT-eligible/urban foraging (literal and figurative) options. Information sources range from official western medical, anecdotal, & contemporary + historical folk medical traditions from the general western canon; and i feel strongly about disclosing what context & school of thought an idea is drawing from so ppl can decide what/why/how they trust info for themselves.

It's fun, people usually like my stuff pretty well, if you're interested in herbalism in the abstract but not a fan of pop health weight loss/sugar addiction/Nebulous Toxins nonsense, AND are kinda tired of "listen to SCIENCE!!!!!" people, I'm probably gonna be right up your alley.

[beautifulpersonpeach]

Lowkey, I'm always a bit amazed at the capacity PJMs have to make themselves miserable. It's like a talent. Because Anon(s), tell me why you’ve worked yourself into such a state, blowing up my inbox at 5 in the morning, over something Jimin himself said with a smile on his face? Do you think he’s lying to you about what Namjoon said and did? Why does that evoke such a maniacal response from you? Why does it have you writing hysterical paragraphs in my inbox? It’s like y’all want me to drag you.

I’m curious about the timing especially, because it’s been several hours since I made this post, but suddenly there’s a swarm of you in my inbox so much the barrage of notifications woke me up.

This is what I mean about PJMs being loud. It’s clear first of all that practically all the people losing their minds about this didn’t watch Jimin’s live. We’ve already established akgaes don’t actually listen to their faves, but what makes it so stupid is that they’re loud in spite of not knowing what the heck they’re talking about or even mad about. These are hoards of people crippled by insecurities, just primed to be miserable and angry 24/7. It’s so lame. There’s literally nothing about the reality of what Jimin said about Namjoon’s involvement in FACE that should be triggering this reaction.

That Namjoon asked them to redo it all doesn’t mean Jimin is somehow being discredited, it doesn’t mean Jimin doesn’t have full credits, it doesn’t mean Namjoon doesn’t have full credits, it doesn’t mean the other producers aren’t credited.

It’s very possible for them to have gone back to the drawing board on Namjoon’s advice and for them all to be credited - and we already know that’s what happened. It’s literally on the album in black and white, in the filmed documentary, and confirmed by Jimin himself in his Wlive.

I’ve lost count of how many times in the last 8-ish months I’ve opened my inbox to see a barrage of insane takes and it’s just akgaes with the reasoning capacity of a 4 year old who just happen to have internet access. It’s annoying spelling out things that should be obvious, over and over again. And I suppose it’s only gotten worse in this particular space since so many jikookers have turned into PJMs but still remain fully embedded in this space.

But this is what getting fully sucked in to fandom does to you. It liquifies your mind.

Again, I strongly suggest everyone who claims to like Jimin, to watch his documentary and Wlive. There’s at least 10 good translators for English, 3 for Japanese, and 2 for French that are known within the fandom for anyone to use, and the Wlive has official translations too.

Normally, I prefer deleting dumb takes to blocking outright because occasionally I find these people entertaining. But today I’m sleep deprived and a bit jet lagged, so my already short patience for akgaes is virtually nonexistent.

C’est franchement décevant à quel point tu es stupide.

[databent]

this is just me rambling mostly about myself sorry. but i hate how much it Sucks having a completely invisible and often totally unrecognized+dismissed disability 🥲 like i have non-24 hour sleep-wake disorder and it makes it impossible for me to keep a normal schedule (when ive had to - ie when i attended school, or if i were to work any regular job - id get so sleep deprived i couldnt wake myself up and/or would become too drained to function) but circadian rhythm disorders are full on seen as nonexistent by a majority of the population and those that do know of them often think its just "being a night owl" and you "can just work through it with a little discipline". so access to a diagnosis and/or accomodations is virtually nonexistent and i basically just have to either constantly deprive myself of sleep and permanently wreck my health or just put my entire life on hold for almost a third of every month. and im fortunate enough to have a job that (somewhat) allows me to work flexible hours and generally lets me work only the days im awake to, but because of my disorder being so invisible i know that from the perspective of everyone else there i just look like a guy with unpredictable attendance who comes in at inconsistent times and often only stays for like three hours, with nothing at all that makes it obvious that its because of a fucking disability. so to almost everyone that doesnt intimately know me, for the rest of my life, i will look like nothing but a profoundly lazy and unreliable individual. and it sucks!! and it makes me so mad!!! and its hard to face the fact that even what i CAN do still isnt enough so i constantly have to break my fucking back and put a lot of strain on my body just to meet like what are considered bare minimum standards. im constantly walking on thin ice because there is just no understanding from people of what things are like when you have a lifelong disabling condition that cant be fixed. and i still have it relatively easy! bcos during the times when im functional during the day i have pretty much no issues doing so. but for people with an invisible disability that affects their ability to function or work All The Time theyre Still often held to the same standards as everyone else because of perceptions of what "being disabled" is and basically i just really really hate how society treats invisible disabilities. fuck. its not fair or sustainable its literally killing people

[thesnacken]

I need to staple this to something so its not COMPLETELY lost when I sleep but like.

Tarra.

How it Starts: Literal steps away from just being a living doll (Its not A Sex Thing but there IS a Sex Thing about it), virtually incapable of functioning independently. A pilot because It can't be anything else anymore.

How it Ends: Blindfolded, three-step takedown of a fascist using only Its legs in four seconds, no mech. Tarra is standing mere inches from a man who considers it too inhuman to regard alone, much less outside a cockpit, and the second everyone's attention stops being ON it Tarra turns a man's head into salsa.

And this is a Correct and Upstanding Decision! This is the culmination of a story's ethos, and the character who was so exhausted and overwhelmed from being turned into a weapon that it chose the closest thing it could to Nonexistence comes full circle to being SO self-assured and willful that it does something nobody expects, and its THE RIGHT CHOICE. Its Brutal and Calculated but also drippingly emotional and no other character in the story could have made that call.

FUCK do I wish I could focus on Creating long enough to tell y'all how we get from Point A to Point B.

[organized-chaotic-disaster]

Venting about work (/work-life balance)

I need to quit my job lmao

Here I am, 8PM when I have a day off tomorrow, and I am exhausted mentally, physically, and don’t wanna do anything but sleep

I wake up. At 3 in the goddamn morning. For my shifts at 5:30.

And I work on my feet. In steel toe boots. On a concrete floor. For the whole day. Unless I’m driving a pallet jack, in which case I’m either standing on that for long periods of time (having to stand on my feet in a very specific way or else the machine stops until I put them in the right spot for safety reasons) or getting on and off it constantly.

No shit, I’m getting about 15000–20000 steps a day while I’m at work. Granted, I’m working with my hands a lot, so it’s probably an artificially inflated number. But regardless, that’s a LOT.

And it’s physical fucking labour. That I’m doing all day. After not getting enough sleep because I’m trying to squeeze as much free time as I possibly can from the day and then I have a hard time falling asleep because I don’t wanna do it all again. Like it’s a good day if I get 7 hours of sleep.

And on top of ALL of that. The social environment is toxic as FUCK. People shit-talking about each other CONSTANTLY. Bickering over who can do what job because one person has more seniority than another. Calling people lazy for not pulling their weight, which like, I get it, but I also get why they’d want to spare as much energy as possible when they’re expending as much as they must be just to keep doing this shit. And also just… general gossip. Like, apparently there was a rumour that I slept with someone’s wife (both of whom work there) around the time they got divorced, and I didn’t even know until a WHILE later! Like, no wonder her ex was always stand-offish with me! But now it’s too late and I can’t do anything about it, another coworker/friend of mine cleared the air with the ex (indirectly, hopefully, by telling a friend, maybe new partner, of the ex), but like. That’s NEVER gonna be someone I can feel normal around now!

And the organization is piss poor. Safety and quality of work are brushed aside in favour of getting everything done fast. Communication is nonexistent. They tell us about quality issues we need to look out for then give us a printed out email with microscopic black and white pictures as if it’ll be helpful for us. And when I DO bring up a quality issue, I’m usually met with shrugs or begrudging “I don’t wanna deal with it” and yeah the latter’s supposed to be a joke but after a while it stops feeling like one

It’s no wonder I’m exhausted at the end of every day. I’m doing physical labour, masking, dealing with a toxic social environment, bad organization that leaves people confused and/or frustrated, and management that doesn’t wanna hear any of it when I try to do my job right or bring up issues, if I can even find them in the first place because they’re impossible to find when you need them most

I’m constantly exhausted, my social life is virtually nonexistent BECAUSE I’m exhausted, and I just. I can’t fucking do this anymore. Like, I need to. But I feel like I can’t do it for much longer

I fantasize about a time where I can work a job where I’m not on my feet all day, maybe working at a desk, and can have the energy to actually go to the gym and get exercise that won’t sap every bit of energy from my body so I can actually take care of my body, and at the same time actually have time and energy to spend with friends! And a schedule that’s actually easy to work with!! Where I don’t need to wake up at 3AM on a workday and can be free Friday evenings because I’m off on the weekends! And I know, no situation is perfect. But I mean, surely you can see why a desk job of some kind would be so much better for me than the manual labour one that has me starting my shift before the sun’s up, right?

This job has taken everything from me, and what I’ve gotten is good pay, yes. But I’ve also gotten fucked over for being a student since it’s messed with my seniority, despite the fact that I’ve been working this job for 10+ years now. I’ve sacrificed my life. This isn’t living. It’s plain old surviving, and the work isn’t supporting that particular cause, either

[studioeisa]

smooth operator 🏎️ seokmin x reader.

a lot of drivers were friends with their race engineer. one had to be, considering how closely the two roles overlapped. now, drivers who were in love with their race engineer— a slightly smaller club. perhaps with only one member, even.

★ f1 racer!seokmin x ferrari race engineer!reader. ★ word count: 7.4k ★ genre/warnings: alternate universe: formula one, seokmin has a crush, literally seokmin as carlos sainz, pining... so much pining..., fluff -ish, hint of angst. cussing/swearing; mentions of a surgery, crash. ★ footnotes: watched 10 carlos sainz reels in a row and this is what i have to show for it. this is literally just 'if seokmin was carlos + if seokmin was in loveee with his engineer'. turned out much, much longer than i anticipated. not proofread. (it's 5am. have mercy.) once again, all f1 inaccuracies are mine. for obvious reasons: dedicated to @diamonddaze01. papaya forever, baby. 🧡

Seokmin has always known he was down bad for you, but he didn’t realize just how bad it was until the news broke. 

It came in the form of an email. RE: Your future at Ferrari, it proclaimed, and Seokmin had opened it anticipating the details of his contract renewal. Joshua was already locked in with an extension that spanned several more seasons; surely Seokmin would be given a similar deal. 

Instead, he’d been given an apology, an explanation, and a warning that the media would be in on it by tomorrow noon.

His future with Ferrari was virtually nonexistent. And stupidly, foolishly, his first thought had been whether you already knew. 

The next 24 hours tick by slowly. It takes everything in Seokmin to not seek you out, to ask what you think about the whole affair. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to wait for too long. 

You text mere minutes after the article is published. Two messages.

First, a link to the article that Seokmin doesn’t even bother to read. The headline is enough. Yoon to make shock switch from Mercedes to Ferrari for the 2025 season. 

Second, a GIF of a penguin cocking its head to one side. Three question marks pop up over its head. 

It’s exactly the kind of levity that Seokmin needs. He huffs out a laugh, which sounds just a little too hollow in the emptiness of his apartment.

His fingers fly over his screen, and he shoots back a response before he can think too deeply of it. Come over?

He doesn’t have to ask twice. You already don’t deny him on a regular day. How much more when he’s lost his seat at the Scuderia? 

You’re ringing Seokmin’s doorbell in an hour. He stumbles over to the front door, sleep-deprived and still a bit dazed. He’s greeted to the sight of you with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Therapy in one hand and a bottle of Pinot Noir in the other. 

“Record time,” Seokmin says, his voice coming out as a bit of a rasp. 

“Tragic circumstances call for efficiency,” you declare, stepping inside like you own the place. Maybe you do, in a way. Seokmin’s apartment has always felt a little more like home with you in it.

He toes the door shut and watches as you march straight to the kitchen, like this is a mission and not a lunchtime grief counseling session. You plop the ice cream and wine onto the counter, and before he can protest, you’re already reaching for two spoons and a corkscrew.

“No glasses?” he muses, leaning against the doorframe.

You toss him a look over your shoulder. “Are you feeling civilized right now?”

“Depends who’s asking,” he says. 

He crosses the room, plucking the corkscrew from your hand and making quick work of the bottle. You trade him a spoon in exchange, and within minutes, you’re both parked on his couch— knees tucked up, shoulders brushing— passing the pint and bottle back and forth like it’s some sort of sacrament.

A lot of drivers were friends with their race engineer. One had to be, considering how closely the two roles overlapped.

Now, drivers who were in love with their race engineer— a slightly smaller club. Perhaps with only one member, even. 

Seokmin tries not to think of it. He doesn’t have the time to pine. 

“It’s over.” His voice is quieter than he means for it to be. The weight of it all is settling in, sinking into the cushions, pressing against his ribs. “They kept Joshua. They signed Jeonghan. I’m out.” 

Your spoon pauses mid-air. “It’s Ferrari,” you say after a beat. “They’ve dropped bigger legends.”

Seokmin knows that. He’s spent the past ten years worshiping this sport, its brutality, its politics. He should’ve seen it coming, should’ve braced for impact. Instead, he let himself believe that winning was enough.

You shift slightly, angling towards him. “Let’s focus on the next day, at least. What’s your plan?” you ask, your tone as even as ever. 

“That depends,” he says, flicking his gaze up to meet yours. “Do I get to be bitter first, or do I have to be a good sport immediately?”

Your lips curve. “I think you get 48 hours of being insufferable before you have to post the Notes app apology.”

“God,” he groans, “the worst part.”

You hum in agreement, nudging his knee with yours. “The public statement. The classic ‘Forever grateful to Ferrari for the opportunity’ while you cry into your pillow.”

Seokmin exhales something close to a laugh. “You know me too well.”

“Obviously.”

Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s just you, sitting here in his apartment like you belong in every part of his life, like you always have. But when you shift closer, your hand resting on his knee, Seokmin feels the terrifying urge to be honest.

I’m going to miss you, he wants to say. What am I going to do without you? 

The words feel a little too raw, a little too real for one in the afternoon, so he clears his throat and grasps at straws for anything else. “We still have the season,” he says. “You haven’t gotten rid of me yet.”

When you flash him a smile, it’s not pitying. He’s grateful for that, at least. But then your words come— a quiet “I never wanted to be rid of you, idiot”— and it feels like getting shot in the chest. 

Ten years on the grid, and this season is shaping up to be his longest one yet. 

“Okay, Seok. We need a push now.” 

Your voice crackles through the radio, even over the high-pitched wail of the engine and the deafening wind tearing past his helmet. Lap 43 of 57, and he’s sitting in P5 with Seungcheol of Red Bull breathing down his neck. 

Seokmin exhales sharply, flexing his fingers against the wheel. He’s already wrung everything he can out of this car, dragging it through tire degradation and the lingering sting of betrayal.

And yet— your voice. Always your voice. Firm, steady, unwavering. The only thing in this whole mess that still belongs to him.

“Copy,” he says, forcing the word out between grit teeth. “Mode push.”

He flicks the necessary settings, shifts the brake balance forward, and readies himself to defend like his life depends on it. If not his life, then his dignity, at the very least.

A month ago, he would have thought differently. A month ago, Seokmin would have driven with Ferrari in his blood, believing he’d wear the red until he retired. But now? Now he drives for himself.

He’s collateral damage in a bombshell deal. Everybody wants to know where Lee Seokmin is heading next, and the worst part is that Seokmin himself doesn’t really know the answer to that question. 

He doesn’t want to see past this race. Right now, he’s only focused on two things: The checkered flag at the finish line, and the sound of your voice. 

Seokmin’s tires scream through the tight left-hander, the rear twitching as he corrects with practiced ease. Red Bull’s poster boy is still there, looming in Seokmin’s mirrors, but the latter holds the racing line. If Seungcheol wants to pass, he’ll have to fight for it.

The radio crackles again. “Good job. Hold him there. We’ve got better traction through the final sector.”

Your voice sounds closer than it should. He pictures you back at the pit wall, one hand on the radio, the other gripping the edge of the desk like you always do when things get tense. He wonders if you’re biting your lip, if your brows are furrowed in that way they always are when you worry about him.

God, he hopes they keep you next year. Even if he won’t be here to see it.

He pushes the thought away.

Lap 50. He’s still P5, but now Joshua is ahead of him, just over a second up the road. A small window of opportunity. A flicker of a chance. And maybe it’s stupid— maybe it’s reckless— but he’s already lost everything once. What’s one more risk?

“I can catch him,” he says into the radio, adjusting his brake migration. “If I get DRS, I can make a move.”

There’s a beat of contemplative silence. Then, your voice, pure as the driven snow: “You’ve got margin on the tires. Go get him.”

And just like that, the weight in his chest lifts.

Not because of Ferrari. Not because of the podium he probably won’t reach today. But because of you. Because for as long as he’s still here, you’re still rooting for him. 

If this is his last season in red, then he’ll make damn sure it’s a season worth remembering.

Lap 53.

The gap is closing. Slowly, surely.

Joshua is right there, his rear wing flashing ahead of Seokmin as they charge down the straight. A year ago, they might have laughed about this over dinner. Two Ferrari boys fighting for position.

But now, Seokmin’s stomach twists with something sharper. It’s not just a battle for P4— it’s a battle to prove he still belongs.

The radio crackles. “You’re within DRS range. We’re good on battery deployment. You know what to do.”

It’s not just a call. It’s a challenge. A test of how much fight Seokmin has left in him.

Your challenge.

He flicks open the rear wing, heart hammering against his ribs as the Ferrari rockets forward. The slipstream pulls him in, closer, closer—

Lap 54.

“You’re faster,” you hiss. “Stay patient.”

But patience has never been Seokmin’s strong suit.

Into Turn 1, he feints a move down the inside. Joshua covers it, just like Seokmin knew he would. That’s fine. He’s setting this up.

Through the chicane, Seokmin stays glued to the rear of the other Ferrari, tires protesting, the car twitching under him. He barely feels it. All he feels is the thrill of the hunt, the way his blood sings with the sheer want of it.

He pulls out.

Joshua squeezes him to the edge of the track, but Seokmin is already committed. Late on the brakes, he sends it down the inside, and he’s through.

The rear wiggles. He catches it. His tires scream in protest, but he keeps the car steady.

Lap 55.

“Nice move.” Your tone is clipped. You don’t seem entirely approving of his little stunt, though he doesn’t miss the edge of pride in your voice as you go on to say, “P4.”

His breath comes out in a rush. The job isn’t done. He forces himself to breathe, to focus, to bring the car home.

Lap 57.

The checkered flag waves. Seokmin crosses the line. P4.

It’s not a podium. It’s not a win. But considering where he was two weeks ago, drowning in uncertainty, it feels like something.

“Good job, Seok,” you say, the tension finally slipping from your voice. “That was a hell of a move.”

He exhales, slumping back into the seat as the weight of the race settles in. “Told you I could catch him,” he breathes, exhaustion laced with something lighter. Something almost like relief.

You laugh— soft, fond, like you knew all along.

And maybe that’s the real victory today.

Every press cycle has been absolute fucking hell to Seokmin as of late. 

The reporters are relentless. The vloggers, even more so. All of them want to know what it was like in the room where it happened. Did Jeonghan tell you? What did Joshua say? Where are you heading next? 

The third question hounded Seokmin across every race, in every damn country. It didn’t matter if he finished P1 or dead last. There would always be somebody demanding to know about his discussions with rival teams, his campaign for a new seat. 

The only thing keeping Seokmin tethered nowadays is you. 

The paddock is still a mess when Seokmin slips out of the press conference room. Cameras flash, reporters murmur, and somewhere in the distance, he can hear the unmistakable click of keyboards as people rush to twist his words into headlines.

His head pounds. His chest aches. He hates this part.

But then he sees you.

You’re waiting just beyond the media pen, arms crossed, eyes tracking his every move. The moment you meet his gaze, you offer him a smile.

It’s enough. It’s everything. It’s what keeps him on his feet, keeps him from running. 

You don’t say anything as he approaches. Just fall into step beside him, like always.

The two of you walk in silence for a while, weaving through the throngs of paddock staff and fans. He should say something, should at least try to make a joke about how many times he had to dodge questions about next season. For once, Seokmin can’t summon the energy.

When you finally speak, it’s in a delicate tone. “You did good today.”

A podium finish at Suzuka. Didn’t matter, he almost says. 

“Did I?” he asks just for the sake of asking. 

Your elbow bumps his. “Yeah. You did.”

Seokmin’s throat goes tight. There it is again. That urge to give you a piece of his heart; the whole damn thing, even. Before he can figure out how to respond, a kid— maybe ten, eleven years old— appears at his side, clutching a crumpled receipt, of all things, and a Sharpie.

“Hi,” the kid squeaks, staring up at Seokmin with wide eyes. “Could you sign this, please?” 

A practiced smile slots onto Seokmin’s face. It’s instinct. Years of muscle memory. He takes the receipt, uncaps the marker, and scribbles Forza Ferrari. 

Except— when Seokmin dots the ‘i’— he feels his stomach drop. The words stare back at him in bold, black ink, a painful reminder of everything he’s losing. Without thinking, he drags a line through them, crossing them out in one sharp motion.

He goes on to sign his name in one fluid motion. A bid to make the scrap of paper still somewhat worth it. 

The kid doesn’t notice the weight of the whole thing. “Thanks,” he chirps, practically shaking with excitement. “Can’t wait to see you race next year!”

If there’ll even be a next year, a small voice grouses in the back of Seokmin’s head. 

The kid disappears into the crowd, and Seokmin exhales. He feels your gaze before he looks up. He expects pity, maybe amusement— something that will make this sting even more than it already does. But when he meets your eyes, there’s none of that. Just quiet understanding. 

Seokmin swallows hard. “That was pathetic.”

Your lips twitch, like you’re fighting the urge to be blunt with him. Instead, you tilt your head and speak with that tone that brooks no arguments. 

“It’s hard to unlearn something that meant everything to you,” you say. 

That— yeah. That hits harder than he wants to admit.

Seokmin forces out a breathy chuckle. “I should’ve just written my name,” he mumbles. 

“Would’ve been a boring autograph,” you shoot back. 

He finally looks at you, properly this time, and something in the tension coiled tight in his chest loosens just a little. For the first time all day, Seokmin doesn’t feel like the guy whose seat was stolen. He doesn’t feel like the driver everybody keeps asking what’s next?

He’s just a guy you can joke with, a guy that’s worth one or two of your smiles. And isn’t that better than anything he could possibly be? 

You jerk your chin toward the motorhome. “C’mon, before someone else asks you the same three questions again.”

Seokmin hesitates for half a second before falling into step beside you. This time, it’s easier.

Seokmin is no stranger to discomfort. 

He’s driven through cramping, headaches, even a stomach bug that left him nearly delirious in Singapore one year. He knows how to push through the pain. 

This is different. 

It starts as a dull ache during FP1. A tightness low in his abdomen that he chalks up to dehydration, maybe something off in the hotel buffet.

By FP2, it’s a sharp, twisting pain, bad enough that he’s gritting his teeth through every braking zone. You check in more than usual, probably noticing the way his voice is shaky over the radio, but Seokmin waves it off. He can handle it.

Until he can’t.

By the time the session ends, he’s doubled over in the garage, clutching his side as if he can physically will the pain away. You’re the first person to reach him, your hand pressing to his back, voice edged with concern.

“Lee. What’s wrong?”

He’s sweating, his breath shallow, and yet he registers the use of his surname. You’re seriously worried, which would be endearing if he wasn’t fighting for his life. “Stomach—” A wince cuts through the word. “Hurts. Just give me a sec.”

You exchange a look with the team doctor. Seokmin sees it but ignores it. He doesn’t want to make a scene. He just needs to rest, needs a few hours to sleep it off. But when he straightens up, white-hot pain sears through his side, and he stumbles. 

You catch him just in time. Seokmin knows better than to protest when you whisk him away. 

“Appendicitis,” the doctor confirms, standing in the Ferrari motorhome with a clipboard tucked under one arm. “We need to get him to surgery. The sooner, the better.”

Seokmin sits on the couch, his arms crossed, jaw tight. His entire body protests the thought of stepping away. This isn’t just any race. It’s another chance to prove he still belongs on this grid. After everything, how the hell is he supposed to just sit out?

“Give me painkillers,” he insists. “I’ll race.”

You scoff. “Not an option. You physically cannot drive like this.”

Seokmin shakes his head. “I did FP1 and FP2. I can handle it.”

“Yeah?” You lean against the table, crossing your arms. You’re doing that thing again— the one where your eyes spark like flint. Seokmin has been in enough strategy meetings to know that you’re about to stand on business. 

“And when you’re in the car at 300 kph, and that pain gets worse? When you have to fight through a high-speed corner and your body quits on you?” You don’t wait for an answer. “You know what happens then? You crash. And it won’t just be your race on the line. It’ll be everyone else’s on that track.”

Seokmin presses his lips together, frustration buzzing under his skin. He knows you're right, but it doesn’t make it easier to accept. It feels like one more thing slipping away from him, one more weekend where his name won’t even be in the results.

“You have nothing to prove, Seokmin,” you say, your tone a little more gentle. “Missing one race won’t change anything.”

I have everything to prove, he wants to argue. But you’re right. He can barely sit upright without feeling like his insides are twisting into knots. How the hell is he supposed to survive 50 laps under extreme G-forces?

His shoulders sag, defeat settling in. “Who’s replacing me?”

“Kevin,” you say. “He’s already prepping.” 

Seokmin exhales sharply through his nose. Kevin Moon is the reserve driver, competent and reliable. He deserves the opportunity. Still, it stings. 

You must see it on his face, because your hand brushes against his. “Go get the surgery,” you say. “Heal up. We’ll be waiting for you in Australia.”

Seokmin swallows down the bitterness rising in his throat. 

He gives a tight nod. “Fine,” he mutters. “But if Kevin gets a podium, I’m never letting him hear the end of it.”

You let out a short laugh. “Wouldn’t expect anything less from you,” you say. 

A little later down the line, Seokmin will find himself grateful for that moment, that need to take a step back.

It becomes his first lesson in the art of letting go. 

Seokmin stands in the garage, the faint hum of the mechanics around him barely reaching his ears. He’s staring at the monitor in front of him, but his focus is somewhere else entirely. 

You’re there, of course. You always are. Right by his side, clipboard in hand, ready to guide him through every lap, every decision, every nuance of the race ahead. You’re the steady presence he’s relied on for so long, and if he’s being honest with himself— though he hates to admit it— he’s always relied on you more than he should.

But it’s fine, isn’t it? That was the way of this world. You were his engineer. He had to rely on you, had to trust you, had to believe that you would always have his best interests at heart. 

“Seok,” your voice breaks through his thoughts, steady and familiar, “ready to go?”

He blinks, snapping his gaze back to you. You’re already watching him, waiting for his response, as though you’ve been calling his name for minutes.

“Yeah,” he croaks. “Just making sure I’m locked in.” 

You give him a look, sharp and direct. “Seok, you don’t have to prove anything today. Just focus on driving, okay?”

It’s an echo of the conversation you had back in Saudi Arabia. You have nothing to prove. 

He relies on you. He trusts you. He believes you; he has to. 

“Got it,” he says softly, trying to ignore the way his pulse spikes when your hand briefly rests on his shoulder. 

The feeling is there again, creeping up from somewhere deep inside him. It’s been there for years, lurking just beneath the surface. Every time he sees you, every time you’re close to him, it hits harder.

He watches you walk away, your figure disappearing into the bustle of the team. He should be focusing on the setup, the tire choices, the strategy. Instead, his mind lingers on the way you always seem to know exactly what he needs, even when he doesn’t know himself.

“Seokmin, let’s go,” one of the mechanics calls, pulling him back into the present. He gives a quick nod, his thoughts scattering like dust in the wind as he makes his way to the car. The engine roars to life beneath him, and for a moment, the sound drowns out everything else.

But it doesn’t drown out the thought of you. 

The car hums beneath Seokmin, the engine roaring in his ears as the first few laps blur by in a flurry of tire choices, lap times, and strategies. Through it all, your voice is there. A calm presence in the chaos of the race. Every corner, decision, and lap, you’re there guiding him.

“Seok, we’re on track for a good finish. Keep your pace steady, you’re in control,” you tell him, your voice steady despite the ever-present tension.

He doesn’t respond, not directly, but he doesn’t need to. He’s felt your confidence in him ever since he’s joined Ferrari. And right now, with everything on the line, it’s that confidence that keeps him grounded. It’s what allows him to maintain his rhythm, to focus on each curve of the circuit as if nothing else matters.

Joshua is in his rearview mirror. Seokmin can see him inching closer with every lap. But Seokmin knows what’s at stake now.

“Hold your line. Joshua’s on a similar pace, but we’ve got a slight edge. Keep your head in the game,” you remind him, voice full of calculated precision.

“Copy that,” Seokmin grits out, his grip tightening on the wheel. He’s always been competitive, but now, with everything that’s happened over the last few months— his surgery, the uncertainty, the fact that this might be his last real chance to shine— it feels different. 

He wants this. He needs this. And not just for him, but for you.

It’s the smallest, almost imperceptible shift in his focus. It’s enough to drive him forward, pushing through the pain of the previous laps, the exhaustion, the pressure.

The laps tick down, and the gap between him and Joshua remains narrow, but Seokmin stays patient. He listens for your instructions, adjusting his braking points, taking each turn just a little more precisely, always with you in mind, guiding him through it all.

“We’re on the final stretch. You’ve got this,” you say, and something in your voice makes his heart race even faster. Something between the confidence, the care, and the sheer belief you have in him. 

For a moment, he lets himself daydream. He imagines what it must be like for you to say a different set of words with that unwavering conviction. How I love you might sound in that tone of yours. 

He drives it off. 

The final lap is a blur of speed, precision, and instinct. Joshua is close behind him, too close for comfort, but Seokmin’s hands are steady, his eyes sharp. The pit stops, the strategy, everything comes down to this.

And then it happens.

Seokmin crosses the finish line first.

A burst of emotion, a flood of relief and exhilaration, rushes through him as the roar of the crowd and his team’s cheers come through his earpiece. He doesn’t hear it as much as he feels it. The triumph, the validation, the overwhelming weight of everything he’s been through finally paying off.

None are quite as sweet as the crackle of your voice.

“You’ve done it.” Your tone is filled with something he can’t quite name. Pride, satisfaction, maybe even affection. “That’s three wins, my friend.” 

The third of his career.

The radio goes silent for a beat, and then there’s the unmistakable sound of a cheer rising up behind him, somewhere within the team garage. Ferrari’s first one-two finish since 2022, and it’s Seokmin leading the charge.

“Great job,” Joshua says over the comms, his tone warm but with that familiar competitive edge. He’s close, but Seokmin knows. Joshua knows.

This is Seokmin’s moment.

He pulls into the pit lane, and there’s a minute, just a fleeting one, where everything stops. The noise, the world around him, all of it fades as Seokmin simply sits there, breathing it in.

For a moment, it’s just him and the car. And you.

He pulls off his helmet, breathing in the fresh air as he climbs out of the car. The crew swarms him, congratulating him, but his gaze is immediately drawn to you.

You’re waiting at the pit wall, watching him approach. The smile on your face when he sees you— it’s not something he can ignore, not something he wants to ignore. 

Honestly? At this point, to hell with P1.

That smile of yours is everything he’s worked for.

The car skids across the track, a sickening scrape of metal against asphalt that makes Seokmin’s stomach lurch. 

His hands are already gripping the wheel in tight fists, his foot pressing uselessly on the brake as the car spins. He hears the screech of tires, the crunch of impact, and then— nothing.

Silence, save for the buzzing in his ears, the pounding of his own heartbeat.

“Lee Seokmin,” comes your voice over the comms, sharp with concern, but Seokmin can’t focus on it. He’s still recovering from the shock, still trying to piece together what just happened.

He sees the flashing lights in his rearview mirror, the yellow flags flying high. It’s done.

“Good,” he mutters, though the word feel hollow. His hands are still trembling on the steering wheel, the adrenaline from the spin still pumping through his veins, but he knows what comes next. His race is over thanks to Chwe fucking Vernon. 

He guides the car to the pit lane, the engine a low hum beneath him, but every turn feels heavy. He pulls in and slows to a stop, the team immediately rushing toward him. They don’t even have to say anything. He knows what’s coming. It’s a DNF.

“You alright?” Joshua asks over the radio, a touch of concern in his tone. Seokmin barely acknowledges it, his focus sliding back into the numbness he feels. 

He steps out of the car. There’s a weight on his chest now, something heavier than just the race that’s been lost.

When he’s finally through the media debrief, he stumbles back to the team’s garage, the last of the pit crew still bustling around, cleaning up the mess.

He’s not surprised when he sees you waiting near the back. The way you’re standing, shoulders slightly slumped, tells him you’ve already been waiting for him.

Seokmin doesn’t say anything at first. He just lets the exhaustion crash into him, sinking against the wall as he runs a hand through his hair. The events of the race feel like a blur now, everything moving too fast for him to process. 

“Seokmin,” you start, your voice more gentle than it had been on the comms. You take a couple of steps toward him, but you don’t push. You’ve learned not to press when he’s like this.

Instead, you stand close enough for him to feel your presence, offering him the silent support he’s come to rely on.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen,” he finally admits, voice terse and eyes unfocused. “I was doing okay. Then it just... happened. And I—” He breaks off, the words catching in his throat, frustration and self-doubt mixing together.

You don’t say anything for a moment, letting him work through the silence, but you take a small step forward, closer to him. “It wasn’t your fault,” you say, your voice steady despite the emotions he can hear in it.

You sound as sure of it as you always do. It’s the one thing that makes him feel just a little bit lighter.

“I still wrecked,” Seokmin mutters, his voice heavy. “I still spun out.”

“Yeah,” you say. “But you’re not the only one out there. It happens. What matters is that you're okay.”

Your eyes lock with his, and he sees something there that’s more than just sympathy. Something warm. Something comforting. You’re the only one who can get through to him like this, the only one who knows how to pull him out of his head when he starts spiraling.

You don’t need to say anything else. He doesn’t need more words right now. Just the support, the unspoken understanding that you’re there. That he’s not alone, even when everything feels like it’s slipping away from him.

“I’ve got you,” you say, the words low but steady, grounding him. “We’ll get through it. It’s not over yet.”

For a moment, Seokmin closes his eyes, taking a steadying breath. He can feel the exhaustion and the frustration starting to lift, just a little. With you by his side, he knows he’ll be okay.

It’s a privilege he won’t have for much longer. He doesn’t want to squander what little time he has left with you.

We’ll get through it. That ‘we’ ends with the season, but not today. Today, you’re still his. 

“Yeah,” Seokmin agrees, his voice almost a whisper. “We will.”

The summer break settles in, and with it comes a strange kind of peace.

The buzz of the races fades, the constant media scrutiny dies down. It’s a lot to process— sitting in fifth in the championship with 162 points, knowing the season has been one of his best yet, but that it’ll all soon come to an end.

And there’s a matter of the news, too. It breaks like wildfire. 

Seokmin is at his apartment, staring blankly at his phone screen, watching the notifications flood in. The announcement is live, plastered across social media and various news outfits. 

Williams Racing welcomes Lee Seokmin for 2025, 2026 and beyond. 

It should feel like a moment of triumph, a new undertaking, a step forward. Instead, it’s just surreal. 

The buzzing of his phone is endless, the questions from reporters unrelenting, but what really gnaws at him is the impending realization that it’s happening. He’s leaving Ferrari, the team he has called home for so long.

The red and black that has become synonymous with Seokmin's identity in the sport, the endless hours spent with his engineers, strategists, and you— the heart of his team. It isn’t just a change of scenery. It’s a shift in everything.

A text from you pings through. The same as last time. This time, it’s a GIF of a cat whose jaw has dropped comically. A laugh crawls out from the back of his throat. For once, he lets himself be honest. 

This feels like I'm walking away from everything I've known, he responds, the text admittedly much more load-bearing than it should be. But if anyone was going to understand the weight of this, then it was going to be you. 

Your response is quick. You’re not walking away from anything. You’re moving forward. Williams is lucky to have you. 

He leans back in his chair, fingers drumming the table in front of him. Your words should be comforting. And, in a way, they are. But it’s hard not to feel like he’s losing something— someone— by making this move.

You’re biased, he teases. 

Not at all, you shoot back. I mean, look at your season so far. You’ve been incredible. Williams will give you a fresh start, and you’ve earned it.

Seokmin smiles softly, your words lifting a little of the weight from his chest. It isn’t just the confirmation of his future; it’s the reminder that he hasn’t lost everything he’s built with Ferrari. You’re still here.

But something lingers, unspoken in all of Seokmin’s messages. A question he dreads to ask: What happens now? 

His fingers hover over his screen. For a moment, he considers just outright asking you, telling you, about this damn feeling that’s been thrumming in his system for God-knows-how-long. 

He settles, instead, for something that’s still the truth. 

That’s because you make me possible, he says. 

There’s a brief pause before your response comes again.

Don’t get all sappy on me now. We still have a couple more races to win. 

A chuckle bubbles out of Seokmin. You always know what to say. How to make it feel like everything will be okay, even when it’s hard to believe that.

I’ll win, he shoots back. Then, in a fit of bravery, one that he almost feels like applauding himself for, he adds, I’ll win for you. 

The air in Abu Dhabi is electric. 

The final race of the season, and for Seokmin, it’s his last with Ferrari. The sun is setting, casting a golden hue over the track as the engines hum with anticipation.

This is it. The last time he’ll race in the iconic red, the last time he’ll hear the roar of Ferrari fans cheering him on from the stands.

Seokmin stands in his garage, the team bustling around him. His helmet sits beside him, the familiar Ferrari colors glaring back at him. The engineers are doing their final checks, and you’re standing beside him. Quiet, focused, but there's something different about the way you look at him today.

It's the kind of glance that says everything without needing words. You've both known this day would come, but now that it's here, there's a bittersweetness that hangs in the air, unspoken.

“One for the road?” Seokmin says, his voice softer than usual as he meets your eyes.

You smile, though it’s tinged with a trace of sadness. “One for the road,” you echo. “Don’t crash.” 

He chuckles. “No promises.” 

The warm-up laps begin, and he slips on his helmet, the noise of the crowd outside swelling in his ears. The race is about to start.

“You’re ready,” you say, tapping his shoulder. He feels your presence beside him one last time as you relay the instructions through his earpiece.

The lights go out. The cars roar to life, and Seokmin is in his element. The track, slick from the desert heat, feels different today. He doesn't mind.

He’s determined to give Ferrari one last race to remember.

His eyes focus on the road ahead, but a small part of him is also tuned in to the fact that this race marks the end of an era.

The laps fly by. The strategy calls come in smoothly, with you guiding him through every twist and turn, keeping him grounded. Seokmin pushes hard, each lap faster than the last, as he battles it out with the other drivers.

As the race reaches its final stages, Seokmin finds himself in a podium position. The pressure mounts, but he’s calm, steady. 

He knows this track. He knows his car. He knows you.

“P2, Seok. Just a few more laps. Keep your focus,” you call, your voice steady and reassuring.

I’ll miss you, a voice in the back of Seokmin’s head screeches. He barely manages to hold the words back. 

“Thanks,” he replies, his voice catching slightly.

Seokmin was usually gunning to finish. Today, he’s dreading it. 

The final lap begins. It feels like everything is in slow motion as Seokmin takes each turn, each straight with precision, his tires gripping the track with the familiar strength he’s come to trust over the years. 

The end looms. You push him to it. It’s almost cruel, almost unfair, how in doing your job, you’re sending Seokmin off.

Seokmin grips the steering wheel, his hands slightly trembling. 

And then it’s over. 

Just like that. It’s over.

The crowd roars in approval. Seokmin barely hears it over the pounding in his chest. He pulls into the cooldown lap, his car slowing as he takes it all in.

Joshua finishes third, but he doesn’t say anything over the comms. Once again, this moment is Seokmin’s. 

You guide Seokmin through cooldown. He swears that if he strained his ears, he could catch the hitch in your voice.

“Thank you,” he says. He knows everyone is listening, wanting to see how the indomitable Lee Seokmin was going out. This was how.  

“It’s been a pleasure driving for you.” (The art of letting go.) “Forza Ferrari.” 

There are no cheers from the crew, no jabs from Joshua. For a long moment, the weight of Seokmin’s words linger over the radio. 

When you respond, it’s with that firmness that has made Seokmin so utterly infatuated with you. 

“Give them hell,” you say. 

It’s a command, and Seokmin is convinced he would’ve obliged based on your tone alone. Being the love of his life was just a nice little bonus.

He laughs, the sound carrying over comms. “They won’t know what hit them,” he promises. 

Today, Seokmin did well. 

Not first, not even second, but a solid position that Williams can be proud of.

He steps out of the car, wiping the sweat from his brow, and slowly removes his helmet. The blue of Williams shines beneath the bright race lights.

There's a sense of accomplishment; it’s not quite like the elation of his Ferrari days. Still, he did his job, and he did it well. That’s what matters.

As he walks towards the garage, his new race engineer is already there, calling out instructions and congratulating him. Seokmin exchanges a couple of words with Vernon.

Seokmin’ll get used to this, he’s sure. He’ll warm up to Vernon. He’ll grow into the dark blue of the Williams suit. 

And maybe he’ll even move on from you. 

Fat chance, he thinks, when he runs into you outside Williams’ motorhome. If he didn’t know any better, he’d assume you were waiting for him. 

“Not bad for a rookie,” you say right on the get-go. 

“You’re just saying that because you’re not in my ear this time,” he retorts, though there’s a twinkle in his eyes.

You laugh, the sound familiar and comforting in a way that makes Seokmin’s chest feel a little lighter. “I’m just saying, I never got to call you a rookie in that red suit. But now... it suits you,” you tease, nodding toward his new Williams suit. “Kinda bland, though. You looked way better in red.”

“I’m still making it work,” he insists, pulling at the collar of his blue overalls. “Even if it’s not quite the same.”

“You’ll make it work,” you echo, your tone light but sincere. You raise an eyebrow, a playful glint in your eyes. “So, how’s your new race engineer? You’ve got her wrapped around your finger yet?”

The implication that you’d been wrapped around Seokmin’s finger is almost laughable. It had been the other way around for years and years, and you were none the wiser. 

“Not yet. It’s different,” he admits. “I miss having you on the comms.”

There’s a brief pause, and you can feel the familiar energy between you two shift slightly, that same unspoken understanding hanging in the air. Seokmin’s gaze flickers down for a moment, then he looks back up at you, a little too seriously.

“Honestly, though,” he says, shuffling a little closer to you, “it’s been weird. You were always the one to get me through the races. I didn't realize just how much I depended on you until now.”

Your breath catches slightly at the unexpected honesty, but you recover quickly, shaking your head with a small smile. “You really have a knack for making me feel like I’m about to cry, don’t you?”

Seokmin laughs, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Sorry. Too serious?”

“No, no, it’s just... you’re not the only one who misses the old team,” you say, your voice softening a little. “It’s been weird not hearing you. But you know I’m still rooting for you, Seok. I’m still in your corner.” 

And it’s that— that damned support, those words that are never just a platitude to you— that has the words spilling out of Seokmin. Maybe the distance has given him courage. Maybe, now, he has nothing to lose and everything to prove. 

“What will it take,” he says in a rush of words, “for you to be there not as my friend?” 

Your eyebrows arch upward. Crap. Seokmin knows he probably could’ve phrased that better, but when you’ve been holding on to a feeling— well. It’s hard to be coherent. 

“I like having you in my corner,” he amends. “And I want you there as more than a friend.” 

It’s still a bit of a fumble, a clumsy attempt, but you always did know how to detangle the web of Seokmin’s confusing sentiments. On and off the track.

You see his confession for what it is. He senses it in the way your expression shifts ever so slightly; he’s comforted by the fact that you don’t pull away, that you don’t immediately go running in the opposite direction. 

“You know,” you say slowly, like you’re picking out the best words. “I have a self-imposed rule on not dating co-workers.” 

This is somehow worse than the Your future at Ferrari email. “Oh,” is all Seokmin manages to say. Attempting anything else might betray the gravity of his distress. 

You level Seokmin with an amused glare. “We’re not on the same team anymore, Seok.” 

Oh. 

The look on Seokmin’s face must be priceless, because the grin that tugs at your lips is that smile you have whenever he used to nab a podium finish. The thought that it might be comparable to you is enough to have Seokmin going weak in the knees. 

He’s reminded of all those hellish press conferences. The endless inquiry of What’s next for Lee Seokmin? 

“Bring home a title for Williams,” you say, “and then maybe we can discuss a date.” 

Here’s the thing: Seokmin has spent countless hours listening to your voice. He knows its cadence, its inflection, from all the time that it has buzzed in his ear. He knows how you sound when you’re angry, when you’re tense, when you’re excited. 

And so he knows you’re not joking. The ‘maybe’ is a cushion. The challenge is sincere. 

Seokmin breaks out into a smile, and you can tell he’s not letting this idea go anytime soon. 

He’s going to win, and he’s going to come to you to collect. 

[strigital]

there happened to be an anomalously quiet evening not so long ago, so i spent my time by the self check-outs productively and whipped out some Damie

(will try to fix the contrast later idk)

click for non-butchered quality

[echoalyssa]

False - Pietro Maximoff

Possible trigger warning? False pregnancy test. Mentions of an ectopic pregnancy.

Pietro stands next to you, staring over your shoulder at the little white stick that would dictate the next eighteen or more years of your lives. All the signs were there, but it also just wasn't possible.

You're practically chewing a hole into you lip when Pietro pries it out of your hands.

He flips the toilet seat down and sits, pulling you onto his knee. His fingers rub the back of your neck causing you to sigh and lean further into him.

"You're stressing yourself out too much printessa."

You sigh, knowing that it's true. You'd been bouncing off the walls for the past hour, debating both results and knowing that you would be utterly disappointed either way it went. Once the idea of something was in your head, it wouldn't leave until you acted on that thought.

Pietro had finally gotten tired of your stressing and had zoomed to the nearest gas station. You have an IUD, it's been in for years... the chance of being pregnant should be virtually nonexistent.

Even knowing that though you just couldn't seem to convince yourself that you weren't pregnant. You'd put on a bra that you had owned for forever yesterday and your boobs had spilled out everywhere. Not to mention your boobs were sore, period nonexistent. The signature pregnancy discharge.

You had been dreaming about being pregnant for weeks now.

The problem with periods was that they gave you the same signs as pregnancy.

"Has it been three minutes yet?" You ask your boyfriend, scared to look but desperate to know at the same time.

"One minute left." He murmurs into your temple, completely relaxed because he's convinced it isn't possible.

You wouldn't be upset if you were pregnant. You wanted a family with Piet badly but at the same time the financial aspect of raising a child wasn't where you wanted it to be. Even if you were pregnant with the IUD you knew that the chance of it being ectopic was high and that would break your heart.

Piet would support you either way, you knew that. You also knew that he would prefer to be married to you first but he considered children a blessing and the two of you had been together long enough.

You're so anxious that you're starting to cry when the timer on his phone goes off. Pietro hands the test to you face down and you take a settling breath.

"There's nothing to worry about. You know we always figure things out."

His words give you the strength you need to flip it over.

Negative.

Your heart sinks and feel the tears coming hot and fast. They aren't tears of relief, but tears of disappointment for what could have been.

"One day, just not today." He tells you.

You look up into his beautiful eyes and lose it.

"Oh printessa... it's okay. I know, I'm sorry."

You'd been so sure, felt it in your bones. The truth feels like it crushes you even though in reality you could remove the IUD and start trying for a baby whenever the two of you wanted.

Pietro carries you to the couch, letting you sprawl out on top of him. His fingers comb through your hair gently and he's content to just hold you while you cry about a baby that never existed.

Sleep comes to drag you away eventually. It's a relief to escape the emotions even if it's just momentarily.