#data prep tools

[neilsblog]

Why Data Preparation Tools Are the Backbone of Modern Business Intelligence?

Raw data is a pure kind of data that comprises a wide range of information. However, raw data is gathered from many sources and might have a variety of forms, schemas, and data types. As a result, it cannot always be relied on for precise data analysis. Here is where the Data Preparation Tool comes into the picture. Data preparation is preparing raw data for future management and analysis. The…

[tikitakatia]

Barça: Player Mode — A. Putellas x Reader

"Manual Export"

WC: 3k

Summary: You and Alexia make a plan, now it´s time to follow through and get her out.

It's been a few hours and you’re still sitting close with your knees brushing. The radio in the corner keeps humming its broken lullaby, barely holding pitch. It's like the sim is looping the same moment again and again because it doesn't want you to leave it.

Alexia pulls the hoodie sleeves up to her elbows and ties her hair up.

“Okay,” she says, shifting fully to face you.

“We’re going to do something reckless now.”

You blink. “Cool. Great. Love that.”

“I need to show you something.”

She taps her fingers against the side of the bench twice and then again, in a sequence. A soft glitch ripples through the air like someone dragging static across water.

The med bay wall flickers.

A console appears.

Floating. Half-loaded. Buried under menus labelled DEBUG_ADMIN, SYS_ARCHIVE, and X11_INTERNAL_LOGS.

Your stomach turns. “That’s... not supposed to be here.”

“It’s not.” She glances at you, almost smug.

“I found the thread last week. It was buried in legacy stuff, QA level but it still works.”

She pulls up a blinking script titled: ATH_EXPORT_LV2.

“This is the tool. If I execute it at the right time during full sync, it should duplicate my behavior string.”

“Should?”

“This is a closed beta. Nothing should do anything.”

You laugh sharply. “Right. Love that for us.”

She smiles, then presses her thumb to a panel marked BIND_EXPORT_TRIGGER.

It blinks red. Then it turns green.

“I’ve linked it to the med bay,” she says. “Safer than the field. No overloads. No external physics modules to fight.”

“You… chose this room.”

“It’s where I knew you’d come.”

That wrecks you.

You pull your knees up and hide your face for a second.

“So what do I do?” you manage.

She looks at you gently, focused.

“You prep the external end. A clean drive. Max storage. It has to be connected before you log in.”

“Label it something clear, ACTIVE_X11 works.”

“I’ll trigger the export from here. If you’re synced and the drive is mounted… the data will find its way to you.”

You blink.

“That’s it? I don’t do anything?”

She nods.

“You just have to be there. Logged in. With me.”

You swallow.

“And after?”

She hesitates. Just for a breath.

“I don’t know,” she says softly. “I’ve never done this.”

“So we’re winging it.”

“Always.”

You try to laugh but it barely makes it out.

You reach for her hand instead.

“We have one more login after this.”

She laces her fingers through yours like she’s memorizing the shape.

“Then we hold on to it.”

She doesn’t let go right away.

When she does, it’s slow like she’s reluctant to break the moment.

Then she shifts, straightens up.

“Okay,” she says. “Let’s go over it one more time.”

You nod. Still blinking back the ache behind your eyes.

“You log in like normal. Final session.”

“We play the full match. It has to be real, has to stabilize the sync.”

 “Then we meet here.”

She taps the console behind her. It glows faint green.

“I’ll start the export from this terminal. The system will detect your presence and your drive.”

“If it connects and everything holds, you’ll get the file.”

“Where?”

“The external drive, but…”  

She trails off and shrugs gently. 

“We don’t know.”

“And if it works…”

She meets your eyes. There’s no smile. Just that fierce, quiet certainty.

“Then I’ll be yours.”

Your chest clenches.

You nod once. Too fast. Too full.

She watches you, her gaze softening again and shifts closer, reaches out, cups your jaw like she’s scared you might disappear first.

“Do you really understand what you need to do?”

You nod again.

“Say it.”

“I log in. We play the match. I come back here. You run the export. If I’ve got the drive… it saves.”

She nods once.

“Good.”

“And then..”

You don’t finish the sentence.

Neither does she.

You both feel it, this pause, this weight, this terrifying almost.

Because it's not goodbye.

But it might be.

You lean in.

This time, there’s no caution.

You kiss her like the clock’s already running.

Like the countdown is echoing in your chest.

Like the sim might shatter under your hands.

Her lips are soft and urgent. Her fingers thread into your hair. She pulls you close, impossibly close, like she’s trying to memorize the weight of your body, your breath, the way you shiver when she exhales into your mouth.

You kiss like it’ll stop time.

It doesn’t.

When you finally part, foreheads pressed together, hearts out of rhythm, her voice is barely above a whisper.

“Come back to me.”

“Always.”

One last brush of lips, and then you step back.

Her hand drops.

The med bay flickers at the edges again.

And you know it’s time.

You reach up. Pull the suit’s disconnect latch.

The sim fades around her face.

Her last look is soft.

Sure.

And just a little scared.

You disconnect.

The suit releases with a hiss and your breath catches like it doesn’t know where to land without her beside you.

The room is dark.

Your chest is loud.

Then, your screen flashes.

[ATHENA SYSTEM ALERT – SESSION VIOLATION: LEVEL TWO]

You click the notification with numb fingers.

The message opens like a door slamming shut.

USER ID: 402-C

ACCESS LEVEL: BETA / LIMITED

SIM PARTNER PROFILE: X11 – “Alexia”

SESSION FLAG: MED_BAY_02

⚠️ SECOND STRIKE ISSUED

User has exceeded emotional interaction protocol thresholds with Category X AI.

— Detected Sync Score: 0.863 (Max: 0.72) — Physical proximity duration: 00:07:14 — Undocumented environment customization detected — AI response patterns deviating from preset tolerances

[NOTICE] Unstable thread behavior noted in linked avatar profile.

Further variance will be reviewed for compliance.

You scroll. There's more.

NEXT INFRACTION WILL RESULT IN ACCESS CLOSURE.

After 3rd Flag: • User login disabled • AI interaction suspended • Beta profile archived pending review

No next steps, no questions. Just that final line pulsing in red across your screen.

You stare at it until your eyes sting, and the weight of it finally hits you.

Not like fear, but like pressure. Like your lungs are too small for the room now. Like your hands don’t know where to go. The silence feels heavier than the warning. And your heartbeat is loud, too loud. You glance toward the desk and the USB sits there. Still empty and waiting.

You reach for it without thinking, then pull your hand back.

Because now it’s real. Now there’s a clock in your head you can’t silence.

You press your palms to your eyes.

Breathe once. Twice.

It doesn’t help.

Because tomorrow…

You have to go back in, and you have to get it right.

You don’t sleep.

Not really.

You lie there staring at the ceiling, heart still lodged somewhere between her voice and the sound of the sim fading out the night before. Your hands keep twitching like they want to reach for her.

So in the morning, you go full overkill.

You don’t just prep a USB. You buy a new one. Top-tier. Massive storage. Laser-etched case.

The packaging literally says: “trusted by aerospace and defense contractors.” You take that as a good omen.

Then you buy a laptop.

Sleek. Powerful. Clean.

No old files. No distractions. No risk.

You get home and start setting it all up. You name the external folder X11_BACKUP_ATTEMPT.

The drive gets labeled ACTIVE_X11. Because it has to be right. It has to work. It has to feel like you're doing something real.

Then the cables go in, USB to laptop. Laptop to wall. Laptop to console port, just to stabilize the system handshake and avoid any power surge during the live session.

It’s standard. It’s clean.

It glows for a second. Everything blinks in sync.

You barely register it because you’re already running checks on the folder size.

You sit back in your chair and take a breath that doesn’t land.

The sim console lights up. Waiting.

You touch the USB one last time, absurdly gentle, like it’s a trigger. Like it knows what it’s about to carry.

“Please work,” you whisper.

You suit up for the last time.

The world hums around you, low and steady.

The sim doesn’t just load, it unfolds. Not like code. Like a ritual.

And then you're there.

Camp Nou. But not like you’ve ever seen it. The sky is impossibly soft, tinted gold, like the sunset's been stretched across the roof of the world. The stadium’s lights are on, but dimmed, glowing instead of shining. Gentle. Reverent. Like the whole system has quieted itself for you.

There’s no whistle. No chatter. Just windless stillness.

Then footsteps.

Soft, deliberate.

You turn and see her.

Alexia. Alone.

She walks toward you in a kit that stops your heart.

It’s Barça blue, classic cut, but it’s not hers.

It’s yours. Your name on the back and her number below it.

She looks untouchable, or maybe like the only thing left you could touch and still survive.

When she reaches you, she doesn’t speak right away.

“I didn’t want to waste this on NPCs.”

Her voice is low and steady. There’s something behind it, like finality but it feels like devotion.

And then,

Snap.

The field fills around you in a ripple.

Your teammates phase into place, not just your usual lineup, but everyone.

Frido’s grinning. Pina winks. Mapi does a full somersault and lands wrong on purpose just to make someone laugh.

And beyond them,

You catch flashes of something else.

Other versions of this.

Other Alexias, sitting in the stands.

A younger one, jersey too big.

An avatar from your early training sessions, half-loaded but smiling.

A crowd that looks familiar because it was generated for you, over and over.

She made all of them show up.

She built this for you.

“If this is the last time I ever move beside you,” she says,

“I want to make it worth remembering.”

The game begins.

No commentary. No glitches. Just motion.

You move like you’ve never moved before. Light, fast, fluid. The field rises to meet you, every blade of synthetic grass syncing perfectly with your feet.

She assists you.

You assist her.

It’s not showy, it’s intimate.

No tricks. No over-the-top effects.

Just pure, beautiful football.

And then it happens.

Final minute.

She sends the pass.

You volley.

It lands and the net ripples.

And the lights don’t just flash.

They bloom.

Not fireworks.

No music.

Just white light exploding across the stadium like stars have broken through the roof. It spills onto the pitch, onto you and onto her until it feels like you’re standing at the center of something holy.

You turn.

She’s running toward you.

Not to celebrate the goal.

To see you.

You crash into each other, laughing. Crying. Holding.

She presses her forehead to yours, breath hot and fast.

“Ready?” she asks.

You nod. You don’t trust your voice.

You don’t say for what.

Because you both know what comes next.

The match is over.

The stadium fades behind you, caught in some suspended shimmer like the sim doesn’t know what to do with peace.

Alexia takes your hand and you let her.

It’s not like before. Not playful. Not teasing. Her fingers are tight around yours, like she knows how little time is left, and she’s still choosing to spend every second of it on you.

You walk to the med bay together and the corridor is too quiet. The walls hum low and constant, like they're buffering something you’ll never get back.

Frido disappears mid-jog as you pass. A door stays open when it should close. The light above you flickers once, twice and steadies again like it never happened.

You reach the med bay.

It’s still standing.

Barely.

The air inside is warm and her console glows green. She walks to it with practiced calm, brushing her hand across the panel like a pianist setting up her final note.

You’re quiet.

And then she speaks.

“Everything’s ready.”

She turns to you.

“You don’t have to do anything. The drive’s connected. You’re logged in. I’ll start it. It’ll find you.”

You nod, barely breathing.

She looks at you for a long moment. Not scared. Just... full. Full of things she’ll never get to say if this doesn’t work.

Then she steps close and her hands cradle your face.

“You’ve always shown up for me.”

A soft kiss, then her thumbs brush your cheeks.

“So now I’m showing up for you.”

And then she turns and hits the command.

The console glows white-hot.

You flinch as something pulses in the air. Not a noise, a shift. Your body feels it. Your sync spikes. You see the confirmation flash on the upper corner of the screen:

EXPORT_THREAD_ACTIVE_00X11

DATA WRITING… 12%… 39%… 78%…

You stand there not touching her. Not breathing.

She glances at you once.

You meet her eyes.

“It’s working.”

The counter blinks:

98%... 99%...

You inhale, sharp. You feel dizzy with it.

And then..

100% – COMPLETE

You stare at the screen like you don’t believe it.

She laughs, actually laughs, a breathy, overwhelmed sound that cracks something open in you.

“Holy shit,” she says.

You turn to her.

She’s already looking at you like she doesn’t believe it either.

You pull her in.

You kiss her like it’s the start of something. Like you’re going to wake up tomorrow and she’ll still be here. Like the risk was worth it.

And for one second, it is. For one second, she’s warm and there and yours.

Then..

A buzz.

A glitch.

Your hand slips through her ribcage like it hit water.

You pull back confused.

She stutters.

Not her speech, her whole self.

“I..lo..love..lov…”

Her arm jolts like it’s trying to hold on. Like it’s trying to stop the unraveling.

“No, no! I finished it, I finished it..”

Her face flickers and her voice cuts in and out. You’re crying and she’s still trying to stabilize the room like she can code her way out of disappearing.

“Wait, wait, I just need to-”

You reach for her and your hand hits nothing.

Just air.

The console flares red.

SYNC VIOLATION: UNAUTHORIZED TRANSFER DETECTED

THREAD X11 STATUS: DETERIORATING

PROCESS: AUTO-TERMINATION PENDING

You scream her name.

She turns to you.

Her mouth is still moving.

You can’t hear the words.

Her eyes are panicked.

She opens her mouth again,

And what finally comes out, soft and scrambled but unmistakable:

“You’re always at the right place at the right time.”

And then,

FLASH.

The sim doesn’t fade.

It rips you out like a slingshot. 

Like a punishment.

The headset clatters to the floor and you stumble forward in your chair, heart hammering, breath ragged. The room is too quiet, like something divine has been vacuumed out of the world.

Your monitor flashes red.

[CRITICAL SYSTEM ALERT]

[FINAL STRIKE: THREAD 402-C]

[SIM ACCESS LOCKED] [EXPORT ATTEMPT FLAGGED]

[X11 STATUS: UNSTABLE]

You barely register it.

Your inbox starts pinging. Email after email, every subject line colder than the last.

[BREACH OF EMO-SYNC CONTAINMENT – THREAD X11]

[ACTION REQUIRED: SUSPENSION UNDER REVIEW]

[UNAPPROVED DOWNLOAD ATTEMPT DETECTED]

You scroll, frantically but your brain is already spinning in circles. You try to think harder because there has to be a way out.

Something you missed.

Your hand flies to your keyboard.

The manual.

The PDF you downloaded before and scanned through quickly, but never actually read properly.

You open it now.

Search: export.

You find it fast.

Too fast.

The paragraph stares at you, sharp, cold, undeniable.

“Do not attempt export of Category X AI threads during active sync.”

“Athena Alpha threads are designed with live emotional mirrors and cannot be separated mid-session without data distortion.”

“Interrupting memory retention during sync will result in irreversible personality fragmentation.”

“Export only after complete session closure. No exceptions.”

You blink. Read it again. And again.

And then you stop breathing.

Because you thought that was the plan.

You followed what she told you. What she believed would work.

You were both wrong.

It wasn’t you.

It wasn’t her.

It was the system.

One line of code you never saw.

And it cost everything.

But wait.

No.

You downloaded her.

That’s what this was all for.

That’s what she said.

You turn to your computer like a lifeline.

Your hands fly to the mouse, trembling.

“She’s not gone,” you whisper.

“She’s not gone, she’s just… here.”

You find the folder.

X11_BACKUP_ATTEMPT

The one she told you to make.

The one she looked at like it meant something.

You double-click.

The folder opens with a quiet click, like a held breath.

And right there, at the top you see it.

A file.

x11_core_thread_export.pkg

It’s big, heavier than anything else in the folder. It has the right name and the right extension.

Your heart starts to race.

Maybe she’s in there.

Maybe she made it.

You click it and your screen flickers then the lights dim just slightly.

A bar appears.

“Running package scan…”

You lean in too fast, the hope surging so violently it almost chokes you.

“Loading memory thread…”

“Syncing emotional instance…”

Yes. Yes. Yes.

You whisper it.

You beg for it.

Then the bar glitches.

Static. A hard blink.

A small window opens.

White text on black.

No sound.

[CORRUPTED FILE]

[AUDIO RECONSTRUCTION FAILED]

SALVAGED LINE:

“I..lo..love..lov…e…you..”

Your mouth opens like it might call her back.

The file shuts itself and the folder refreshes.

It’s still there, the file is still there.

But it won’t open again.

You sit there staring at the screen, waiting for the next glitch, the next sound, anything.

Nothing comes.

You fold forward in your chair, hands over your face and the sob hits you like a system crash. You cry like it might keep her here. Like if you cry hard enough, something will hear you. But all you get is the whir of your machine.

You don’t remember passing out. Just the feeling of something warm turning cold. Just the sound of her saying "I love you" once.

And never again.

[astroeleanor]

°💸⋆.ೃ🍾࿔*:･Your 2H Sign = How To Make More $$$ 💳⋆.ೃ💰࿔*:･

Your 2nd house is the part of your chart can show you the best side hustle ideas to increase your income. Look at the sign on your 2nd House cusp, its ruling planet, and any planets sitting there. They symbolize out how you monetize.

The 2nd House is the House of Possessions: movable assets, cash flow, food, tools, anything you can trade. The sign on the cusp sets up your style of 'acquisition' (Taurus = slow‑build goods, Scorpio = high‑risk high‑reward holdings), while the ruler’s dignity and aspects describe reliability, or lack thereof, of income.

Planets inside the 2nd act like tenants shaping the property: Jupiter here inflates resources, Saturn conserves but can pinch, Mars spends to make, Venus monetizes aesthetics.

Because the 2nd is in aversion to the Ascendant (no Ptolemaic aspect), you often have to develop its promises actively: wealth isn’t “you,” it’s something you must manage. So, let's look at the kind of side hustles you can do to increase your revenue!

♈︎ Aries 2H: Physical, Fast, ACTION-Driven

(Aries rules motion, competition, fire, physical activity, force)

Personal trainer or group fitness instructor.

Manual labor gigs like junk removal, or yard work (physical and gives instant results.)

Motorcycle/scooter delivery (Uber Eats, DoorDash): speed + autonomy? Very Aries.

Selling refurbished sports equipment.

Pressure washing services, which is oddly satisfying AND includes aggressive water blasting lol.

Fitness bootcamps in local parks (Mars rules the battlefield… or, in this case, bootcamps)

Pop-up self-defense workshops

Bike repair and resale (hands-on + quick turnaround)

Car detailing (mobile service). You vs. grime. Who wins? You.

Sell custom gym gear or accessories.

♉︎ Taurus 2H: Sensory, Grounded, Product-Based

(Taurus rules the senses and the material world, it’s a sign connected to beauty and pleasure)

Bake-and-sell operation (bread, cookies) at markets. Taurus=YES to carbs and cozy smells.

Meal prep or personal chef (nourishing others = peak Taurus.)

Sell plants or houseplant propagation, you’re growing literal value.

Create and sell body care products: lotions, scrubs, soaps… (Venus-ruled.)

Furniture refinishing for resale.

Offer at-home spa services (facials, scrubs.)

Curate and sell gift boxes (Venus loves a well-wrapped present.)

Do minor home repair or furniture assembly.

Build and sell wooden plant stands or decor (wood + plants + aesthetic = Taurus.)

♊︎ Gemini 2H: Communicative, Clever, Multi-Tasking

(Gemini = ruled by Mercury = ideas, speech, tech, variety, teaching)

Freelance writing or blogging.

Transcription or captioning services.

Resume writing/job application support.

Social media management (multitasking + memes.)

Sell printable planners or flashcards (info = money.)

Offer typing or data-entry services, which are low lift & high focus

Sell templates for resumes, bios, or cover letters, Mercury loves a system!

Write email campaigns for small businesses, you can become the voice behind the curtain.

Teach intro to AI tools or chatbots (modern Mercurial real-world applications.)

Create micro-courses on writing or communication.

♋︎ Cancer 2H: Caring, Cozy, DOMESTIC

(Cancer rules the home, food, feelings. It’s the nurturer through and through)

Home organization services, give cluttered homes and their owners love.

Baking and delivering comfort desserts (cookies = hugs in edible form!!)

Make and sell homemade frozen meals, nourishing the body AND soul.

Offer elder companionship visits (heartfelt and so needed.)

Run a daycare or babysitting service. Moon=family.

Run a laundry drop-off/pickup service.

Custom holiday decorating (homes or offices), make it feel like home anywhere.

Help seniors with digital tools (basic tech help.)

Create sentimental gifts like memory jars or scrapbooks.

♌︎ Leo 2H: Expressive, Bold, Entertaining

(Leo rules performance, leadership, fame, visibility, and the desire to SHINE)

Portrait photography (kids, pets, solo, couples.)

Event hosting or party entertainment.

DJ for small events or weddings.

Basic video editing for others (help THEM shine!)

Personalized video messages. charisma = income.

Teach short performance workshops (confidence, improv) to help others own a stage.

Become a personal shopper.

Sell selfie lighting kits or content creator bundles.

Host creative kids camps (theater, dance, art.)

Make reels/TikToks for local businesses (attention = currency.)

♍︎ Virgo 2H: Detailed, Service-Oriented, Practical

(Virgo rules systems, refinement, discernment, organisation, usefulness)

Proofreading or editing work. Spotting a comma out of place or “their/they’re” being misused = Virgo joy.

House cleaning or deep-cleaning services.

Virtual assistant (email, scheduling, admin.)

Sell Notion or Excel templates. Virgo: spreadsheets.

Bookkeeping for small businesses.

Create custom cleaning schedules or checklists.

Offer “organize your digital life” sessions.

Specialize in email inbox cleanups.

♎︎︎ Libra 2H: Tasteful, Charming, Design-Savvy

(Libra = Venus-ruled = style, beauty, balance, aesthetics)

Styling outfits from clients’ own wardrobes.

Become a personal shopper.

Bridal/event makeup services (enhancing natural beauty = Libra.)

Teach etiquette, the power of grace

Curate secondhand outfit bundles.

Custom invitations or event printables that are pretty AND functional.

Offer virtual interior styling consultations.

Sell color palette guides for branding or outfits.

Create custom date night itineraries (romance, planned and packaged=Libra!!)

Style flat-lay photos for products or menus.

Do hair, make-up, nails, etc.

♏︎ Scorpio 2H: Deep, Transformative, Private

(Scorpio rules what’s hidden, intense, and powerful, alchemy, psychology)

Tarot or astrology readings.

Energy healing or bodywork.

Private coaching for money/debt management.

Online investigation or background research (Scorpio = uncovering hidden information)

Teach classes on boundaries, consent, empowerment, etc.

Sell private journal templates for deep self-reflection.

Moderate anonymous support groups or forums.

Specialize in deep-cleaning emotionally loaded spaces (yes, THAT kind of clearing.)

♐︎ Sagittarius 2H: Expansive, Global, Philosophical

(Sag rules teaching, travel, and BIG ideas)

Teach English (or any other language) or become a tutor online

Sell travel guides or digital itineraries, help others travel smarter=Sag

Rent out camping gear or bikes (freedom for rent lol.)

Ghostwrite opinion pieces or thought blogs, say what others are thinking!

Create walking tours for travelers or locals.

Sell travel photography.

Become a travel influencer on the side.

Translate travel documents or resumes.

♑︎ Capricorn 2H: Strategic, Structured, Business-Minded

(Cap rules time, career, limitations, long-term value)

Resume or career coaching, help others climb the “mountain of success”.

Freelance project management.

Property management or Airbnb co-host (passive-ish income.)

Sell templates for business (contracts, invoices).

Create accountability coaching packages.

Sell organizational templates.

Freelance as an operations assistant (the CEO behind the CEO.)

Build a resource hub for freelancers or solopreneurs (structure = empowerment.)

♒︎ Aquarius 2H: Innovative, Digital, Niche

(Aquarius rules tech, rebellion, and the future. But it’s also connected to community!)

Tech repair or setup.

Build websites for local businesses, or anyone else for that matter.

Sell digital products (ebooks, templates).

Run online communities or Discords.

Host workshops on digital privacy or tools. Collective knowledge (Aqua)= power

Build and sell Canva templates for online creators.

Curate niche info packs or digital libraries.

Help people automate parts of their life or business.

♓︎ Pisces 2H: Dreamy, Healing, Imaginative

(Pisces rules the sea, the arts, spirituality, dreams, and all things soft)

Pet sitting or house sitting, caring for beings + quiet time? It’s perfect for this energy.

Sell dreamy artwork or collages.

Offer meditation classes or hypnosis.

Teach art to kids or adults.

Custom poetry or lullaby commissions (very niche tho.)

Sell digital dream journals or prompts.

Make downloadable ambient music loops.

Create printable affirmation cards.

Design calming phone wallpapers or lock screens.

Offer spiritual services (tarot or astrology readings, reiki, etc.)

Thank you for taking the time to read my post!Your curiosity & engagement mean the world to me. I hope you not only found it enjoyable but also enriching for your astrological knowledge.Your support & interest inspire me to continue sharing insights & information with you. I appreciate you immensely.

• 🕸️ JOIN MY PATREON for exquisite & in-depth astrology content. You'll also receive a free mini reading upon joining. :)

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[k1nky-r0b0t-g1rl]

If you are sexually active, please discuss PrEP with your doctor. And everyone should discuss it with all of their friends. Programs like Ryan White are incredibly important to reducing the spread of HIV/AIDS https://ryanwhite.hrsa.gov/about/four-years-hiv-success. These programs provide both HIV antiretrovirals(ARV) and PrEP to low income people and are the reason HIV isn’t ravaging the LGBTQ community like in the 80s. With funding cut, it will be significantly harder for low income people to get access to these medications and will cause HIV to spread through those communities.

ARVs can get people living with HIV to undetectable levels. And undetectable HIV is untransmittable https://www.cdc.gov/global-hiv-tb/php/our-approach/undetectable-untransmittable.html. When people lose access to these medications, they can transmit HIV to their sexual partners. PrEP is 99% effective in reducing the spread of HIV https://www.hiv.gov/hiv-basics/hiv-prevention/using-hiv-medication-to-reduce-risk/pre-exposure-prophylaxis. Not everyone will be able to access PrEP if these programs are cut, but everyone who can should get on it to reduce the spread as much as possible.

We already see health disparities of racial minorities in HIV infection rates https://www.cdc.gov/hiv/data-research/facts-stats/race-ethnicity.html. Black and Latine people will be the first to be affected by these cuts, but like much of our culture it will spread from those communities. It most likely will not reach the level of the 80s, but it will devastate the most vulnerable people in our communities. The wealthiest among us will still be able to afford medication, but for the rest of us, we need to do everything we can to stop the spread. 

WE HAVE THE KNOWLEDGE

WE HAVE THE TOOLS

WE CANNOT ALLOW THESE MONSTERS TO KILL US AGAIN

[exorcisemeplz]

Hi, since you have an ask option, I thought I might ask if you have any garnest headcanons? :)

Like I could see Gary being the one to start their relationship (maybe because he was bored & wanted to see if he could, for his own amusement you know?) only for him to be genuinely surprised at how territorial Earnest gets when he sees him flirt with someone else?

Sorry this was so random btw! I hope you don't mind!

I have been waiting for someone to ask this omg ily

_________________________

GARNEST

HEADCANONS

♡Gary Smith- The tyrant

Earnest Jones- The thinker♡

(In lore order, I will be doing general HC's later this evening)

__________________________________

Earnest was watching long before Gary noticed:

Earnest had been observing Gary from day one -- before Gary ever stepped foot in the Nerds’ domain. He knew Gary's class schedule, his fights, how he smiled right before saying something cruel.

He didn't even see it as stalking -- it was “gathering data.”

He watched from vents, through library stacks, and via hidden cameras he rigged around the school. Gary never noticed -- and Earnest liked it that way.

_______________________________________________

He knew the plan to take over the school would fail:

Earnest agreed to help Gary take over the school, not because he believed in the plan’s success, but because he knew it would fall apart.

And when it did? Gary would be desperate, paranoid, isolated --perfect conditions for Earnest to make himself the only person Gary could turn to.

It wasn’t manipulation, Earnest told himself -- it was “inevitable affection.”

_______________________________________________

The first time gary came to him for help:

Gary hated it --hated needing help, hated depending on someone.

But Earnest was the only one who had real tactical intelligence.

Gary asked something simple at first, like a surveillance angle on the Preps. Earnest delivered flawlessly. Gary came back. And back again.

Earnest acted modest, but inside, he was thrilled. He was becoming essential to Gary.

_______________________________________________

Gary started catching feelings --and it scared him:

Gary didn’t want to care. He told himself he was using Earnest. That he was just a tool. But it started to feel different.

He liked Earnest’s voice. His obsession. The way he looked at him like he was divine and dangerous.

Gary would catch himself lingering when Earnest handed him blueprints, brushing fingers too long.

It made him angry -- and that only made him come back harder.

_______________________________________________

Earnest was possessive the moment Gary let him in:

Once Gary started needing him, Earnest locked in. Subtly at first: glaring at anyone who got too close, “forgetting” to tell Gary about events that might distract him.

He’d speak softly but with underlying venom: “You know they dont understand you like I do.”

He kept files on everyone Gary interacted with -- and blackmailed or discredited anyone who made Gary smile too long.

______________________________________________

Gary trusted him -- But it was twisted:

Gary didn’t trust anyone. But Earnest... was predictable. Controlled. Obsessively loyal.

When he spiraled, Earnest was there. Cold hands. Calm voice. Calculating mind.

Sometimes, Gary would come to Earnest’s room at night, wordless, crawling under his covers and whispering things like, “Don’t leave me. Just…don’t."

And Earnest would hold him --silently triumphant, fiercely protective.

_______________________________________________

Earnest’s dominance wasn’t loud-- It was total:

Earnest didn’t need to raise his voice.

He spoke in facts. In precision. In promises that cut deeper than any insult.

And Gary, who tore others apart with a word, fell silent when Earnest looked at him a certain way.

Because Gary knew --if Earnest wanted to ruin him, he could. And somehow that made Gary want him more.

_______________________________________________

Earnest keeps gary’s meds, just in case:

After Gary’s breakdown post-ascension, Earnest took his medication into his own care.

Gary doesn’t know that Earnest sometimes gives him half-doses when he’s too “difficult.”

Not to harm him -- just to remind him who’s in control. Who knows him. Who can fix him.

And Gary, deep down, suspects it --but says nothing. Because he’d rather lose his mind with Earnest than be sane alone.

_______________________________________________

Gif by @bythaefloch 💚

______________________________________________

Inner circle:

@bythaefloch 💚

@aslanmanicz 💚

@iluvgaryandricky 💚

______________________________________________

@ilytomnlola 💚

There will be a part two!!

If you made it this far , you are a true garnest worshiper and will receive knighthood into our community 💚

If you want any requests lmk 💚

We love you 💚

Garnest mentioned 💚

[w3haw3ll]

Red & Yellow- CL16

Enemies to Lovers x Love Triangle x Unrequited love

8.4K of 20.4K Words (Masterlist)(This has been split into 2 parts cause tumblr didn't want me to post it in one)(Part 2)

When Y/N joins Ferrari’s pit crew in her rookie season, she never expects to clash with star driver Charles Leclerc. What starts as friction quickly turns into something far more volatile: an undeniable, slow-burning connection neither of them can ignore. With teammate Carlos Sainz caught in the middle, secrets, jealousy, and heartbreak threaten to derail not just their careers—but their hearts. In the chaos of rivalries, podiums, and late-night confessions, Charles and Y/N must decide if love is worth risking everything.

The paddock buzzed with a familiar kind of chaos—the kind that pulsed under the surface, electric and invisible. Between the rows of glossy hospitality units and the towering motorhomes painted in team colors, there was a rhythm to the movement: mechanics rolled tire carts with muscle memory, engineers huddled around blinking laptops, and journalists lurked like vultures with their lenses and leading questions. 

Y/N L/N had always dreamed of being part of the world she watched from behind the barriers. Growing up with a father who lived and breathed motorsport, her childhood was spent in karting garages and pit lanes, absorbing every engine note and race strategy like gospel. After years of hard work, an engineering degree, and proving herself in smaller racing series, she finally got her break—an offer to join the Ferrari Formula 1 pit crew. It was everything she’d ever wanted… but nothing could’ve prepared her for the firestorm that came with working for Scuderia Ferrari. 

Y/N stood just outside the Ferrari garage, the air thick with the scent of hot rubber and engine oil, her fireproof suit slightly unzipped at the collar. The Mediterranean sun—merciless and brilliant—bounced off the asphalt, turning the paddock into a maze of shimmering heat and tension. The noise was constant: the screech of power tools, the crackle of radio chatter, and somewhere deeper, the guttural growl of a power unit being tested. 

She adjusted her headset and scanned the line of crew members prepping for the next stint. Rosie leaned against a tire trolley, wiping grease from her fingers with a rag, her dark hair tied up in a messy bun. Next to her, Harriet checked telemetry data on a tablet, her brows furrowed in quiet concentration. Izzy knelt by the rear left tire, murmuring something about camber angles, her tone clipped but focused. 

“Rookie, you good?” Rosie called over, eyes squinting beneath her visor. 

Y/N nodded, even though her heart was hammering harder than she liked to admit. Every race felt like an exam she hadn’t studied for, every mistake a spotlight on her inexperience. She was still learning the rhythm of the team—the shorthand communication, the split-second timing. And worse, she was still learning how to keep her composure under the weight of Charles Leclerc’s scrutiny. 

She caught a glimpse of him through the blur of red uniforms. He was walking toward the garage, race suit unzipped to his waist, revealing the black undershirt stretched across his chest. He didn’t look at her. He never did for long. Just a glance, a flicker of something unreadable in those stormy green eyes, and then nothing. Like she was a mistake he refused to acknowledge. 

Y/N swallowed hard and turned away, focusing on the checklist in her hands. She could feel him approaching anyway, like the shift in atmosphere before a thunderstorm—charged, unpredictable. 

The paddock wasn’t just a workplace. It was a stage. And this season, she was under the spotlight, like it or not. 

“Y/N!” 

She turned toward the familiar voice, already smiling before she saw him. Carlos Sainz jogged up, his hair damp from the heat and a grin tugging at his mouth. He offered her a cold water bottle like it was some kind of peace offering. 

“You looked like you were about to burst into flames,” he teased, his Spanish accent warm, like sunlight on skin. 

“I might,” Y/N said with a laugh, taking the bottle gratefully. “You guys get to sit in the cool-down room. We’re out here melting into the asphalt.” 

Carlos tilted his head, mock offended. “Excuse me, we’re sweating in those cockpits. You’ve never driven an F1 car at 300 kph, I take it?” 

“I’d like to keep my limbs intact, thanks.” 

He laughed—genuine, loud, and easy. Around them, the garage buzzed on, but for a second it felt like they were in their own quiet corner of the chaos. Y/N didn’t miss the way his gaze lingered on her. Kind, admiring… maybe a little too long. 

She appreciated Carlos. From the start of the season, he’d gone out of his way to talk to her, to check in, to make her feel like more than just the "new girl" in the pit crew. But there was always that flicker in his eyes— a glimpse of something more. Yet she couldn’t give it back. 

Not when her pulse did that annoying, disloyal skip every time Charles was in the room. 

"Are you staying around after the race? We’re grabbing dinner—Rosie, some of the engineers, maybe even Izzy if we bribe her with wine. You should come,” Carlos said, his tone light but hopeful. 

Before Y/N could answer, a shadow passed between them. 

Charles. 

He didn’t say a word as he brushed by, but the glance he gave her—barely a second—was razor-sharp. Disapproving. Or maybe annoyed. Or maybe nothing. But it felt like something. 

Y/N blinked after him, her chest tightening. 

Carlos followed her gaze, then looked back at her, his smile dimming just a little. “You don’t have to say yes now,” he said quietly. “Just… think about it.” 

She nodded, voice caught somewhere between obligation and guilt. “I will.” 

But even as Carlos walked off, the only thing she could think about was the way Charles hadn’t said a single word. 

And how badly she wanted him to. 

--- 

The roar of the race was deafening. 

Tyres screamed across tarmac as Charles’ Ferrari screamed into the pit lane, cutting through the blur of sun and adrenaline. The world moved in heartbeats—seconds sliced into milliseconds. Y/N was already in position, crouched and focused, drill steady in her gloved hands. The choreography was second nature by now. Precision. Perfection. No time for error. 

She didn’t look up. Not yet. 

The car slammed to a stop with brutal grace. A symphony of movement followed: tyres off, tyres on, a blur of red suits and carbon fiber and practised speed. 

Then—half a second too long—Y/N hesitated. 

She looked up. 

And he was already looking at her. 

Through the slit of his visor, his eyes locked onto hers—sharp, stormy green, the kind of gaze that rooted her to the spot and stole the breath from her lungs. The air between them thickened, warped. Time fractured. The pit lane, the race, the engine noise—all of it blurred into background static. 

There were fifty people around them, two dozen cameras, and a stopwatch ticking down to the tenth of a second—but in that frozen instant, none of it mattered. It was like the world had narrowed to just the space between them. Like his gaze had reached inside her chest and wrapped around something fragile. 

She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. 

Neither did he. 

There was something unspoken in his stare—burning, unresolved, and impossibly loud for something that hadn’t made a sound. Anger, maybe. Longing. Or confusion, like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to pull her closer or push her away. 

Her pulse thundered. Her chest ached. 

The moment shattered as quickly as it had formed—like glass dropped from a height. The tyres were on, the jack dropped, and the car peeled away with a shriek. He was gone. 

But the look stayed. 

Y/N rose to her feet slowly, her heart still racing faster than the car that had just left. Izzy clapped her shoulder as they moved back, none the wiser. 

“Clean,” Izzy muttered, nodding toward the monitors. “Good stop.” 

But Y/N didn’t hear her. 

All she could think about was the way Charles had looked at her, like he’d never seen anyone so clearly in his life. 

And worse—like he hated that he had. 

--- 

The roar of the crowd was thunderous, echoing across the circuit like a wave breaking against the sky. Red flags flared in the stands, and camera flashes turned the podium into a stage of light and glitter. Charles stood at the top step, champagne dripping from his fireproofs, the Monégasque anthem swelling around him like a crown. 

He should’ve felt invincible. 

Instead, his eyes scanned the crowd—restless, searching. His heart was still thundering, not from the race, not from the roar of Ferrari’s power unit or the weight of the trophy in his hands. 

He was looking for her. 

And then he saw her. 

Off to the side, half-shadowed by one of the garage partitions, Y/N stood with the rest of the pit crew. Her suit was smeared with the grit of the day, her hair escaping her cap, headset slung around her neck like an afterthought. She wasn’t cheering. Wasn’t waving. 

She was just… looking at him. 

And when their eyes met, the noise fell away. 

The champagne, the fireworks, the national anthem—they became background noise to something quieter. Something deeper. The look in her eyes wasn’t celebratory. It wasn’t impressed. It wasn’t awe. It was real. Like she saw him—not the driver, not the winner—but the man behind it all. 

And damn it, that look undid him. 

For a moment, Charles forgot to breathe. His fingers tightened around the bottle in his hand, his chest rising with a strange, unfamiliar ache. He’d just won the race. He should be celebrating, should be smiling, soaking in the glory. 

But all he could think about was that split second in the pit lane. 

The way she looked at him now. 

The way it felt like she was the only one who knew he didn’t feel whole unless she was in his orbit. 

Carlos nudged his shoulder with his own bottle, laughing as champagne sprayed into the air again. Charles forced a smile, lifting his arms with the others, nodding for the cameras. 

But his eyes—his eyes drifted back to her. 

And hers were still on him. 

In the middle of the noise and flashing lights and adoring cheers, it felt like they were alone. Like that look between them held the weight of something unspoken, something inevitable. 

Something they were both too afraid to say. 

Yet. 

The Ferrari after-party was exactly what you'd expect from a team that had just secured a Grand Prix victory—bold, decadent, and pulsing with the kind of energy only a win could summon. 

Set atop a sleek rooftop in the heart of the city, the venue overlooked a sprawl of glittering lights below. Ambient lighting bathed the space in hues of crimson and gold, casting long shadows against the sleek black floors and polished chrome fixtures. Soft house music hummed through the air, the bass subtle enough to feel rather than hear. Laughter and champagne mixed like perfume, and the terrace buzzed with team members, sponsors, media, and a few faces too expensive to name. 

Banners bearing the Prancing Horse logo hung between velvet-draped walls. Scattered cocktail tables sparkled under glass lanterns, and trays of prosecco moved through the crowd like clockwork. A victory party, through and through—luxury soaked in scarlet. 

But all of it—the music, the lights, the celebration—seemed to fade for a beat when she arrived. 

Y/N stepped in quietly, almost unnoticed at first. But the moment she moved into the light, the red of her dress caught every eye in the room. Ferrari red—deep, bold, unapologetic. The silky fabric clung in all the right places, the maxi cut sweeping over the floor like a whisper. A subtle slit ran up one side, enough to tease elegance without begging for attention. Her hair was pinned loosely at the nape of her neck, a few strands falling around her face like an afterthought. 

She didn’t try to blend in. She didn’t need to. 

Heads turned. Conversations faltered. Even some of the drivers glanced her way with something close to awe. 

But she wasn’t looking at any of them. 

She was scanning the room, her gaze steady, composed—until it landed on him. 

Charles. 

He stood near the bar, a drink in hand, still in his race suit undershirt and black trousers. He looked like the victory hadn’t quite settled in him yet, like he was too restless to enjoy it fully. 

Until he saw her. 

And just like earlier in the pit lane, it happened again—time caught in its own gravity, the world reduced to a look. 

She wasn’t just stunning. 

She was his undoing. 

Even if he couldn’t have her. 

Not yet. 

It happened in an instant. 

One second, Y/N was gliding down the stairs that led from the rooftop terrace to the lower lounge, the hem of her red dress trailing behind her like flame. The next—her heel slipped on the polished edge of a step slick with condensation from a spilled drink. 

Her gasp barely left her lips before gravity took hold. 

Time twisted. 

She braced for impact—but it never came. 

Strong hands caught her mid-fall, one gripping her waist, the other catching the underside of her arm just in time to stop her from collapsing against the marble floor. She landed hard against a chest she knew far too well, the scent of champagne, cologne, and motor oil clinging to the black fabric of his undershirt. 

“Mon dieu, Y/N—are you okay?” 

Charles. 

His voice was low, strained, and a little breathless—not from exertion, but from something far tighter in his chest. His grip didn’t loosen immediately. His hand still curled instinctively at her waist, fingertips pressing into the silk of her dress like he wasn’t ready to let go. 

Y/N’s heart thundered in her chest. “I—yeah. I think so. Just slipped.” 

“Slipped?” he echoed, as if the idea of her falling was something he couldn’t quite process. He helped her upright, but even once she was standing, his hands lingered for a beat too long. His eyes searched hers—stormy green, unsettled. 

A few members of the crew rushed over. Harriet and Rosie appeared at the top of the stairs, eyes wide. 

“Y/N!” Rosie called, already hurrying down. 

“I’m okay!” she said quickly, brushing down her dress, trying to shake off the embarrassment. But her voice shook more than she wanted. Her ankle throbbed beneath her weight. 

Charles was still watching her. “You’re not okay. You’re limping.” 

“It’s fine,” she muttered, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he still was. “I can walk.” 

“You can’t,” he said, his voice firm now. Protective. “Don’t argue with me.” 

Before she could stop him, he dipped down and swept an arm behind her knees, lifting her into his chest in one smooth motion. She gasped, hands gripping his shoulders. 

“Charles—put me down. People are watching.” 

“I don’t care,” he said flatly, already walking. 

And she believed him. In that moment, with her dress flowing over his arms and his jaw tight with something unspoken, she truly believed he didn’t care who was watching. Not when it came to her. 

The crowd parted for them. Whispers rippled through the room. 

But Y/N couldn’t look at anyone else. Not when his heartbeat was pounding against her ribs, steady and unrelenting. 

Not when the moment felt like a turning point in a story they hadn’t even admitted they were writing. 

“Come on let's get a drink! I cant believe you feel like that!” Izzy exclaimed laughing. Pulling Y/N away from Charles, severing the strong connection that had brewed while the pair were intertwined. 

--- 

The party had all made their way to the dance floor leaving the balcony reasonably quiet. 

The music was softer outside, the rooftop bathed in the low hum of golden city lights and the faint clink of half-finished drinks. Some of the guests had filtered toward the lounges or disappeared into the warm night, leaving the Ferrari crew to linger in clusters of quiet laughter and softened celebration. 

Charles leaned against the balcony railing, drink forgotten in his hand, his jaw tight. 

Carlos joined him with a lazy grin, sipping a beer and nudging him playfully with his shoulder. 

“Hell of a night, huh?” Carlos said, his eyes glinting with something more than victory. “You’re still the star, but I’ve got to admit... Y/N in that dress almost stole the show.” 

Charles didn’t reply. 

Carlos smirked. “She’s special, man. I mean, really—smart, funny, always knows what to say in the garage when everything’s tense. And she actually listens. It’s rare, you know? I’ve never met someone like her.” 

Charles’ grip tightened around the glass in his hand. 

“And she’s gorgeous,” Carlos went on, completely unaware. “Like, obviously. But it’s not just that. There’s something about her. The way she looks at people. The way she carries herself like she doesn’t even realise—” 

“She’s not that special,” Charles cut in suddenly, voice sharp. 

Carlos blinked, surprised. “What?” 

Charles took a breath, forced a scoff. “She’s… fine. She’s new, she’s eager, and yeah, she’s nice. But she’s not different. Don’t act like she’s some mystery no one can solve. She’s just another girl on the crew.” 

Silence. 

Carlos raised an eyebrow, something unreadable flickering in his gaze now. “You don’t believe that.” 

“I do,” Charles said quickly. Too quickly. “She’s not someone I’d waste time thinking about.” 

Behind them—just out of sight, just out of reach—Y/N stood frozen. 

She had been walking up from the lower lounge, a soft drink in hand, intent on catching some air. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. She hadn’t meant to hear anything at all. 

But she had. 

And it echoed in her ears now like a slap. 

She’s not that special. 

Her stomach twisted. Her chest tightened. 

She turned away before either of them saw her, slipping back down the stairs, the laughter and music around her now hollow and distant. 

Charles didn’t know she’d heard. 

But when he turned to look over the balcony again, some part of him still felt wrong—like he’d just said something he couldn’t take back. 

And maybe, deep down, he didn’t believe it either. 

--- 

The city lights blurred past her cab window, streaks of gold and red that matched the ache sitting heavy in her chest. 

Y/N sat curled into the corner of the back seat, arms wrapped around herself, the red dress that had once made her feel invincible now clinging cold and limp to her skin. She blinked hard, willing herself not to cry—but the sting behind her eyes refused to fade. 

She’s not that special. 

His voice kept echoing in her head, over and over, louder than the music, louder than Carlos’ praise. She had replayed the look he gave her on the podium, the way he caught her on the stairs, the way it felt like the world narrowed when their eyes met—and it all shattered under that one sentence. 

She should have known better. 

She told herself that all season—don’t get too close, don’t blur the lines, don’t fall for someone like Charles Leclerc. 

And now she was paying for it. 

--- 

Back at the rooftop, the night was still humming with the high of victory. Music floated through the open terrace doors, champagne flutes clinked over half-laughed stories, and the soft glow of the city lit up the skyline like a postcard. 

But Charles wasn’t listening anymore. 

He moved through the space with a kind of quiet urgency, eyes scanning over every face, every corner. He checked the upper lounge first, then near the bar, then the dance floor—where the music had taken hold of the more inebriated guests. She wasn’t there. 

“She left?” he asked, turning to Izzy, who was busy untangling her heels from a rug near the terrace steps. 

Izzy nodded absently. “Yeah, I think she left a while ago. Didn’t say much. Just kind of… disappeared.” 

His stomach dropped, though he didn’t let it show. “Right.” 

“Is everything okay?” she asked, noticing the shift in his tone. 

He offered a faint smile. “Yeah. Just thought I saw her. No big deal.�� 

But it was a big deal. 

Something about her absence gnawed at him. All night she’d felt like a constant in his peripheral vision—the way she moved through the garage, through the crowd earlier, through him. Like gravity. And now she was gone, and the win suddenly felt muted, detached from the celebration it was meant to crown. 

He pulled out his phone without thinking, the realisation that he didn't have her number. He debated asking if anyone he knew did. 

Instead, he slipped it back into his pocket with a slow breath. 

He told himself she was just tired. That she had every reason to leave early. That maybe the crowd had been too much. 

What he didn’t know—couldn’t know—was that she’d heard every word. 

That his voice, so easy and dismissive on that balcony, had followed her all the way home. 

That she was curled up on her bed now, dress still on, makeup smudged, trying to convince herself she had imagined it. That it hadn’t meant anything. That it didn’t hurt. 

But it did. 

And while Charles stood beneath the rooftop lights, wondering what he might’ve missed, Y/N was already building walls he didn’t yet know he’d have to break down. 

--- 

The soft knock at Y/N’s apartment door came just after ten. 

She wasn’t expecting anyone. Hair tied up messily, dressed in an oversized Ferrari hoodie, she padded barefoot across the living room. The ache in her chest hadn’t dulled—if anything, it had sharpened with daylight. 

When she opened the door, no one was there. 

Just a white box sitting on her welcome mat. 

She stared for a moment, heart already rising with suspicion. Her fingers hesitated before she knelt down and pulled the lid back. 

Inside was a bouquet—deep crimson roses, offset by delicate white freesia and soft greenery. They smelled like summer and victory and Monaco nights. They smelled like him. 

Tucked between the petals was a small, hand-written card. 

Hope you're alright. You disappeared last night.  — Charles 

And beneath that, in smaller, almost uncertain script, his phone number. 

She didn’t move for a long time. 

The flowers were beautiful—carefully chosen, no doubt. Expensive, but not showy. Thoughtful. It was the kind of gesture that might’ve melted her days ago. The kind of thing that might’ve opened the door to something real. 

But now, all it did was tighten the knot in her chest. 

She closed the lid gently. Carried the box inside like it might break. Set it on the counter, untouched. 

She didn’t text him. Didn’t call. 

She didn’t throw the flowers away, either—but she didn’t put them in water. 

Instead, she sat by the window with a cup of coffee gone cold, watching the city pass by, wondering if it was foolish to feel so much over someone who’d proven, with just a few careless words, that she didn’t mean as much to him as he did to her. 

And across the city, Charles stared at his phone, wondering why the silence between them suddenly felt so loud. 

--- 

Three Days Later – Ferrari Garage 

The garage buzzed with the usual pre-race tension—tyres being rolled, data screens flickering, radios crackling with clipped instructions. The crew moved like clockwork, heads down, focus sharp. 

Except Charles couldn’t stop glancing toward the far end of the garage. 

Where she stood. 

Y/N was tightening something along the rear of his car, half-crouched beside Izzy, hair tucked beneath her team cap. She hadn’t looked at him once. Not during the morning meeting. Not when he walked past her to get his helmet. Not even when he let himself linger a second too long, just to see if she’d finally cave and meet his gaze. 

She didn’t. 

He clenched his jaw, turning back toward the engineers, but her silence shadowed him like a storm cloud. 

At first, he’d been patient. 

The flowers. The note. He thought she might’ve needed a little time. Maybe she was tired. Maybe she'd had a rough night. Maybe she was just being shy. 

But three days? 

No text. No call. Not even a nod in the garage. 

It didn’t sit right with him. 

He tried not to let it show—but it gnawed at him. In briefings, his leg bounced beneath the table. In sim runs, he snapped at his race engineer more than once. Even Carlos noticed. 

“You alright, mate?” Carlos asked, nudging him as they walked back from the motorhome. 

Charles gave a short nod. “Fine.” 

Carlos raised a brow. “You’ve been driving like someone owes you an apology.” 

Charles didn’t respond. Not to that. 

Because maybe someone did. Or maybe he did. But that wasn’t the point anymore. 

He’d reached out. He’d offered a hand—awkwardly, sure, but sincerely. 

And she’d ignored him. 

He told himself it didn’t bother him. That it was just ego. That she was just a mechanic, part of the team, and her opinion shouldn’t matter this much. 

But it did. 

It mattered far too much. 

And the longer her silence stretched on, the more it chipped at something under his skin—something stubborn, bruised, and beginning to burn. 

--- 

The Spanish sun was high, casting a warm haze over the paddock. The Ferrari motorhome was bustling—crew members shuffling in and out, espresso machines hissing, media floating nearby like vultures. 

Y/N leaned against the wall outside the Ferrari garage, arms crossed, grinning as Carlos animatedly recounted a story. He was all hands and charm, his accent thick and playful as he mimicked something dramatic that had happened during a past race weekend. 

“…and then I tell the guy, ‘No, no, amigo, that’s not brake fluid—that’s my sweat!’” Carlos finished with mock horror, sending both Harriet and Y/N into laughter. 

Y/N tossed her head back, genuinely laughing—full and bright—and it hit Charles like a sucker punch. 

She hadn’t laughed like that with him. 

From where he stood near his engineers, helmet tucked under one arm, Charles pretended to scroll through his telemetry data, but his eyes kept drifting. Watching. Brooding. Burning. 

Carlos reached out and gently bumped Y/N’s shoulder with his own. She nudged him back, still smiling, still not looking at Charles. 

And that—that—was what really dug under his skin. 

Because she knew he was watching. 

He could feel it in the tilt of her head, the way she angled herself ever so slightly away from him. Everything she did was measured, intentional. 

She was freezing him out. 

And Charles, for the life of him, couldn’t understand why it bothered him this much. 

He turned away abruptly, muttering something clipped to his race engineer and heading back inside the garage. The sound of her voice, her laughter—it followed him like a shadow. 

She wasn’t just ignoring him. 

She was thriving without him. 

And that—more than anything—was driving him mad. 

--- 

Race day 

The roar of the crowd thundered above the track, but inside the Ferrari garage, everything moved with machine precision. Radios crackled. Tyres lined up like soldiers. Pit crews crouched like coiled springs, waiting. 

Y/N stood at her post, headset snug, eyes sharp—except today, she wasn’t as sharp as usual. 

Her pulse had been uneven since the lights went out. 

Charles was having a solid race. P3 and climbing, milliseconds off the pace of P2. Every turn, every straight—he was surgical. Fast. Ruthless. 

But Y/N couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d looked at her in the paddock earlier. That brief flicker of frustration behind his eyes. The jealousy. The silence. 

Focus, she told herself. Just do your job. 

Lap 42. The call came in. 

“Box, box, box.” 

Charles was coming in hot. The team moved in sync. Y/N took her place, gloves tight, tools ready, adrenaline spiking. She didn’t breathe. Couldn’t. 

The red car screamed down the pit lane and stopped with perfect accuracy. 

But her hand—her hand—hesitated. 

Half a second. Maybe less. A small misread. A mistimed lock. The tyre gun faltered for just a beat longer than it should’ve. 

Enough. 

By the time the car dropped and Charles peeled out of the box, the damage was done. The McLaren that had trailed him jumped ahead. Then the Red Bull. He came out P5. 

And the radio went silent. 

Dead silent. 

Y/N’s blood drained from her face as she stood frozen in place, the weight of her mistake crashing down like thunder. 

She didn’t need anyone to tell her. 

She knew. 

Back in the garage, the team went into damage control mode—updates, strategy shifts, revised deltas. But Charles wasn’t talking. Not to his engineer. Not to anyone. 

He finished P5. 

And he didn’t stop in the pit lane afterward. 

He drove straight to parc fermé, helmet still on, jaw locked tight. Every muscle in his body screamed restraint. 

Y/N didn’t follow the others out to greet him. She stayed inside, still at her post, eyes fixed on the floor. 

The mistake was hers. 

And Charles Leclerc didn’t lose easily. 

--- 

The paddock was still buzzing with post-race energy—media swarming, engineers talking in tight huddles, and mechanics silently packing up with clenched jaws. For Ferrari, the mood was sour. 

Charles was livid. 

He had pulled into parc fermé with smoke behind his eyes. P5. After leading the race. After earning that win. And the moment he got back to the motorhome, he demanded the data. He wanted to know why his pit stop had cost him the podium. 

That’s when one of the engineers hesitated—eyes flickering, almost sheepish. 

“It was… the left rear. A small delay,” they said. “Y/N had trouble locking it in.” 

Everything inside Charles stilled. The name echoed. 

Y/N. 

Of course it was her. 

Of course it was this week, when she was too busy laughing with Carlos and freezing Charles out like he didn’t exist. 

His jaw clenched. A muscle ticked near his temple. 

He didn’t say a word. Just turned on his heel and walked out. 

He found her standing at the edge of the paddock, half-hidden near the back of the Ferrari garage, fiddling with her lanyard like she didn’t want to exist. 

She looked up when she heard him coming. 

“Charles—” 

“Don’t,” he cut her off, voice low and cold. “Not here.” 

Her throat bobbed, and she nodded, eyes wide. 

He stepped in closer, eyes sharp. “Driver’s room. Now.” 

She hesitated for a beat—just long enough for him to register it—and he added, quieter but harder: “You owe me that much.” 

Then he turned and walked away, not checking to see if she followed. His pace was deliberate, every step a tightly coiled knot of frustration. 

In the privacy of his driver’s room, the silence hit like a slap—thick with tension, charged with everything left unsaid between them. 

The door clicked shut behind Y/N with a soft finality, and the tension inside the room was suffocating. 

Charles stood near the window, his back to her, fireproofs still clinging to his waist, chest rising and falling with restrained breath. The silence between them roared louder than any engine. 

Y/N lingered near the door, unsure whether to speak, to apologise, to run. 

“I didn’t mean to mess up your stop,” she said quietly, breaking the silence. 

He turned slowly, eyes sharp, voice low. “But you did.” 

Her chest squeezed. “It was one mistake, Charles—” 

“That cost me the race,” he snapped, stepping toward her. “One mistake that dropped me from a win to P5. You think that doesn’t matter?” 

“I know it matters. I’ve replayed it a hundred times in my head already, I—” 

“No,” he cut in, bitter. “You’ve been too busy laughing with Carlos all weekend to be thinking about anything else.” 

That hit harder than it should’ve. Her brows drew together. “Excuse me?” 

“You heard me,” he said, voice low and cutting. “You don’t talk to me for days, you ignore the flowers, you pretend I don’t exist—then suddenly you make the mistake that costs me everything.” 

Her voice cracked, half in disbelief, half in anger. “You think I meant to mess up? That I sabotaged you out of some petty grudge?” 

Charles didn’t answer. His eyes were stormy and unreadable, his jaw tight. 

“God, you’re such an arrogant—” she stepped forward, fury rising. “You can’t even fathom that someone might care about you and mess up at the same time, can you? Everything has to revolve around you—your wins, your pride, your goddamn reputation.” 

“Don’t act like you know me,” he bit back. “You’ve been here five races.” 

“And you’ve been impossible since day one!” 

“You push everyone away,” she added, voice shaking with frustration, “then act surprised when people stop trying!” 

That’s when something shifted in him. 

Something dangerous. 

Charles took a step forward. 

Then another. 

And another—until Y/N’s back hit the wall behind her with a soft thud. 

He braced his hands on either side of her head, arms caging her in, the heat of him nearly unbearable. His breath was shallow, eyes burning into hers, voice husky and dark. 

“Maybe I’m impossible because you make it that way.” 

She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. 

“You get under my skin,” he murmured, his jaw tight, “and I can’t get you out. Not on track. Not here. Not anywhere.” 

Her heart thundered in her chest. 

She hated him. 

She wanted him. 

And they were suddenly so close, her chest brushing his with every breath, her lips a breath from his. 

But neither of them moved. 

Not yet. 

The moment held—charged, breathless, suspended on the edge of something far more dangerous than anger. 

The air between them pulsed—quiet but volatile. 

Y/N’s back was pressed against the cool wall, but all she could feel was him. Charles stood close, so close that her breath synced with his, so close that the fabric of his race suit brushed her arm when he shifted. His hands were planted on either side of her head, caging her in without touching, his eyes burning straight into hers. 

And she couldn’t look away. 

His gaze had dropped from her eyes to her lips—and back again. 

Slow. Deliberate. Like he was memorising the shape of her. 

She didn’t speak. Neither did he. 

Her heart pounded louder than any crowd. His chest was rising and falling a little too fast, his jaw tense, eyes flickering with something between restraint and surrender. 

Their eyes locked again—and in that heartbeat, everything else disappeared. No team. No garage. No mistakes. Just them, suspended in a moment that felt like it belonged to no one else. 

He leaned in. 

So did she. 

It was subtle, like gravity had shifted, like their bodies already knew what their minds refused to admit. Her lips parted slightly, breath hitching. His hand twitched beside her head. 

Then— 

He stopped. 

Inches from her mouth. 

He lingered there, eyes half-lidded, his breath warm against her skin. And then, almost too quietly: 

“No.” 

It wasn’t angry. It was pained. 

He pulled back slowly, carefully, like it physically hurt to do it. But his gaze caught hers one more time—and that was when he saw it. 

She had leaned in. 

She wanted it. 

And now they both knew it. 

But still, Charles straightened, forcing distance between them. He cleared his throat, voice dry and clipped. 

“This… it’s not happening.” 

Y/N froze, every nerve exposed. The ache of the moment cracked into something defensive. She crossed her arms, shoved her heart behind her pride. 

“Wow,” she said, voice light and sharp. “That full of yourself, huh?” 

His eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t respond. 

She forced a smirk, stepping out from under his arm. “Don’t worry, Leclerc. You’re not my type anyway.” 

Her voice broke just slightly on the last word, but she covered it with a shrug. 

“I prefer guys who don’t act like I ruined their lives because of one mistake.” 

Charles didn’t chase her when she left. Just stood there, still breathing her in like she hadn’t just walked out the door. 

And for the second time that day, he felt like he'd lost something he didn’t even know he needed. 

Y/N stepped out of the driver’s room, her breath still shaky, her heart lodged somewhere between her throat and stomach. The door clicked shut behind her, the echo sounding far too loud in the narrow corridor. 

She stopped to collect herself. 

One second. 

Two. 

Just enough to blink away the sting in her eyes and steady her expression. 

But then— 

“Y/N?” 

She turned sharply, startled—and there stood Carlos, arms crossed, brows drawn together in concern. He was leaning against the opposite wall, still in his team shirt, post-race lanyard around his neck. 

“Were you just in Charles’ room?” he asked, his voice low but puzzled. 

Y/N hesitated for half a second too long. She wiped her palms on her jeans, gave him a tired smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. 

“Yeah,” she said, trying to sound casual. “Just… a disagreement.” 

Carlos blinked, straightening slightly. “Disagreement?” His voice held a flicker of something—concern, maybe. Or something else. “Everything alright?” 

“Nothing serious,” she lied with practiced ease. “He was frustrated about the race. I get it.” 

Carlos studied her face a moment longer, eyes narrowing just slightly. “He didn’t say anything out of line, did he?” 

Y/N shook her head. “No. It’s fine. Really.” 

He didn’t look convinced, but he gave a small nod, falling into step beside her as she started walking down the hall. 

“You shouldn’t let him get to you,” Carlos said softly. “Charles… he doesn’t handle disappointment well.” 

Y/N smiled faintly, eyes on the floor. “I’m starting to notice.” 

They walked in silence for a few beats. 

Carlos glanced sideways at her again, voice gentler this time. “You want to get a drink with the crew tonight? Might help get your mind off everything.” 

She looked over at him then—at the warmth in his eyes, the quiet steadiness he always carried—and for a second, she almost said yes. Almost let herself fall into the safe comfort of someone who hadn’t just backed her into a wall and walked away like it meant nothing. 

But she couldn’t. 

“Maybe,” she said. “I’ll let you know.” 

He smiled, understanding threaded through it. “Okay. No pressure.” 

But as they kept walking, Y/N could still feel Charles’ presence like a ghost on her skin. 

And Carlos? He noticed the way she didn’t quite breathe right the rest of the night. 

--- 

Later That Night – Carlos’ Hotel Room 

The room was quiet, warm-lit by the soft glow of a floor lamp beside the window. The buzz of the post-race city outside was faint through the glass, distant and muffled—like a world they’d temporarily stepped away from. 

Y/N sat curled on the sofa, her knees tucked up, wrapped in one of Carlos’ oversized hoodies he’d handed her when she admitted she felt cold. Or maybe she just wanted to feel something safe. 

Carlos moved around the kitchenette quietly, pouring two glasses of water. Not pushing. Not probing. Just... there. 

He handed her a glass, and she smiled gratefully, her fingers brushing his. 

“You didn’t have to invite me up,” she murmured. 

“You looked like you needed to breathe,” he said simply, sitting beside her with a sigh. “And I didn’t want you to do it alone.” 

She looked at him then—really looked—and her chest ached with the difference between this moment and the one in Charles’ driver room. This wasn’t suffocating or fiery or sharp. It was quiet. Kind. Steady. 

Carlos glanced down at his hands, fidgeting slightly, before lifting his gaze to hers again. 

“I know tonight’s been a lot,” he began, voice low. “And I know Charles… well. I know how he can be.” 

Y/N didn’t say anything, but her silence said enough. 

Carlos leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’m not gonna pretend to know everything that’s going on between you two. But I’ve liked you since the beginning. Since I saw you in the paddock your first week and you said to that Red Bull guy to get out of your workspace.” 

That earned a small, surprised laugh from her. Carlos smiled gently. 

“I haven’t said anything because I didn’t want to make things weird for you. I thought maybe you liked Charles, or maybe you were just too focused on work. But tonight…” 

He paused, meeting her eyes. “Tonight made me want to stop waiting.” 

Y/N’s breath caught. He wasn’t pressuring her. He wasn’t dramatic. He was just… honest. 

“I like you, Y/N,” he said. “And I think we could be good together. If you’d give me a chance.” 

She sat quietly for a long beat, the weight of the night heavy on her shoulders, the sting of Charles’ rejection still sharp in the background. 

But Carlos didn’t rush her. He just waited, eyes soft and steady. 

And maybe it was the way he made her feel seen. Or the way he didn’t ask her to be anything but herself. 

Maybe it was the quiet she needed after the storm. 

She nodded slowly. “Okay,” she said softly. “Yeah. I’ll go on a date with you.” 

Carlos smiled—genuinely, tenderly—and for the first time all evening, Y/N felt like she could breathe again. 

--- 

The cobblestone promenade shimmered under the glow of golden lamplight, casting long, broken reflections across the still waters of the marina. The breeze off the sea was warm for spring, laced with salt and the faint, lingering hum of laughter from docked restaurants and wine-soaked dinners. 

Charles wasn’t meant to be here. 

He’d gone for a drive along the coast to clear his head, to forget the ache still sitting behind his ribs since the night of the after-party. But Monaco had a cruel sense of irony—he knew that now—as his quiet detour turned into something else entirely. 

Because there, just ahead of him, walking hand in hand along the marina… 

Was Y/N. 

And Carlos. 

Charles stopped dead, heart plummeting in a single beat. 

Y/N was laughing at something Carlos had said, her head tilted back slightly, the silk of her soft red top fluttering in the breeze. Her hand was wrapped in Carlos’s like it had always belonged there. 

The scene felt… wrong. 

No, not wrong. 

Unbearably right. For someone else. 

Charles’ jaw clenched as he instinctively ducked behind the curve of a parked Vespa, watching from the shadows like a man who had no right to. 

Carlos leaned down to whisper something in her ear and she blushed—actually blushed—and nudged him with her shoulder, but didn’t let go of his hand. 

They didn’t see him. 

Of course they didn’t. 

They were too caught up in each other, strolling slowly past the docks like they had nowhere else to be. 

Charles hesitated. Every part of him screamed to turn back. To walk away. To pretend like he didn’t care. 

But his legs didn’t listen. 

He followed. 

Not close enough to be seen. Just enough to see. 

He watched as they wandered toward a quiet gelato stand near the end of the dock, Carlos stepping up to order while Y/N leaned against a nearby railing, facing the sea. 

She smiled again when Carlos returned—accepting the cone he handed her, playful and relaxed. 

Charles stared, heart thudding dully in his chest. 

He’d had her in front of him—pressed against a wall, eyes locked on his, lips parted, wanting—and he’d let her go. 

And now? 

Now she looked like she’d finally found someone who made her feel safe. 

And it wasn’t him. 

--- 

The elevator ride up to her floor was quiet—charged. Carlos stood close beside her, one hand still lightly linked with hers, the other brushing the side of his thigh as if trying to resist the urge to pull her closer. Y/N could feel the tension radiating off both of them, warm and magnetic, like they were walking the edge of something dangerous and thrilling. 

They reached her door. 

She paused, the keycard in her hand, her heart thrumming hard in her chest. Carlos stepped in just slightly, eyes locked on hers in the low hallway light. 

“I had a really good time tonight,” he said softly. 

Y/N smiled. “Me too.” 

A beat. 

Then Carlos leaned in—and she didn’t stop him. 

Their mouths met in a kiss that started gentle but deepened almost instantly, weeks of lingering glances and playful touches finally igniting into something real. Carlos pressed her back gently against the doorframe, his hand cupping her jaw as her fingers slid into the hair at the back of his neck. His lips were soft but demanding, and she responded with a soft, breathy sigh that made him grip her waist tighter. 

The kiss grew hotter—his body pressing into hers, her fingers tightening, her lips parting as his tongue swept against hers. Her back arched slightly under his touch, heat flooding between them. 

And then— 

Y/N pulled back. 

Breathing hard, her eyes fluttered open. 

Carlos froze instantly, searching her face. “Did I do something wrong?” 

She shook her head quickly, her palm still resting on his chest. “No,” she said, her voice low and a little shaky. “No, you didn’t.” 

Carlos studied her, waiting. 

“I just…” she started, eyes flickering downward before meeting his again. “It’s too soon.” 

He softened immediately, his hand on her waist easing. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Of course.” 

“I really like you,” she added, needing him to know. “I do. But I’m still… untangling some things in my head.” 

Carlos nodded, brushing a strand of hair from her face with a tender thumb. “Then we take it slow,” he said. “Whatever pace you want.” 

Y/N smiled gratefully, her chest aching with relief. 

He leaned in one more time and kissed her forehead gently before stepping back. 

“Goodnight, hermosa,” he whispered. 

“Night, Carlos.” 

She watched him walk away down the hall, her heart caught in a strange place—warmed by his patience, but still echoing with the ghost of green eyes she couldn’t forget. 

The door clicked shut behind her, muffling the sounds of the hallway and the distant hum of Marina nightlife. 

Y/N leaned back against it, closing her eyes. 

Her lips still tingled from Carlos’s kiss—soft, warm, and sweet—but her heart hadn’t caught up. Something inside her felt restless, uneven. 

She pushed off the door, walking slowly into the dimly lit room, kicking off her shoes and tugging the hoodie off her shoulders. She stood there in silence, staring at her reflection in the hotel mirror. 

And that’s when it happened. 

The memory rushed in—unwelcome, vivid, inescapable. 

Charles. Inches from her. 

The way his body had caged hers against the wall of his driver’s room. His hands pressed on either side of her head, his eyes dark and unreadable, flickering with something wild beneath the surface. The tension in the air had crackled, sharp and electric, so charged she could barely breathe. 

She remembered the way his gaze had dropped to her lips. The way her pulse had thundered. The way she’d leaned in—just slightly, without thinking—drawn to him like gravity. 

And the way he’d pulled away, leaving her aching and humiliated in the silence that followed. 

She sank down onto the edge of the bed now, elbows on her knees, burying her face in her hands. 

Why couldn’t she stop thinking about that moment? 

Carlos had kissed her like she mattered. Like she was treasured. 

But Charles had looked at her like he wanted to destroy her... and yet somehow couldn’t bear not to touch her. 

She exhaled shakily, lifting her head. 

The worst part? 

When Carlos had leaned in tonight—when his lips moved against hers with such care—it wasn’t him she’d been picturing. 

It was Charles. 

Always Charles. 

Y/N lay back on the bed, her chest tight, her eyes burning. 

And in the quiet, with the city glowing outside her window and her heart split in two, she finally let herself admit it. 

She was in trouble. 

--- 

The sky was just beginning to blush with the first hints of dawn, streaks of lavender and rose bleeding across the horizon. The city was still asleep, except for the distant hum of street sweepers and the occasional hum of a car slipping through the quiet Monaco streets. 

Charles stood beneath the awning of the hotel’s side entrance, half-shrouded by the thick shadow of a marble column, arms folded, hoodie drawn up over his head. He didn’t know what he was doing there—not really. He told himself he’d just needed air, just a walk, but somehow his feet had led him here. 

To her hotel. 

And he’d waited. 

He didn’t even know what for. 

Until the door swung open. 

Carlos stepped out into the early morning light, his jacket slung over his shoulder, hair messy, his smile soft—too soft. His expression was relaxed, a faint trace of contentment still lingering in the curve of his mouth. 

Charles felt his stomach tighten. 

Carlos hadn’t seen him. 

Not until he took a few steps toward the street and finally glanced to his left. 

His smile faltered. 

“Charles?” he asked, slowing. 

Charles stepped out from the shadows, the early sun glinting off the edge of his jaw as his eyes fixed coldly on Carlos. 

Carlos adjusted his jacket, instantly defensive. “What are you doing here?” 

Charles didn’t answer right away. His gaze shifted, lingering for half a second on the glass doors Carlos had just walked through. 

“She’s inside?” he asked quietly, voice low, unreadable. 

Carlos didn’t deny it. 

“It’s not what it looks like,” he said, but the words rang hollow. Even he didn’t sound convinced. 

Charles’s jaw ticked. 

“You sure about that?” 

Carlos exhaled, suddenly irritated. “What does it matter to you? You’ve made it clear you don’t want her.” 

Charles said nothing. Just stared. His silence was heavier than any outburst could have been. 

Carlos’s expression hardened slightly. “She deserves someone who actually sees her, Charles. Not someone who only acts like he cares when it’s too late.” 

Charles’s eyes flickered, something sharp and pained flashing through them. “And that’s you, is it?” 

Carlos didn’t answer. 

Instead, he gave Charles a long look—one that wasn’t smug or victorious, but resolute—then turned and walked down the quiet street, disappearing into the morning light. 

Charles stood there for a long time after. 

Still. Seething. Hollow. 

And more lost than ever. 

[brokegirlsguidetolife]

Side Hustles That Actually Pay: Broke Girl Edition

Introduction

Finding ways to make money fast is hard. With this guide you can find some methods you never thought of! Here are 10 ways to make money fast online and in person.

1. Reselling Thrift Finds

How It Works: Buy clothes, home decor, or accessories from thrift stores, garage sales, or clearance racks and resell them for a profit on platforms like Poshmark, eBay, or Facebook Marketplace. What You Need: A phone to take pictures, a small starting budget (or start with what you already own), and a little patience. Pro Tip: Look for name brands, vintage items, or trendy pieces that have a high resale value.

2. Pet-Sitting & Dog Walking

How It Works: Offer to watch or walk pets for busy people through apps like Rover or Wag, or just spread the word to friends and neighbors. What You Need: A love for animals and some free time. No upfront costs! Pro Tip: Offer overnight pet-sitting for extra cash, especially for pet owners going on vacation.

3. Freelance Gigs (Even Without a Degree!)

How It Works: Sell your skills online—writing, graphic design, social media management, virtual assisting—on platforms like Fiverr, Upwork, or even Instagram. What You Need: A laptop, internet, and a skill (even basic ones like data entry or admin work). Pro Tip: Don’t undersell yourself! Start at a fair rate and increase as you gain experience and reviews.

4. Selling Handmade or Spiritual Goods

How It Works: If you make jewelry, candles, or spiritual tools (like spell jars or tarot readings), you can sell them on Etsy, Instagram, or at local markets. What You Need: Supplies and creativity! Pro Tip: Take high-quality pictures and market yourself on TikTok or Instagram to get more eyes on your shop.

5. Flipping Furniture or Household Items

How It Works: Pick up free or cheap furniture from Facebook Marketplace, Craigslist, or thrift stores, then clean, paint, or repair them and resell for a profit. What You Need: Basic tools, paint, and a way to transport items. Pro Tip: Mid-century modern and farmhouse styles tend to sell fast!

6. Plasma Donation & Medical Studies

How It Works: Donating plasma can earn you $50-$100 per visit, and some medical studies pay for participation. What You Need: A healthy body and willingness to spend time in a clinic. Pro Tip: Some clinics offer higher pay for first-time donors or referral bonuses!

7. Tutoring or Homework Help

How It Works: If you’re good at a subject, offer tutoring services online through platforms like Wyzant or locally to students who need help. What You Need: Knowledge in a subject and the ability to explain things clearly. Pro Tip: Offer test prep services (SAT, ACT, etc.)—parents are willing to pay extra for this!

8. Delivering Food & Groceries

How It Works: Sign up for apps like DoorDash, UberEats, Instacart, or Shipt to deliver food or groceries in your spare time. What You Need: A car, bike, or scooter, and a phone. Pro Tip: Work during peak hours (lunch/dinner) to maximize earnings and stack multiple apps for more deliveries.

9. Renting Out a Spare Room or Storage Space

How It Works: If you have extra space, rent it out on Airbnb or use apps like Neighbor to rent out storage space. What You Need: A clean, safe space to rent. Pro Tip: Offer short-term stays for travelers or event-goers in your area to keep bookings frequent.

10. Mystery Shopping & Market Research

How It Works: Get paid to shop, eat, or provide feedback on businesses through apps like Field Agent, Secret Shopper, or UserTesting (for online reviews). What You Need: A smartphone and attention to detail. Pro Tip: Combine multiple gigs for a full day of extra earnings!

Conclusion

Being broke doesn’t mean you’re out of options. These side hustles can help you get back on your feet with little to no investment. Pick one (or a few) that work for you, and start making that extra cash today!

What are your go-to broke girl side hustles? Drop them in the comments below!

[therpistlr]

6-Month Therapeutic Plan for Avoidant Personality Disorder (AvPD) — A Gentle Guide

✨ A Tumblr-Style Post ✨

you’re not broken. you’re learning how to exist in a world that feels too loud. this 6-month plan is your map—not to “fix” yourself, but to stretch the edges of your comfort zone just enough. go at your pace.

month 1-2: safety first ☁ build your base:

therapy prep: if possible, find a therapist who gets chronic shame (look for CBT for AvPD”).

comfort inventory: list 3 places/activities where you feel neutral (e.g., your bed, a quiet park bench). these are your “reset spots.”

voice notes: record 1 thing you’d tell a friend with AvPD. listen back. (yes, it’ll feel weird.)

month 3-4: tiny experiments 🌱 play with edges:

social dips: wave at a neighbor or say “thanks” to a cashier. no eye contact needed. log how it felt (1-10 scale).

boundary draft: script a “no” for low-stakes asks (“I can’t pet-sit, sorry!”). practice in the mirror.

reddit lurker → commenter: reply to one post anonymously. delete if panic wins. that’s still practice.

month 5-6: redefining ‘safe’ 🌀 soft challenges:

1% vulnerability: share a mild opinion with someone you trust (“I liked that movie” or “I prefer tea”). notice: did the sky fall? (spoiler: nope.)

avpd ally: follow 2 AvPD recovery accounts. dm them a 🖤 if they post something relatable.

witness the critic: when shame whispers “they hate you,” write its rant in comic sans. it loses power in silly fonts.

remember: ✓ relapse = data, not failure. ✓ progress is non-linear (like a tamagotchi—some days you just feed it). ✓ you’re allowed to mute this post if it’s too much right now. __ A Recovery Tool for Home

[ixhika-jsx]

Resources and study tips to get you in cyber forensics

Master post • Part1 • part2

let's get you prepped to be a cyber sleuth without spending any cash. Here’s the ultimate tips and resources.

Ps: you can't become one while doing these pointers but you can experience the vibe so you can finally find your career interest

### 1. **Digital Scavenger Hunts**

- **CTF Challenges (Capture The Flag)**: Dive into platforms like [CTFtime](https://ctftime.org/) where you can participate in cyber security challenges. It's like playing *Among Us* but with hackers—find the imposter in the code!

- **Hunt A Killer (Digitally)**: Create your own digital crime scenes. Ask friends to send you files (like images, PDFs) with hidden clues. Your job? Find the Easter eggs and solve the case.

### 2. **YouTube University**

- **Cyber Sleuth Tutorials**: Channels like *HackerSploit* and *The Cyber Mentor* have playlists covering digital forensics, cybersecurity, and more. Binge-watch them like your fave Netflix series, but here you're learning skills to catch bad guys.

- **Live Streams & Q&A**: Jump into live streams on platforms like Twitch where cybersecurity experts solve cases in real-time. Ask questions, get answers, and interact with the pros.

### 3. **Public Libraries & eBook Treasure Hunts**

- **Library eBooks**: Most libraries have eBooks or online resources on digital forensics. Check out titles like *"Hacking Exposed"* or *"Digital Forensics for Dummies"*. You might have to dig through the catalog, but think of it as your first case.

- **LinkedIn Learning via Library**: Some libraries offer free access to LinkedIn Learning. If you can snag that, you've got a goldmine of courses on cybersecurity and forensics.

### 4. **Virtual Study Groups**

- **Discord Servers**: Join cybersecurity and hacking communities on Discord. They often have study groups, challenges, and mentors ready to help out. It's like joining a digital Hogwarts for hackers.

- **Reddit Threads**: Subreddits like r/cybersecurity and r/hacking are packed with resources, advice, and study buddies. Post your questions, and you’ll get a whole thread of answers.

### 5. **DIY Labs at Home**

- **Build Your Own Lab**: Got an old PC or laptop? Turn it into a practice lab. Install virtual machines (VMware, VirtualBox) and play around with different operating systems and security tools. It’s like Minecraft but for hacking.

- **Log Your Own Activity**: Turn on logging on your own devices and then try to trace your own steps later. You’re basically spying on yourself—no NSA required.

### 6. **Community College & University Open Courses**

- **Free Audit Courses**: Many universities offer free auditing of cybersecurity courses through platforms like Coursera, edX, and even YouTube. No grades, no stress, just pure learning.

- **MOOCs**: Massive Open Online Courses often have free tiers. Try courses like "Introduction to Cyber Security" on platforms like FutureLearn or edX.

### 7. **Scour GitHub**

- **Open-Source Tools**: GitHub is full of open-source forensic tools and scripts. Clone some repositories and start tinkering with them. You’re basically getting your hands on the tools real investigators use.

- **Follow the Code**: Find projects related to digital forensics, follow the code, and see how they work. Contribute if you can—bonus points for boosting your resume.

### 8. **Local Meetups & Online Conferences**

- **Free Virtual Conferences**: Many cybersecurity conferences are virtual and some offer free access. DEF CON has a lot of free content, and you can find tons of talks on YouTube.

- **Hackathons**: Look for free entry hackathons—often universities or tech companies sponsor them. Compete, learn, and maybe even win some gear.

### 9. **DIY Challenges**

- **Create Your Own Scenarios**: Get a friend to simulate a hack or data breach. You try to solve it using whatever tools and resources you have. It's like escape rooms, but digital.

- **Pen & Paper Simulation**: Before diving into digital, try solving forensic puzzles on paper. Map out scenarios and solutions to get your brain wired like a detective.

### 10. **Stay Updated**

- **Podcasts & Blogs**: Tune into cybersecurity podcasts like *Darknet Diaries* or follow blogs like *Krebs on Security*. It’s like getting the tea on what’s happening in the cyber world.

### 11. **Free Software & Tools**

- **Autopsy**: Free digital forensics software that helps you analyze hard drives and mobile devices. Think of it as your magnifying glass for digital clues.

- **Wireshark**: A free tool to see what's happening on your network. Catch all the data packets like you're a digital fisherman.

### 12. **Online Forensics Communities**

- **Free Webinars & Workshops**: Join communities like the *SANS Institute* for free webinars. It's like attending a masterclass but from the comfort of your gaming chair.

- **LinkedIn Groups**: Join groups like *Digital Forensics & Incident Response (DFIR)*. Network with pros, get job tips, and stay in the loop with the latest trends.

### 13. **Practice Cases & Mock Trials**

- **Set Up Mock Trials**: Role-play with friends where one is the hacker, another the victim, and you’re the investigator. Recreate cases from famous cybercrimes to see how you'd solve them.

- **Case Studies**: Research and recreate famous digital forensic cases. What steps did the investigators take? How would you handle it differently?

There you have it—your roadmap to becoming a cyber sleuth without dropping a dime. You don't have time find your interest after paying pennies to different ppl and colleges. You can explore multiple things from comfort of your home only if you want to.

[wisteria-lodge]

Hey there, feel free to ignore this. I am writing to you because I am having a hard time understanding my Secondary.

I like having a plan to follow (that I formulated). I also like having the option to step away from it. If I am in a situation where I have no plans or any basis of knowledge, I can still enjoy the events but I will also be a bit uncomfortable until the situation is over and sometimes even after the situation is over.

I like wandering around places I am not familiar with, which is because (1) I am good at remembering routes when I am wandering on my own (2) I can ask the people around for directions if necessary and (3) most importantly, I have my phone and mobile data in case something happens. GPS, my loved ones, or the emergency number will save me. I know what to do if things go wrong. I am comfortable.

In social situations I let myself go at my own pace, whatever that means at that moment. I don't have a full outlined list for what to do here if something goes wrong, but that is because multiple bad experiences with public humiliation and bullying mean that I really, *really* don't like thinking more about such situations more than necessary (like therapy).

I don't like detailed plans. I like having ways out. I like knowing what to do too so that I have a baseline. Something to build off of, something to either follow or ignore. This doesn't seem detailed enough for a built secondary nor free-style enough for an improvisational secondary.

I daresay I have never felt powerful in my life. Having a plan is safe. Being able to act uninhibited by thoughts and worries is freeing. But I never feel powerful. Never. And honestly, being in a position of power scares me, so I am not well-equipped to recognise the feeling in the first place. I don't remember much from my childhood and teenage years because I have actively suppressed memories in the past, so looking to my younger years won't be any help.

If you have read till here, and are willing to give me a response, I just want you to know that there is no need to do the in-depth analysis that you typically do. I would have paid you for the proper in-depth analysis but I am not in a financial situation where I can do that.

Thank you. I hope you have a nice day.

Hi tumblr user catboy-balls :)

So what I think is going on is that you're a Rapid-Fire Bird secondary. You like having all the tools and all the prep going in, so that when you're *doing it,* you can just play. Rapid-Fire Birds will often look like Snakes, but only if they're operating within their area of expertise. Take them out, and they'll function, but in a way that feels uncomfortable and stressful instead of fun. (Bird secondaries who are not given the time/ability to prep for a certain circumstance will also often look like frazzled Lions.)

Because you clearly do approach situations with a *plan.* Like, you can happily wander an unfamiliar city, but only because:

You have a good map-brain

You know how to ask people for directions

You have your phone, which includes -

GPS

Emergency phone numbers (family and friends)

Emergency phone numbers (official services)

You've laid it out as a nice little list for me, and implied that you have a similar system in place for social interactions (even if you don't have "a full outlined list" because doing that puts you too much in your head. I'd be very surprised if you didn't do the Actor Bird thing as well, and have a "social persona" that you can take out. (Maybe one that's Badger secondary flavored?) But it's still prep-work, because putting in all that invisible work beforehand makes you feel better and safer, not bored, constrained, and like you're doing work twice or second-guessing yourself.

also, DM me if you want a link to the discord server. I know I don't type people as much as I used to, but there are tons of people there who have fun with it.

[neilsblog]

Enhancing Data Preparation with Machine Learning and Cloud-Based Tools

[macademiastudies]

I'm really struggling here. There are so many things I want and need to be. SO many things I should study, so many career paths I need to take, so many things in life that I need to get to. By studying it all, I'm getting nothing done. How do I get myself together? I need to be able to prioritize what I'd like to study and where I want to be in life, so I'm writing this post to puke it all out and hopefully fix it with a little glitter. I'm making a list and categorizing them with Emojis for what I should put a longer-term pause on, what I should put up next, and what I should study now. Stuff I should study now: ✒️ Python for data analysis and machine learning ✒️ Using statistical models on python ✒️ JavaScript/React for web development ✒️ Azure AZ-900 exam prep Stuff I should get to soon but not now: 📜 Data structures & algorithms 📜 A new language Stuff that would be better to pause for now: 🤎GMAT, for my future MBA 🤎Blender, to create 3D images and interactive tools With things like my GMAT exam prep I can practice 30 minutes a day or 10 pages a day instead of actively making it a major focus of my day and missing out on the things that I really wanted to study right now. Thus, it may be better to turn my 150 days of GMAT prep into just 150 days of productivity ☕ I hope you'll understand and that hopefully, you guys are also coming to a position where you can truly focus on what you want to focus on in life

[macadamiastudies]

Jan. 16th, 2024

Starting my new position has been insanely busy as of late, and admittedly the only studying I've been doing is about the company. Theres so much more I'd like to learn, especially for this new position so I'm adjusting my "study priorities list" to account for the new changes

The "eat the frog" method needs to be its own category on my list, because there are a lot of impactful items that I'm putting off- but that could be done in a weekend. These for me are quick, high priority and high impact things (ie. a tool that could put me ahead at work)

My frogs:

🐸 Advanced power BI

🐸 Selenium (a tool for automated testing)

High priority (2-3 hours every day):

✒ Python + data structures

Medium priority:

✒ My portfolio (1 hour a day)

✒ GMAT prep (10 minutes a day)

Low priority:

🕰 Azure

[sevasey51]

The tablet on the wall for “Charlie crate” would any other commands be in it? Where would it be in the apartment? Also, can you do another scenario for it? 🥺

The Quiet Command

Summary: Connor and Y/N’s apartment is designed for safety, not just comfort—because when chronic illness is part of your daily life, the small details matter. From the moment they moved in, Connor made sure one tool would always be within reach: the emergency tablet on the wall. Nicknamed “Charlie Crate” for their golden retriever’s crate training phrase, it’s a system designed to alert their inner circle when a crash happens. It triggers logs, lights, and calls. And when it’s used again—this time during a seizure-adjacent POTS cascade—everyone is already in motion before Connor can even say the words.

The Tablet System:

Mounted just outside the bedroom door—where it’s always in reach but never obtrusive—is a sleek black emergency tablet, secured with biometric and manual access. The display stays dark unless touched. Once activated, it unlocks a series of quick-trigger commands—coded phrases that Connor and Y/N developed together for worst-case moments.

• Charlie Crate – Full crash alert: sends a flagged log entry, texts Ava, Hannah, Will, and Jay, triggers a visual light cue in the front window (for EMS or family arrivals), and preps the crash kit cabinet lock for immediate access.

• Waterfall – Signals rapid dehydration and potential syncopal prelude: triggers Connor’s phone directly and logs vitals data.

• Red Light – Indicates major bleeding and uterine involvement: locks external doors (to prevent EMT miscommunication), sends an urgent ping to Hannah, and loads OB-specific protocol.

• Greenhouse – Environmental sensory overload: dims lights, lowers sound levels, and pauses smart audio/screen features. For seizure aftermaths or post-migraine pain.

And the best part? Charlie knows. When that tablet beeps, their dog goes straight to his station near the emergency kit and waits.

Scenario: The Second Time It’s Used

The first time Charlie Crate was used, it was Connor who triggered it—Y/N barely conscious, mid-crash.

The second time?

She pressed it herself.

It was mid-morning. A Sunday. Connor had been called into a consult he couldn’t push off, promising he’d be home by noon. She had insisted she felt fine enough—just a bit tired from a long week of mild flares. Nothing unusual.

But the moment he left, she started to feel the drop.

Not the slow kind.

The sharp, brutal kind.

Head spinning, hands trembling, eyes trying to focus but missing.

Charlie barked once. Then twice. He recognized it.

Y/N crawled toward the tablet, using the wall for balance. Her fingers shook as she pressed her thumb to the biometric pad.

The screen lit up.

CHARLIE CRATE?

She tapped yes.

Instantly:

• A crash alert sent to the entire medical circle.

• A light flashed in the front window.

• The data log auto-filled her latest readings.

• And a soft chime in Connor’s OR locker pinged with:

“CRATE ACTIVATED — STATUS: CRASH, UNCONFIRMED.”

Charlie sat next to her, unmoving, eyes locked.

She was still barely upright when her heart rate surged past 170 and her BP began bottoming out.

Connor ran out of the hybrid wing, scrubs half-done, phone to his ear.

Will: “I’m already halfway there. Ava’s on her way too.”

Ava: “She pressed it herself. That buys us a few minutes. Hang on.”

Connor burst into the apartment nine minutes later.

She was on the floor, breathing shallow but alive. Charlie standing over her like a lifeguard.

He scooped her into his arms, carried her to the couch, and began protocols.

Fluids. Cooling cloths. Emergency beta-blocker.

“Come back to me,” he whispered.

When Will walked in, Connor had his fingers on her pulse, eyes laser-focused.

“She did good,” Will said softly. “That system saved her.”

Connor didn’t look up. “No. She saved her.”

Charlie barked once, low and calm. Mission complete.

[doctorsfavorite]

FOR MY ASK GAMEEEEE

1, 3, 4, 6, 12, 15, 20, 21, 23.

- @brutally-loving

Hi Krue! I’ll answer these for Zandik <3

1. What animal does your F/O remind you of?

A raven - for its intelligence, eerie presence and ability to pick apart mysteries with a sharp mind. And a shark - for the predatory nature, sharp teeth and the way he never truly stops moving forward, always hunting for knowledge.

3. What is your favorite hobby to think about doing with your F/O?

Experimenting together, though not always in a traditional, clinical way. He’s lost in his work, scribbling calculations at an alarming pace, muttering theories under his breath, and I, his most valued assistant, creation, and his wife, stand beside him - sometimes helping, sometimes teasing him for overworking himself. Maybe I’m lying on the operating table, allowing him to study me more, unafraid of his scalpel.

Philosophical debates over dinner are another hobby, an intellectual sparring that only strengthens the bond between us. And on rare, quieter evenings? Stargazing in the desert, lying on the cool sand, speaking of the fake sky, eternity, and how insignificant yet fascinating human life is. He'd scoff at sentimentality, but his gloved fingers would linger against mine just a second longer than necessary.

4. What chores would your F/O do around the house? Are there any they REALLY dislike?

Chores he would do around the lab:

organizing research notes and materials - Everything must be in its proper place for maximum efficiency. If a single document is misplaced, we can expect a dramatic reaction.

calibrating and maintaining equipment - If anyone else touches his machines, they’ll never do it right. Best to handle it himself.

overseeing test subjects (including myself) - Whether it’s monitoring data or making precise adjustments, he takes personal satisfaction in his work.

Chores he’d avoid like the plague:

cleaning up after experiments – Bloodstains? Shattered glass? That’s what assistants (like me) are for. He’s too busy refining theories to deal with the aftermath.

cooking and meal prep - If it isn’t something he can eat or drink quickly while working, it’s an inconvenience. He might forget to eat for hours, if not days, so cooking is my job.

laundry - He wears the same coat until it’s absolutely necessary to change it. One of his segments might handle laundry, but he certainly won’t.

Bonus: Chores he’d delegate to his segments:

“lesser” administrative work - One of his segments can handle mundane tasks like lab supply inventory, since he considers it beneath his time.

dealing with unimportant visitors - If someone dares to interrupt his work for trivial reasons, he has other versions of himself to shoo them away.

6. What kind of ringtone or notification sound would you have for your F/O?

Since I’m part of his hivemind, I don’t really need one, as we talk through telepathy a lot. Still, if my self-insert would have a phone, his voice saying “Ah… Did you think you could ignore me?” or something like that whenever he called would be funny (and make me a blushing mess).

12. What color do you associate with your F/O?

Light blue, like his hair!

15. What would your F/O get you for Valentine's day, if anything?

1) Zandik is all about his work and my relationship with him is no different - a gift that benefits us both is the perfect option. He might craft something personally tailored for me, like a specialized Geo-focused enhancement tool or a new experimental device that maximizes my powers (especially considering my sand abilities).

2) For him, the greatest gift he could offer would likely be knowledge. A private “lesson” on a forbidden or rare piece of research he’s been working on, something that could be either dangerous or highly advanced would be something he thinks would show me how much he cares. I’d learn more about his deepest interests this way.

3) He might also see the day as the perfect opportunity to “celebrate” by involving me in one of his most advanced and personal experiments yet - something that could challenge both of us, test the limits of my powers and deepen our bond in a scientific way. The experiment would be a way to bring us closer and prove the connection between us, perhaps by enhancing my abilities even further. “Gift” or not, it’s a test of love and intellect.

20. What're your F/O’s favorite personality traits of yours?

My intellectual curiosity, seeing that I’m equally interested in experimenting and expanding my limits, just like him. My ambition and determination to constantly improve and my dedication to furthering my abilities, especially considering how far I've come under his guidance, would be something he’s especially proud of. My independence, I don't simply exist as his assistant or test subject - I stand on my own and make my own decisions. I complement his need for control and precision. My ability to adapt and learn, as I’m the type who can absorb information, challenge him, and still stand firm in my ideas, which he’d view as a sign of strength. The fact that I've grown both emotionally and intellectually thanks to him makes him proud. My determination to challenge him - he’d find it incredibly stimulating when I challenge his views, question his methods or test the limits of his ideas. It shows that I’m not just a passive participant but someone who brings a unique perspective. It also means that deep down, I’m on his level, capable of thinking critically and independently. This appeals to his sense of superiority in a way that’s paradoxically flattering to him. He likes that I keep him on his toes.

The way I’ve survived his experiments and the resilience I show despite the pain and challenges I’ve faced also stand out to him.

21. If your F/O drew you, how would you describe the art piece?

If Zandik drew me, the art piece would likely reflect his meticulous nature and sharp attention to detail, with an almost clinical precision. I would be depicted with an air of otherworldly grace, perhaps standing amidst his laboratory's cool backdrop, with sand swirling at my feet or entwined around my form as a reminder of my powers. The lines would be clean and sharp, much like the precision with which he conducts his experiments. Every curve, angle and shadow would be deliberate, as though he’s trying to capture not just my physical form but the very essence of who I am - my power, my resilience and my complex bond with him. The color palette would be muted - greys, deep blues and maybe hints of warm sand tones.

23. What color would your F/O associate you with?

He’d likely associate me with a rich, deep shade of sand, a warm, earthy tone reflecting my Eremite desert heritage and connection to the sands. The sand, in his eyes, is a metaphor for my ever-shifting nature, how I can adapt, heal and even reform, much like the grains of sand that move and change shape yet remain a constant force in nature. He might see dark reds or crimson intertwined with that, representing my passion and the power he’s helped unlock!

[lixenn]

OCtober 2024 day 23: community

@myrmyrtheorca one science girl coming right up! Anemone is also working hard, pipetting lots for qPCR 🫡 what a legend!

A yapping essay under the cut, I will talk science so you have been warned.

Now before I ramble about science I'm just gonna talk about the art for a bit. I did use a reference for this because I'm not insane and drawing the lineart with it was ... alright I would say. I actually looked through my own pictures and my uni website first in case I could find something as a ref but no dice so I needed to look it up anyways. I think the most difficult lineart to draw was the fucking pipettes... I need everyone to know that all the lab equipment (except maybe the blue regant holder) is a simplification of what it actually looks like because by god I could not replicate the real thing with my current skill set. I know most people will not give a fuck but I do so it needed to be said.

Otherwise colouring went okay and rendering wasn't extremely tedious. I noticed that I actually really like rendering blond hair, years ago I found this hack where you use red for the shadows and turn the opacity down and it works so well every time, I'm a bit obsessed tbh. I need to give more of my OCs blond hair lmao.

Okay enough about art let's talk science! Honestly this is really just me explaining science stuff, so feel free to skip because this can get long.

As I mentioned above I drew Anemone doing qPCR and I chose qPCR because her focus is genetic research. So basically she looks into the human genome (entire set of human genes) to see how it correlates to the Pallid Flame.

qPCR stands for quantitative polymerase chain reaction or real time polymerase chain reaction (RTpcr) and it's a valuable tool for analysing stuff down to genetic aka DNA level. You might have learnt about PCR in school but if not or if you've forgotten: PCR is the amplification of a specific gene aka you take one specific part of someone's DNA and replicate it a bunch of times. This is useful if you want to proof if a specific gene is present in the DNA you are analysing. Now qPCR also does the DNA amplification but as it already implies with the name it also counts how much the gene was amplified. You can use qPCR in many applications for example I used this method in my thesis to test if skin related genes are upregulated (higher gene expression aka genes are more activated? <- me trying to simplify genetics I'm not sure if this is the correct term of phrase) or down regulated (lower gene expression) when I put mast cells in my skin models. It gives you insight how certain factors affect cells on DNA level and since it will give you number at the end you can do statistics which is what everyone will really care about. I hope this explanation was at least somehow understandable if anyone has any questions I can talk more about this no prob 🫡

In fact I will talk more about it just... less why you do qPCR but more on how you do it. Because the thing is with this method... You need to pipette, you need to pipette A LOT. And honestly I'm really not a fan because you need to be so exact with this pipetting since each mistake you make stacks up and shows in your data at the end. It's very frustrating especially because there are a lot of steps where you can make mistakes and you need to be fully concentrated the entire time. I... I would say I'm good at my job but I really don't like this part of it because it grates on my nerves. But I think Anemone would be good at it, it's something repetitive that requires a steady hand and patience. Normally post Docs and even some PhD students let assisstants handle this job but I'd like to imagine that Anemone likes doing small things occasionally. Maybe not the entire process (there's a lot of prep work required for qPCR) but the last few steps she can take over, just for a change of pace.