#just wanted to get these out of my folder

[mrsfancyferrari]

Stranger Danger

Summary: What happens when you're being followed by a staff member in McLaren's motorhome on your first day of work and a certain driver saves you. . . .

Song: Noah Cyrus & XXXTENTACION · Again

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 8.8k

MASTERLIST - F1

The roar of the engines was still a distant, theoretical hum in your mind as you stepped out of the paddock’s designated transport, the crisp morning air carrying the faint scent of tire rubber and high-octane fuel.

This was it. Your first day at McLaren Racing. Not just any day, but the start of your senior position as a Sports Scientist – Human Data Science.

The title felt like a perfectly tailored suit, a culmination of years of relentless study and ambition.

You were here, at the pinnacle of motorsport, ready to dive deep into the physiological and biomechanical intricacies of peak human performance.

Your objective for the morning was clear: find Zak Brown. You’d been given a rough map of the McLaren motorhome – a sprawling, two-story edifice of orange and black, a mobile fortress of innovation – but maps, you quickly discovered, were notoriously unhelpful when faced with a labyrinth of identical corridors, bustling crew members, and the sheer, overwhelming scale of it all.

You clutched your brief, official-looking folder a little tighter, a nervous smile plastered on your face as you tried to project an air of confident competence.

Inside, however, your stomach was doing more laps than the MCL38. The motorhome was a hive of activity, a vibrant ecosystem of engineers hunched over screens, mechanics meticulously polishing components, and media personnel weaving through the throng with cameras poised.

You tried to blend in, to look purposeful as you navigated what felt like an endless series of identical doors.

“Excuse me, are you lost?”

The voice, a little too close to your ear, made you jump. You turned to find a man standing there, perhaps in his late forties, early fifties, dressed in a standard McLaren team polo.

He had a tight, almost forced smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, which seemed to linger a little too long.

“Oh, no, thank you,” you replied, injecting as much politeness as possible into your tone. “Just trying to find my way to Zak Brown’s office. I think I’m almost there.”

You gestured vaguely down a corridor you were sure led to a dead end.

“I can show you,” he insisted, taking a step closer. His hand reached out, then dropped, as if he’d thought better of touching your arm.

“That’s very kind, but I think I’ve got it,” you said, forcing another smile.

You really, really didn’t want to be led around like a child on your first day. You were a Senior Sports Scientist, for crying out loud.

You started walking, a little faster, hoping he’d take the hint. He didn’t. Instead, his footsteps matched yours, falling into an unnervingly synchronised rhythm.

“It’s easy to get turned around here on your first day,” he continued, his voice still too close. “Especially with all the unfamiliar faces. You’re new, aren’t you? I haven’t seen you around before.”

“Yes, it’s my first day,” you confirmed, trying to keep your voice even. “I’m the new Senior Sports Scientist.” You thought mentioning your position might deter him, establishing some professional distance. It didn’t.

“Ah, a scientist,” he mused, his smile widening unnaturally. “Very interesting. My name’s Mark. Anything I can help you with, you just let me know.”

You swallowed, your pace quickening. You had tried polite, you had tried firm, and now a prickle of unease was starting to bloom in your chest.

His presence felt… oppressive. His gaze felt like it was tracing your back, even when you weren't looking.

“Thank you, Mark, but I really am fine,” you said, pushing open a door that led into a bustling, open-plan area filled with engineers and their monitors. You hoped the crowd would be a deterrent.

It wasn't. He followed you in, a shadow clinging to your heels. You could feel the eyes of other staff members glancing your way, curious about the impromptu procession.

Your cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and growing anxiety. This was not how you wanted to make your first impression.

You ducked around a large screen displaying complex telemetry data, trying to put a physical barrier between you and him.

"Honestly, I need to focus on finding my way,” you explained, finally allowing a hint of exasperation to creep into your voice. “I’m on a tight schedule.”

“Zak Brown can wait,” he chuckled, a low, unsettling sound. “I’m sure he’ll understand. A pretty face like yours shouldn’t be wandering lost.”

The compliment landed like a cold, wet cloth. Your breath hitched. Pretty face? The unease solidified into a knot of genuine fear.

This wasn't helpfulness; this was something else. You were alone, a stranger in a strange place, and this man was making you feel distinctly unsafe.

You debated whether to just turn and confront him, or find the nearest person in authority and demand he leave you alone.

But you were new, you didn't want to cause a scene. You just wanted to disappear.

Just as you were about to turn a corner, desperately looking for an exit or a friendly face, a voice, calm and clear, cut through the tension.

“Mark, everything alright here?”

You almost sagged in relief at the sound, spinning around to see who had spoken. Standing there, leaning casually against a doorframe, was Oscar Piastri.

He was dressed in a team polo and track pants, looking effortlessly composed, a slight frown creasing his brow. His presence commanded attention, and the air around you suddenly felt a little less suffocating.

Mark, the creepy staff member, visibly stiffened. His forced smile faltered, replaced by a look of wary deference. “Oh, Oscar. Yes, everything’s fine. I was just helping our new colleague find her way. She’s a little lost.” He gestured to you, his hand a little too close, a little too possessive.

Oscar’s gaze flickered to your face, and he seemed to pick up on the subtle tension in your shoulders, the way you unconsciously recoiled from Mark’s gesture.

His eyes, a striking brown, held yours for a moment, a silent question passing between you. You managed a small, almost imperceptible shake of your head, a plea for help.

“Is that right?” Oscar asked, his tone still even, but with an underlying steel that was unmistakable. He pushed off the doorframe, taking a step towards you both. “And have you introduced yourselves properly?”

“Of course,” Mark chimed in, too quickly. “I’m Mark, I help with…”

“She’s the new Senior Sports Scientist, isn’t she?” Oscar interrupted, his gaze still fixed on you. “I heard you were starting today. Welcome to McLaren.” He extended a hand towards you. “Oscar Piastri. Nice to meet you.”

His hand was warm, firm, and you grasped it like a lifeline. “Thank you,” you breathed, your voice a little shaky. “Yes, I’m… I’m feeling a little overwhelmed, to be honest.”

Oscar’s lips curved into a small, genuine smile. “It happens. The motorhome can be a maze. Who are you looking for, specifically?”

“Zak Brown,” you managed, feeling a surge of gratitude for his intervention.

Oscar nodded, then turned his gaze to Mark. “Mark, could you actually go and check on the telemetry readings for turn four? Lando was mentioning something about a slight anomaly this morning. It’s urgent.”

Mark’s face tightened. “But I was just…”

“It’s fine, Mark. She’s with me now,” Oscar stated, his voice polite but unwavering. “I’ll make sure she finds Zak. You go sort out that telemetry.”

There was no arguing with the young driver. Mark’s shoulders slumped, and he gave you one last, lingering look that made your skin crawl, before he mumbled, “Right. Telemetry. Of course,” and shuffled away, disappearing around the corner.

You let out a breath you hadn't realised you were holding, a wave of relief washing over you so potent it almost made your knees buckle.

“Thank you,” you said again, looking at Oscar, your gratitude radiating from you. “Truly. He was… he was making me quite uncomfortable.”

Oscar’s smile softened. “I gathered. He can be a bit… persistent. Are you alright?”

“Yes, much better now,” you confirmed, feeling a blush creep up your neck. You, a senior professional, almost reduced to tears on your first day. “I was just trying to get to Zak’s office, but I keep getting lost. I tried telling him I was fine, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“Standard procedure for the McLaren motorhome,” Oscar said with a light chuckle. “It’s a labyrinth, especially on your first day. Come on, I’ll walk you to Zak’s. It’s on my way to the gym anyway.”

He started walking, a comfortable, unhurried pace, and you fell into step beside him. He wasn't overtly charismatic in the way some drivers were, but there was an easy confidence about him, a quiet strength that was immensely appealing.

You noticed the subtle details – the way his hair fell across his forehead, the lean musculature of his arms, the focused intensity in his eyes. He wasn't just a driver; he was a presence.

“So, Senior Sports Scientist – Human Data Science, that’s a mouthful,” he said, glancing at you with an amused expression. “Sounds important.”

You laughed, a genuine, unburdened sound this time. “It is, I hope. I’ll be working on optimising driver performance through physiological data analysis, biomechanics, recovery strategies… The whole spectrum.”

“So, you’ll be making me faster, then?” he quipped, a playful glint in his eye.

“That’s the goal,” you affirmed, feeling a spark of professional enthusiasm ignite. “Working with you, Lando, and the rest of the team to ensure you’re all in peak condition, both physically and mentally.”

“Good luck with that last part,” he murmured, a wry smile touching his lips. “Especially on race weekends.”

You found Zak’s office without further incident, thanks to Oscar’s escort. He waited patiently while you knocked, then offered a reassuring smile as Zak’s assistant waved you in.

“Good luck with the new role,” he said, just before you stepped through the door. “And if you get lost again, just shout. Or find me in the gym.” He gave a slight nod, then turned and walked away, disappearing into the motorhome’s bustling corridors.

You met Zak, the discussion was engaging and inspiring, but a part of your mind kept replaying the earlier encounter. Oscar Piastri.

The name now carried a different weight, a personal resonance beyond his public image.

He wasn’t just a rising star; he was the person who had saved you from a profoundly uncomfortable situation on your first day.

The meeting with Zak Brown was, thankfully, a much calmer affair. He’d greeted you with genuine warmth, his expansive office a stark contrast to the labyrinthine corridors outside.

The conversation flowed easily, covering your impressive credentials, your vision for the Senior Sports Scientist role, and the exciting challenges that lay ahead at McLaren.

You felt a wave of professional satisfaction wash over you, the earlier unpleasantness with Mark receding to a faint, irritating hum in the background.

When your initial discussions concluded, Zak leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful smile on his face. "Well, Y/N, it's clear we've found exactly who we were looking for. Welcome to the team."

He stood, extending a hand, and you shook it, a thrill of accomplishment running through you. "Now, I imagine you'd like to meet some of the key players. And perhaps get a proper feel for our bustling motorhome. It's quite the hive, as you've no doubt discovered."

You chuckled, a genuine smile replacing the polite ones you’d been forcing earlier. "I'd appreciate that, Zak. It certainly is quite a place."

He led you from his office, not back into the main thoroughfare, but through a series of discreet doors that opened into a larger, more informal gathering area.

It was less a meeting room and more a vibrant lounge, dotted with comfortable couches, high-tech screens displaying various data streams, and small groups of people in team gear engaged in animated discussions.

This was clearly where the magic happened, where ideas were sparked and strategies honed.

As you entered, a hush fell, and several heads turned. Zak, ever the showman, clapped his hands together. "Alright, everyone, listen up! I'd like you all to give a massive McLaren welcome to our newest member of staff. This is Y/N, our new Senior Sports Scientist."

A ripple of murmurs spread through the room, followed by a chorus of warm greetings. You felt a familiar professional composure settle over you, pushing down the last lingering traces of your earlier anxiety.

This was your element – meeting colleagues, discussing your work, becoming part of a high-performance team.

You stood beside Zak as he introduced you to a succession of senior personnel: Andrea Stella, the calm and focused Team Principal; Mark Temple, the Head of Performance; Piers Thynne, the Chief Operating Officer.

Each introduction was met with a firm handshake and an intelligent, probing question about your area of expertise.

You found yourself drawn into conversations about data analytics, biofeedback, and the nuances of driver conditioning, feeling a surge of excitement at the intellectual challenge.

As you engaged with various team members, a subtle awareness began to prickle at the back of your mind. It was a familiar presence, a quiet anchor amidst the bustling energy of the room.

Without directly looking, you knew Oscar was there. You could feel his eyes on you, not in the intrusive, unsettling way Mark’s had been, but with a steady, almost curious warmth.

He wasn’t at the forefront, or even in the immediate circle, but rather lingered slightly to the back, leaning against a pillar, a casual observer.

You caught his gaze once, fleetingly, as you explained a complex physiological concept to the Head of Human Performance.

He offered a small, almost imperceptible nod, a hint of a smile touching his lips, and a wave of unexpected warmth spread through your chest.

It was a silent acknowledgment, a shared understanding that made you feel a little less like an outsider, a little more… seen.

The introductions continued for another twenty minutes, your hand growing tired from the numerous shakes, your voice a little hoarse from enthusiastic explanations.

You met engineers, strategists, PR managers – a diverse tapestry of talent that made up the McLaren family. Everyone was welcoming, genuinely interested in the new perspective you brought.

Finally, Zak clapped his hands again, drawing the attention of the now fragmented groups. "Alright, I think Y/N has met enough of you for one morning! She needs to get her bearings. Does anyone want to give Ms. Y/N a proper tour of the motorhome and help her settle into her office?"

Before the words had even fully left Zak’s lips, a hand shot up from the back of the room. It was Oscar. He pushed off the pillar he'd been leaning against, his movement fluid and deliberate, and began to walk towards you both. His gaze, once again, was fixed on you, a clear, unwavering intensity in his brown eyes.

"I can do it," Oscar suggested, his voice clear and confident as he approached, a faint smile playing on his lips.

Almost immediately, another voice cut in, sharp with a hint of exasperation. "Oscar, you literally have a simulator session in ten minutes. Tom’s got the whole team waiting." It was Tom, Oscar Piastri’s race engineer, emerging from a nearby doorway, a tablet tucked under his arm. He looked at Oscar, then at you, a knowing smirk on his face.

Oscar didn't even break eye contact with you. "I can finish it before then," he persisted, his tone firm, a challenge in his voice that was utterly charming. He was making it clear, without having to say the words, that this was important to him.

A blush crept up your neck. You knew, with a certainty that made your heart flutter, that his offer wasn't just about being helpful. It was about you.

Zak looked from Oscar to Tom, then back to you, a shrewd glint in his eyes. He seemed to assess the situation instantly, a quiet amusement playing on his face. "Well, Tom, I'm sure a few minutes won't hurt. Our new Senior Sports Scientist does need a proper introduction to her new domain, after all. And who better than one of our star drivers to show her the ropes?" He winked, a barely perceptible gesture, at Oscar.

Tom sighed dramatically, running a hand through his hair. "Fine, but if you're late, Oscar, there will be consequences. Consequences involving Lando and a very large bucket of water."

Oscar merely grinned, unperturbed. "Understood, Tom. I’ll be there." He turned his full attention to you, his expression softening. "Ready to see the real McLaren?"

You nodded, a genuine smile blossoming on your face, your earlier apprehension dissolving completely. "Lead the way, Oscar."

As you walked out of the lounge, leaving behind the bustling team and Tom's grumbling, a sense of lightness filled you. Oscar led you down a wide corridor, quieter than the one you'd been lost in earlier, and the air around him felt different now, more open, less guarded. He walked with a relaxed confidence, occasionally glancing at you, his eyes twinkling with a shared secret.

"So, what kind of trouble did you manage to get into this morning before I rescued you?" he asked, his voice low and teasing.

You laughed, the sound easy and unforced. "Nothing I couldn't handle, eventually. You just… expedited the process." You chose your words carefully, not wanting to dwell on Mark, but not wanting to dismiss Oscar’s intervention either.

He seemed to understand, his smile a little more genuine. "Good to know. But seriously, this place is a maze. It took me weeks to figure out where everything was." He gestured down a brightly lit hallway. "This is one of our engineering bays. You'll probably be spending a lot of time in here, or the one next door, collaborating with the performance engineers."

He opened a door, revealing a cavernous space filled with the hum of computers and focused individuals. The walls were plastered with schematics, graphs, and intricate diagrams. You felt a thrill of professional excitement. "This is incredible," you murmured, stepping inside.

"It is," Oscar agreed, watching your reaction. "It’s where all the data comes to life. And speaking of data, that's where you come in, isn't it? Making sense of all the numbers from, well, us." He gestured vaguely at himself.

"Precisely," you confirmed, your gaze scanning the impressive setup. "My job is to translate those numbers into actionable insights to improve performance, prevent injury, and optimize recovery."

"Sounds like you'll have your work cut out for you with Lando," Oscar quipped, a playful dig at his teammate.

You chuckled. "I'm sure he'll be a fascinating subject."

He led you through several more areas – the impressive simulation room (where Tom was no doubt drumming his fingers), the state-of-the-art gym, which was blessedly empty at the moment, and even a small, surprisingly peaceful garden area tucked away between two buildings. With each step, the conversation flowed more easily. You asked him about his training regimen, his typical race weekend routine, and the mental demands of Formula 1. He, in turn, asked about your previous research, what excited you most about this new role, and even a few personal questions about where you were from and what you liked to do outside of work.

It struck you that this was a side of Oscar Piastri the public rarely saw. He wasn’t just the fiercely determined, articulate driver from interviews. He was thoughtful, genuinely curious, and possessed a dry wit that perfectly matched his quiet confidence. He made you feel comfortable, truly at ease, in a way you hadn’t expected to feel on your chaotic first day.

As he showed you to a sleek, modern office designated as yours, strategically located near the performance analysis hub, you felt a pang of disappointment that the tour was ending. "Thank you, Oscar," you said, turning to face him, your voice imbued with sincere gratitude. "That was… invaluable. And much appreciated."

He leaned against the doorframe, a familiar pose, but this time it felt relaxed, inviting. "Anytime, Y/N. Like I said, it’s a maze. And I wouldn't want you to get lost again and end up with… another Mark situation." His tone was light, but his eyes held a subtle seriousness, a comforting undertone of protection.

You looked down, a small smile playing on your lips. "No, definitely not another Mark situation." You met his gaze again, feeling a warmth spread through you. "I think I’m officially un-lost now, thanks to you."

He pushed off the doorframe, checking his watch. "Looks like I’ve got about two minutes before Tom sends a search party. So, I’d better make a dash for the simulator." He paused, a slight hesitation in his movement. "But if you ever need anything else, or just want to grab a coffee, you know where to find me. Or, well, you know where most of my day is spent." He gestured vaguely towards the gym.

You laughed. "I’ll keep that in mind. And good luck with the simulator session."

"Thanks," he said, a genuine, easy smile lighting up his face. "Welcome again, Y/N. Really glad to have you on the team."

With a final, lingering look, he turned and disappeared down the corridor, leaving you standing in your new, pristine office. The hum of the motorhome was still present, but now it sounded less overwhelming, more like a gentle background melody. You looked around your space, then out into the bustling corridor, a sense of belonging blooming in your chest.

Your first day at McLaren had been a roller coaster, starting with unease and ending with an unexpected connection. Oscar Piastri, the quiet, formidable driver, had not only salvaged your day but had also left an indelible impression on your heart. You had come to optimize driver performance, but it seemed you might just find a performance of a different kind unfolding in your new life here – one with a very promising co-star.

You unpacked your bag, a new sense of anticipation bubbling within you. The labyrinthine motorhome no longer seemed daunting. With Oscar showing you the way, perhaps finding your path here, both professionally and personally, wouldn’t be so hard after all. You wondered if he really would be in the gym later. You might just have to "get lost" looking for a coffee, just to see.

The fluorescent hum of the McLaren Technology Centre had once felt like a sterile, intimidating presence, a stark contrast to the lively, chaotic energy of race weekends. But now, as the senior Sports Scientist – Human Data Science, you’d carved out your niche, the hum becoming a comforting thrum beneath your skin. You were part of the machine, a crucial cog in the relentless pursuit of speed and human optimisation. You understood the data, the intricate dance between physiology and peak performance, but sometimes, the humans behind the numbers were a little less predictable.

You found yourself fitting into the McLaren team better than you ever thought possible. The initial awkwardness of being a "data person" amongst the high-octane personalities of Formula 1 had dissolved. You learned to navigate the complex ecosystem of engineers, mechanics, and drivers, each with their own unique demands and idiosyncrasies. You were part of the family, and a part of that family now included a quiet, watchful gratitude towards Oscar.

You started seeing him more often, naturally, in the course of your work. But also, just around. Most of the time, he was with Lando, their contrasting energies a delightful spectacle. Lando, all boisterous charm and cheeky grins, would inevitably nudge Oscar, a conspiratorial glint in his eye, muttering something you couldn’t quite decipher but always ended with a burst of laughter from Lando. Oscar, in turn, would push him back, a flush creeping up his neck, his lips twisted into a pout that struggled to hide a playful smile. They’d walk away, still bickering and laughing, a constant, comforting presence in the background of your days. You’d find yourself watching them, a soft smile forming on your lips.

Your job, though, was less about watching and more about scrutinising. As the senior Sports Scientist – Human Data Science, your world revolved around the numbers, the physiological metrics that dictated performance, recovery, and potential. You dealt with terabytes of information: heart rate variability, sleep cycles, muscular output, cognitive load, hydration levels, biometrics sensors, even eye-tracking data. And yes, a significant portion of that data belonged to Oscar and Lando.

You’d spend hours poring over their readouts, looking for patterns, anomalies, areas of improvement, or potential strain. You knew Oscar’s resting heart rate, his peak VO2 max, his optimal sleep duration, the slight asymmetry in his muscular output after a particularly demanding race. You knew how his mental fatigue correlated with his reaction times during simulator sessions. You knew Lando’s tendency to run a little hotter, his unique recovery profile, the subtle indicators in his data when he was fighting off a cold. You knew them, in a way, more intimately than almost anyone else, a purely scientific, data-driven intimacy.

This unique insight made you a go-to person for Lando, especially when it came to Oscar. Lando, bless his energetic soul, had adopted you as Oscar’s unofficial medical proxy. Whenever Oscar had a bad result, a frustrating practice session, or a particularly gruelling physical training day, Lando would materialise at your office door, leaning against the frame with a worried frown.

“He’s a bit down today, you know,” Lando would announce, as if you hadn’t already seen the dip in Oscar’s cognitive load metrics and the slightly elevated cortisol levels reported by the smart patch. “His lap times were… not great. Is he, like, okay? Physically? Mentally?”

You’d nod, pulling up Oscar’s latest data. “His recovery from last week’s race was a little slower than usual, Lando. We’re working on adjusting his cool-down protocols. And he had a slightly interrupted sleep cycle last night, which could affect focus.” You’d carefully explain the science, your voice calm and reassuring, knowing that Lando, for all his japes, genuinely cared about his teammate.

Another time, after a particularly punishing triple-header, Lando found you in the cafeteria, looking utterly dejected. “Oi, Data Queen, you seen Oscar? He’s been quiet, not his usual quiet, but like, really quiet. And he keeps rubbing his neck.”

You’d already noted the slight increase in muscle tension activity around Oscar’s cervical spine in the previous day’s sensor data. “He’s experiencing some mild neck strain, likely from the high G-forces and extended track time. We’ve scheduled a physiotherapy session for him this afternoon, and I’ve recommended some targeted stretches. He’s probably just a bit sore.”

Lando would visibly relax, a grateful smile spreading across his face. “Right, okay. Good. So he’s not, like, actually broken then?”

You’d roll your eyes playfully. “Not yet, Lando. My job is to make sure he doesn’t get there.”

It was clear that Lando saw you as Oscar’s de facto doctor, capable of fixing any physical or mental ailment simply by consulting your screens. And in a way, you were. You were Oscar’s early warning system, his performance guardian.

One crisp morning, you were out on the MTC track, following Oscar and his personal trainer during one of their "big training sessions." These weren't just gym workouts; they were intense, multi-disciplinary sessions designed to simulate race conditions, pushing the drivers to their absolute limits. Oscar was a machine, his focus unwavering, his movements efficient and powerful. He powered through interval runs, then seamlessly transitioned to a series of high-intensity circuit training exercises, sweat beading on his forehead, his breath coming in controlled gasps.

You were there with your tablet, monitoring real-time data streaming from his multiple sensors. You watched his heart rate climb, his oxygen saturation remain steady, his power output consistent. He was performing exceptionally.

After a particularly gruelling sprint, his trainer called for a brief pause. “Okay, Oscar, let’s get a quick heart rate check. Stand still for a moment.”

The trainer placed a manual sensor on Oscar’s wrist, waiting for a stable reading. Oscar, still catching his breath, his chest heaving under his training gear, happened to look up. His eyes, usually sharp and concentrated during these sessions, found yours across the small expanse of the track.

You were just standing there, observing, your pen poised over your tablet, a professional, objective presence. But the moment his gaze met yours, something shifted. A spark, a recognition, passed between you. His lips, slightly parted from exertion, curved just a fraction upwards.

And then, the trainer’s voice broke the silence, a note of surprise in it. “Hmm. That’s an interesting spike.” He gave Oscar a questioning look. “Heart rate just jumped a good ten beats there, mate. Did you just get a sudden burst of adrenaline?”

Oscar’s eyes, still locked with yours, widened almost imperceptibly. A faint blush began to creep up his neck, just like the times Lando nudged him. He quickly averted his gaze, clearing his throat, his hand instinctively going to the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah, probably,” he mumbled, his voice a little rougher than before. “Just… thinking about the next set.”

You felt a blush of your own rising, mirroring his. You knew exactly what had caused that spike. It wasn’t adrenaline from the next set. It was you.

The air between you, which had always been purely professional, suddenly crackled with a new, unspoken awareness. The data, the numbers you meticulously analysed, had just proved something undeniably human, undeniably romantic. Your presence, your gaze, had elicited a measurable, physiological response in him.

From that moment on, every interaction felt charged. The casual greetings held a little more weight. His glances, once fleeting, now lingered a moment longer. You found yourself catching his eye across the garage, or in the paddock, and a silent, knowing smile would pass between you. The data in your endless spreadsheets suddenly had a face, and that face was Oscar Piastri’s, now etched not just in numbers, but in the burgeoning hope of a connection that felt as thrilling and unpredictable as a perfect lap. You were no longer just the Sports Scientist, and he was no longer just the data for you. He was the man who saved you, and the man whose heart, even just for a moment, had quickened at the sight of you. And that, you realised, was a data point even you hadn't anticipated. . . .

The fluorescent hum of the McLaren Technology Centre was a familiar lullaby by the time most people had long since clocked out. For you, the Senior Sports Scientist – Human Data Science, it was usually just the beginning of the quiet, deeply focused hours. Months had blurred into a rhythm since your first day here, a challenging but exhilarating dance with algorithms and athlete biometrics. Your office, a sleek testament to innovation, often felt like a second home, especially when the data decided to whisper its secrets only after sundown.

Tonight was no different. You were deep in the intricate patterns of a driver’s recovery metrics, a complex tapestry of heart rate variability, sleep quality, and muscle activation data. The screens glowed, painting your face in cool blues and greens as your mind mapped out potential improvements, strategies for peak performance. It was a world you loved, a world where numbers told stories of human potential. The clock on your monitor read past 10 PM. A sigh escaped your lips – a mix of satisfaction and exhaustion. The last few lines of code clicked into place, a new model ready for testing. You leaned back, stretching your arms above your head, feeling the satisfying pop of your spine.

The building, usually a hive of activity, was eerily silent now. The only sounds were the distant whir of the server rooms and the soft hum of power. You gathered your things, a stack of printouts, your laptop, and various notebooks, the weight of a productive day settling in your hands. The empty corridors stretched before you, polished floors reflecting the overhead lights like a modern art installation. You were one of the last, as usual, a solitary figure moving through an architectural marvel. It was a testament to your dedication, perhaps, but tonight, a tremor of unease brushed against you. The silence felt heavier than usual.

You reached the main entrance, the glass doors gleaming. The cool night air beckoned, promising relief from the artificial climate within. You pushed through the revolving door, stepping out into the hushed darkness of the McLaren campus. The parking lot was mostly empty, a vast expanse punctuated by a few lone cars. Your own, a modest electric vehicle, was a comforting beacon in the distance.

You were halfway across the plaza, the gentle breeze rustling the papers in your hand, when you felt it – a sudden, jarring grip on your wrist. Your heart leaped into your throat, a primal instinct flaring through your veins. You spun around, your breath catching in your lungs, to come face to face with Mark.

Mark. The name was a ghost from your first week, a memory you’d carefully filed away and tried to forget. You hadn't seen him since then, not a glimpse in the corridors, not a whisper in the staff room. He wasn't in his crisp McLaren uniform now. His clothes were rumpled, his hair dishehevelled, and his eyes, bloodshot and narrowed, held an anger that made your stomach churn. The smell of stale alcohol hung around him like a toxic cloud.

"You!" he snarled, his voice thick and slurred, but laced with a venom that cut through the quiet night. "You were the reason I lost my job, weren't you?"

His grip tightened, his fingers digging uncomfortably into your skin. Shock rooted you to the spot. Your papers, clutched loosely, slipped from your grasp, scattering across the paved ground like fallen leaves. Your carefully plotted graphs and insightful analyses lay vulnerable beneath the lamplight.

"Mark, I— I'm sorry if I got you in trouble," you stammered, the words barely escaping your parched throat. You tried to pull your wrist free, but his hold was iron-strong. His accusation, though vaguely understood, hit you with the force of a physical blow. You remembered the HR meeting, the hushed questions about a "misunderstanding" on your first day. You hadn't explicitly reported him, but you hadn't denied the 'harassment' either. Your discomfort had been obvious enough to someone.

"Sorry doesn't cut it!" he roared, his voice echoing in the stillness. He started pulling you, roughly, towards the parking lot where a few dimly lit cars sat. "You ruined my life! My career! My everything!"

Panic, cold and sharp, coiled in your gut. There was no one around. The security office might be occupied, but it was too far, too out of sight. The vastness of the McLaren campus, usually a point of pride, now felt like an endless, desolate expanse. You kept apologizing, a desperate, automatic response, your voice small and trembling. Each step he forced upon you was a testament to your powerlessness. Your mind raced, searching for an escape, an explanation, anything to de-escalate the situation, but Mark was beyond reason, his eyes burning with a drunken fury that terrified you.

He dragged you past the manicured lawns, past the gleaming water feature, towards the employee parking lot. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence. This was it, you thought, a horrifying, sickening realization. This was how it ended, here, in the dark.

Just as the shadowy outlines of cars grew clearer, a new voice, calm and steady, cut through the tension.

"Mark, I think you should let her go."

Your head snapped up, your eyes frantically scanning the darkness. From the shadows between two parked cars, a figure emerged, tall and composed. Relief, so potent it was almost painful, flooded through you. It was Oscar Piastri. He stood there, not in his racing gear, but in a simple t-shirt and jeans, looking surprisingly normal, but his presence was anything but. In his hand, neatly gathered, were the papers you had dropped.

Mark, startled, loosened his grip for a fraction of a second, just enough for you to wrench your arm free. You stumbled back, clutching your wrist, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Mind your own business, Piastri!" Mark slurred, turning his rage towards the new arrival. "She got me fired! She ruined my life!"

Oscar didn't flinch. His gaze was unwavering, a quiet intensity in his eyes that seemed to absorb Mark’s drunken tirade. "Your actions got you fired, Mark. Not hers." His voice, though soft, carried an undeniable authority. "Now, I suggest you leave. Before things get worse for you."

Mark continued to yell, a torrent of accusations and self-pity, but the fight had visibly drained from him. The presence of a McLaren driver, even off-track, seemed to sober him just enough to realize the precariousness of his position. He cursed, glared, and then, with a final, pathetic snarl, he stumbled away, disappearing back into the deeper shadows of the parking lot.

The sudden silence was deafening. You stood there, trembling, the adrenaline crash hitting you like a physical wave. Your legs gave out, and you sank to the ground, a choked sob escaping your lips. The cool pavement felt rough against your palms as you braced yourself. Your entire body shook, the fear still coursing through you.

Oscar was instantly by your side, kneeling down, his presence a warm anchor in the chaos of your mind. He didn't touch you, but his gaze was soft, concerned. He extended the papers to you, a neat stack. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice low and gentle.

You couldn't speak, only shook your head, still trying to catch your breath. Tears welled in your eyes, hot and unwelcome.

He waited patiently, then, "Would you like me to drive you home?"

You looked up at him, your vision blurry with unshed tears. His face was etched with genuine concern, a hint of something more, something protective. You managed a small, shaky nod. The thought of being alone, of driving yourself, felt utterly impossible.

Oscar helped you to your feet, a steadying hand on your arm. His touch was light, respectful, yet firm enough to convey support. He didn't pry; he just led you to his car, a sleek McLaren Artura, parked a little distance away. The vehicle was a blur of smooth lines and power, a stark contrast to the quiet, vulnerable person you felt like right now. He opened the passenger door for you with a silent grace, and you slid inside, sinking into the plush leather seat. The interior smelled faintly of new car and something subtly masculine – a clean, fresh scent.

The drive was initially silent, punctuated only by the soft hum of the hybrid engine. The darkness outside mirrored the hollow silence within you. You stared out the window, watching the familiar roads pass by, yet feeling utterly disconnected from them. Your hands were still trembling, clasped tightly in your lap.

"I… I didn't know you were still here," you finally managed to whisper, your voice hoarse.

Oscar glanced at you briefly, his profile illuminated by the passing streetlights. "I was just doing some simulator work. Went longer than I expected. Saw Mark on my way out, looking agitated. Then I saw him grab you." He paused. "I'm glad I did."

A wave of embarrassment washed over you. You, the Senior Sports Scientist, reduced to a trembling mess in front of one of McLaren's star drivers. "Thank you," you said, the words barely audible. "You… you really saved me."

"He shouldn't have been there," Oscar stated, his voice firm, a hint of steel beneath the gentleness. "And he definitely shouldn't have touched you."

You swallowed, remembering Mark’s accusations. "I think… I think someone reported him after our first day. He was… quite inappropriate. I didn't mean for him to lose his job, but I guess my discomfort was clear."

Oscar nodded slowly. "Actions have consequences. You have every right to feel safe at your workplace. And anywhere, for that matter." His words were a balm, a quiet validation that eased a sliver of the lingering shame.

The silence that followed wasn't heavy or awkward, but comfortable, punctuated by the soft purr of the engine and the quiet rhythm of your breathing. You found yourself stealing glances at him – the strong line of his jaw, the focused intensity in his eyes as he navigated the road, the way his hands rested easily on the steering wheel. He was calm, collected, and strikingly handsome. A different kind of warmth, soft and unfamiliar, began to bloom in your chest, slowly pushing away the lingering fear.

"You dropped these," he said suddenly, looking over at you. He reached across the console, handing you the neatly stacked papers. Your fingers brushed as you took them, and a jolt, subtle but undeniable, shot through you. His skin was warm, firm. For a moment, your eyes met, and in that brief exchange, something unspoken passed between you – a shared moment of intensity, a recognition. It was more than just gratitude; it was an awareness, a spark.

"Thank you," you murmured again, suddenly shy. You tucked the papers into your bag, your heart doing a strange little flutter.

The car pulled up to your apartment building, its sleek form looking almost out of place on the quiet residential street. He turned off the engine, plunging the interior into a deeper, more intimate silence. The streetlights cast long shadows through the windows.

"Are you sure you'll be alright tonight?" he asked, his voice low, his eyes searching yours. The concern was still there, but now, mixed with something else, something softer, perhaps a touch of curiosity.

You took a deep breath. The trembling had subsided, replaced by a lingering exhaustion and a surprising sense of calm, largely due to his presence. "Yes," you said, finding your voice. "I think so. Thank you, Oscar. Truly. I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't been there."

He gave a small, reassuring smile. "Don't worry about it. Just glad I was." He paused, then, "Perhaps… we could grab coffee sometime? Properly, I mean. Not under quite such… dramatic circumstances."

Your heart skipped a beat. A genuine smile, radiant and unforced, finally graced your lips. "I'd like that very much, Oscar."

He nodded, a hint of relief in his expression. "Good. Get some rest. And if you need anything, don't hesitate to call security. Or… me." He offered a hesitant, almost shy small smile then.

You felt a blush creep up your neck. "Thank you," you repeated, your voice softer now, tinged with a new, unexpected emotion. You reached for the door handle, but hesitated, turning back to him. "You know, for someone who avoids attention, you're pretty good at being a hero."

He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that made your knees feel a little weak. "Just being in the right place at the right time. Or perhaps, the wrong place at the right time for Mark."

You stepped out of the car, the cool night air feeling less menacing now. He waited until you were safely inside the building, watching from his car, before his taillights flared and the McLaren Artura glided away into the night.

You walked into your apartment, the silence here feeling different now, no longer empty but filled with the echo of a brave voice, a kind gaze, and the unexpected promise of a future you hadn't dared to imagine just hours ago. The fear hadn't completely vanished, but it was overshadowed by a new, hopeful warmth. Your wrist would likely bruise, but the memory of Mark’s grip was already fading, replaced by the memory of Oscar’s steadying hand, his quiet strength, and the unexpected tenderness in his offer of a ride home. And that invitation for coffee… a surprising, delightful thought that settled gently into your heart, turning a terrifying night into the most unlikely of new beginnings.

The hum of the McLaren Technology Centre had become your second heartbeat over the past two months. As a Senior Sports Scientist – Human Data Science, you’d been thrown headfirst into the high-octane world of Formula 1, and you loved every nanosecond of it. Your expertise lay in deciphering the subtle language of the human body under extreme pressure, transforming raw biometric and performance data into actionable insights. It was a demanding, exhilarating role, and you’d quickly endeared yourself to the team, finding an easy camaraderie with everyone, including the two young stars, Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri.

But this weekend was different. This was your first race week, and a fizzing excitement had taken root deep in your gut. You couldn't wait to see the data stream in real-time, to witness the tangible impact of your work.

The initial buzz, however, quickly met the harsh reality of the circuit. Free Practice unfolded like a cruel joke for Oscar. Session after session, his name stubbornly clung to the lower half of the top ten, never quite breaking through. Tenth, eleventh, ninth – consistently out of reach of the front-runners. You watched the telemetry, the subtle shifts in his heart rate, the minute adjustments to his steering input, trying to pinpoint the elusive issue. Meanwhile, Lando, a vibrant splash of orange against the track, dominated, consistently placing in the top three. The contrast was stark, almost painful to observe.

Then came Qualifying. The tension in the garage was palpable, a thick, suffocating blanket. Your eyes were glued to Oscar’s monitor as Q1 passed, a relief, but then Q2 began. He pushed, you could feel it through the data, a desperate surge of effort. Then, a sudden, sickening halt. Engine failure. The words echoed through the comms, cold and final.

Silence descended, broken only by the whirring of cooling fans and the distant roar of other cars. You saw Oscar’s car being marshalled off the track on the big screens. When he eventually returned to the garage, his helmet was still on, but even through the visor, you could sense the rigid frustration emanating from him. He removed it, his jaw tight, eyes fixed straight ahead, avoiding everyone’s gaze. He didn't shout, didn't punch anything; he simply exuded a quiet, intense disappointment that was far more unsettling than any outburst. You watched him disappear into his room, a knot forming in your stomach.

Lando, meanwhile, oblivious to everything but his rhythm, delivered a superb lap, snatching pole position. The team erupted in cheers, a bittersweet cacophony that felt jarring against the scene of Oscar’s quiet defeat.

After the debrief, a subdued affair where Oscar offered only curt, clipped responses, he vanished, the lock on his driver’s room clicking shut with an almost audible finality. A few minutes later, the familiar, lanky figure of Lando appeared in your office doorway, then slumped into one of your visitor chairs.

He ran a hand through his hair, his brow furrowed with genuine concern. "He hasn't spoken to me since the debrief. He never does that! He always talks to me afterwards, even when things are bad." Lando’s voice was laced with a frustration born of worry. "I just... I don't know what to do."

You leaned back in your chair, your fingers still hovering over your keyboard. "Maybe he needs some time alone to think of how he can improve himself, Lando. Give him some time." You offered, hoping it was true, yet feeling a pang of unease yourself.

Lando sighed, then looked at you, a familiar, mischievous grin slowly spreading across his face. "Sure, maybe… or maybe you can speak to him?"

You looked up, genuinely confused. "Why me?"

"You two look close," Lando suggested, his grin widening. "Maybe he might listen to you."

You paused, processing his words. Close. You and Oscar had indeed found an easy rhythm. Your daily data check-ins often morphed into longer chats about anything and everything. He always had a ready smile for you, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that had become surprisingly endearing. He’d even started asking you questions about your work, genuinely curious, which was a refreshing change from some of the more technical heads you usually dealt with. Yes, you supposed you were close friends.

"Okay," you finally conceded, pushing away from your desk. "I'll talk to him after the race tomorrow."

Lando’s face lit up. "Great! See you, Y/N!" He sprang up, clearly relieved, and headed for the door.

"Bye, Lando," you called after him, a small smile touching your lips. "And great job on pole position."

The next day, a nervous energy pulsed through the paddock. You kept a watchful eye on Oscar. He looked a little better, his usual composed demeanor mostly restored, if a touch more reserved.

Out on track for the warm-up, he managed to clock a respectable tenth, a small glimmer of hope.

The grid formed, engines roared, and the lights went out. The race began. Oscar, starting further back, drove with a quiet determination. You watched his telemetry, saw his focus, his precision.

He was gaining positions, slowly but steadily climbing. Tenth, then ninth, then eighth. Hope flickered, tangible and warm.

Then, the world seemed to freeze.

A blur of red and orange. A sudden, sickening lurch on the screen. Charles Leclerc’s Ferrari, unseen, clipped Oscar’s rear wheel.

In a horrifying, slow-motion ballet of twisted metal and flying carbon fibre, Oscar’s car was sent spinning, then flipped into the wall, a violent, deafening crunch that reverberated through the very foundations of the garage.

Silence.

Not the quiet, tense silence of frustration, but a profound, chilling void. The commentary died, the cheers from spectators faded into a distant murmur.

Everyone’s breath hitched. Your heart slammed against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage.

The marshals sprinted, a flurry of orange vests against the smoking wreckage. Medical teams were already on their way. You couldn’t do anything. Absolutely nothing.

Your hands clenched into fists, nails digging into your palms as you stared at the shattered image on the screen, a cold dread seeping into your bones. The data stream from his car flatlined.

The minutes that followed felt like an eternity. Your eyes flitted between the screens, searching for any sign of movement from the car, any update from the race control.

Lando, who had been leading the race, was now behind the safety car, his car a blur in your peripheral vision, but you knew his focus was also on that mangled orange machine.

Finally, word filtered through, hushed and urgent. Oscar was conscious. He was being extracted.

A wave of relief, so potent it almost buckled your knees, washed over you, followed by another surge of fear. Conscious wasn’t the same as uninjured.

The team erupted into a storm of activity, preparing for the hospital, for the debriefs, for the endless questions. But your world had narrowed to a single point: Oscar.

The professional distance, the analytical approach you cultivated, shattered. All that remained was an overwhelming, unqualified worry. This wasn’t just about data anymore.

Hours later, the paddock emptied, the roar of engines replaced by the distant hum of generators. You found yourself in a sterile, brightly lit hospital waiting room with Zak, Andrea, and Lando.

Time stretched, elastic and slow. Lando paced, his usual ebullience replaced by a an anxious quiet. He kept glancing at the door, then at you, as if searching for reassurance you couldn't give.

Finally, a doctor emerged, grave but with a hint of relief in his eyes. "He's stable," he said, and the collective sigh of the team was almost an audible thing. "Fractured wrist, some bruising, and a significant concussion. But he's going to be okay. He's awake, a little disoriented, but asking for... well, he's asking for a few people. We're keeping him overnight for observation."

"Can we see him?" Lando asked immediately, his voice hoarse.

"Briefly," the doctor conceded. "One at a time, for now. He needs rest."

Lando volunteered first, disappearing down the corridor. You sat, still trembling slightly, trying to process the relief that warred with the lingering shock.

When Lando returned, his expression was a mix of relief and lingering sadness. He gave you a small, encouraging nod. “He’s pretty out of it, but… he asked for you, actually.”

Your breath hitched. He asked for you.

Your turn. You walked down the quiet corridor, your heart thudding a new, anxious rhythm. The door opened to a small, private room. Oscar lay in the bed, pale against the crisp white sheets.

His right arm was in a cast, suspended in a sling. His eyes, usually so sharp and observant, were a little hazy, but they focused on you as you stepped inside.

"Hey, Oscar," you said softly, your voice surprisingly steady. You moved to the chair beside his bed, sitting down gently.

He managed a weak smile, a shadow of his usual charming grin. "Y/N," he rasped, his voice rough. "You're… here."

"Of course I am," you replied, a small, genuine smile curving your lips. "Are you in much pain?"

He shook his head slightly, wincing. "Just… my head. And my wrist. Feels like I went a few rounds with a heavyweight." He chuckled, a dry, painful sound.

You watched him, the raw vulnerability in his eyes a stark contrast to the composed, almost stoic young man you usually saw.

His competitive fire, usually so tightly contained, had been almost extinguished by the crash, leaving behind a fragility that tugged at something deep inside you.

"That was quite a hit," you said, your voice gentle. "Everyone was really worried."

He closed his eyes for a moment. "Yeah. Engine failure yesterday. This today." He took a shaky breath. "It's been a hell of a weekend." The anger, the frustration from yesterday, was still there, but now it was layered with a profound weariness. "I just wanted to… I wanted to prove myself. To get some points. And then… this."

You reached out, covering his uninjured hand with yours. His skin was cool, a little clammy. "You were doing brilliantly out there, Oscar. You were climbing through the field. That crash… it wasn't your fault. Charles has already accepted responsibility."

He opened his eyes, looking at your hand on his, then back up at you. His gaze was searching, vulnerable. "It still feels like… like I let everyone down. Like I can't catch a break."

"No one thinks that, Oscar," you insisted, your thumb gently stroking the back of his hand. "We all saw how hard you were fighting. That's what matters. You were incredible." You squeezed his hand. "And we're just relieved you're okay. That's the most important thing."

A genuine, albeit tired, smile finally touched his lips, and a spark, a faint echo of his usual warmth, returned to his eyes. He squeezed your hand back, a weak but definite pressure. "Thanks, Y/N." His gaze lingered on yours, and for a moment, the sterile hospital room faded away.

The spell was broken by a soft knock on the door. A nurse peered in, her smile apologetic. "Just checking in, Mr. Piastri. Time for a little more rest."

You took your cue, gently withdrawing your hand. "I should let you get some sleep, Oscar." You stood, the chair scraping softly against the linoleum.

He frowned slightly, the corners of his mouth dipping. "Already?" he rasped, a hint of genuine disappointment in his voice.

You smiled, a genuine, warm smile that reached your eyes. "I'll be back tomorrow, I promise. Get some rest." You gave him a small, reassuring nod, then turned and left the room, the image of his pale face and that fragile, hopeful look imprinted on your mind.

Walking back down the corridor, the hospital air felt heavy, yet exhilarating. The raw fear of the crash had finally begun to recede, replaced by a profound relief, and something else – a soft, insistent warmth centered around your heart.

Your professional distance had been shattered by the sight of that mangled car, by the flatlined telemetry, by the terrifying silence. But visiting Oscar, seeing him so vulnerable, so human, had awakened something deeper. This wasn't just about his recovery data anymore. This was about him.

The next few weeks were a blur of recovery, strategy, and an unexpected intimacy that grew between you and Oscar. Your role as Sports Scientist – Human Data Science naturally brought you into his recovery process.

You were tasked with monitoring his initial cognitive function, assessing his physical rehabilitation progress, and ensuring his mental well-being was accounted for alongside the physiological markers.

It was a perfect, professional excuse to see him, to be there for him.

He was discharged a few days later, still sporting the cast on his right arm and a lingering headache from the concussion, but infinitely more comfortable in the privacy of his apartment than in a hospital bed.

McLaren had set up a robust recovery plan, with physical therapists, neurologists, and sports psychologists all on standby. And you.

You'd bring work files, debrief notes, and data simulations to his apartment, ostensibly to keep him engaged and informed, but often staying longer, talking about anything and everything. He was a restless patient, often frustrated by the forced inactivity.

The competitive fire, though subdued, still flickered, making him chafe at being benched. You saw past the frustration to the fear beneath, the worry that this crash might set him back, that he might never quite regain his edge.

"It's like my body knows what it wants to do, but my brain's a step behind," he’d sigh, running his uninjured hand through his hair, a gesture of exasperation. "And this cast… it's really cramping my style for sim racing."

You'd chuckle, "Give yourself a break, Oscar. Your brain just took a pretty big hit. It needs time to defrag. And your wrist needs to knit back together." You'd set down a tablet with some updated telemetry from the previous race. "Lando drove a brilliant race, by the way. He really dedicated it to you."

He'd nod, a small, genuine smile forming. "Yeah, I saw. He messaged me. Said he missed having me there to complain about."

Your conversations flowed easily, often drifting from F1 to mundane life, to shared jokes, to surprisingly deep discussions about his childhood, your career path, the pressures of the sport.

You found yourself looking forward to these visits with an eagerness that surprised you. He, in turn, started calling you, not just for work-related questions, but for company, for a distraction.

"Hey, Y/N, you busy? Just wondering if you know if the new Xbox game came out yet," he'd text, or, "Fancy getting a coffee? I'm craving a decent flat white and I'm not allowed to drive yet."

Lando, ever observant, didn't miss a beat. During one of your visits to the MTC, when Oscar was allowed to come in for some light gym work, Lando cornered you by the coffee machine.

"So, you're practically his personal nurse now, are you?" Lando teased, a playful glint in his eye.

You rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips. "I'm his Sports Scientist, Lando. It's my job to ensure his recovery is optimal."

"Right, right," Lando said, taking a sip of his coffee. "Just, you know, 'optimal' often involves less, uh, giggling over bad Netflix shows and more, uh, electrodes and data. Not that I'm complaining. He seems a lot less grumpy when you're around." He winked conspiratorially. "Just saying. Don't let him charm you too much. He's got a reputation, you know."

You scoffed good-naturedly, but a warmth spread through you. Lando saw it too. Everyone did. The connection wasn't just unspoken anymore; it was practically visible.

As the weeks turned into a little over a month, Oscar’s physical recovery was progressing remarkably well. The cast was off, replaced by a brace he wore occasionally.

He was back in the simulator, though cautiously, and gradually increasing his training. His concussion symptoms had mostly abated, though the team was still cautious.

He was set to return to the paddock for the next race, not to drive, but to be with the team, to observe, to feel the familiar thrum of the racing world.

One late afternoon, you were at his apartment. You’d been reviewing some simulated race data for him, comparing it to his pre-crash baseline. He was sitting on the sofa, nursing a mug of herbal tea, watching you.

The setting sun cast a warm, golden glow through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The usual professional banter had died down, replaced by a comfortable silence.

You finished making a note on your tablet and looked up, meeting his eyes. He wasn't smiling, but his gaze was soft, intense. He looked nervous, his brow furrowed almost imperceptibly.

"Oscar? Everything okay?" you asked, a touch of concern in your voice.

He cleared his throat, setting his mug down on the coffee table with a soft clink. He leaned forward slightly, his hands clasped together. "Yeah, uh… yeah, it is. It's just…" He trailed off, looking away for a moment, then back at you, his brown eyes searching. "I've been thinking."

Your heart gave a little lurch. This felt different.

"About… the data?" you prompted gently, trying to keep your voice neutral.

He gave a short, humourless laugh. "No, not the data. Well, maybe a little. But mostly… about us. About you and me."

Your breath hitched. You waited, a knot forming in your stomach, a mix of apprehension and eager anticipation.

He took a shaky breath, his gaze fixed on some point just past your shoulder, then he forced himself to meet your eyes again. "Y/N, ever since… well, ever since that weekend, and with everything that's happened, and you being here almost every day…"

He paused, visibly gathering his thoughts, his usual composure completely gone. He was rambling, something you rarely saw from the usually meticulous Oscar. "I just really enjoy spending time with you and you really have become someone very special to me and-"

"Hey... calm down, it's okay," you interrupted softly, a gentle smile blooming on your face. You reached out, placing your hand over his clasped ones. His skin was warm, a little sweaty. "Breathe."

He visibly relaxed under your touch, taking a deeper breath. His eyes, still wide with a mix of fear and hope, were now solely on you.

"Sorry," he mumbled, a faint blush creeping up his neck. "I'm not usually this… eloquent." He tried a small, self-deprecating smile.

You squeezed his hand. "You're doing fine. What were you trying to say, Oscar?"

He swallowed, his gaze darting to your lips for a fleeting moment before returning to your eyes. "I… I really like you, Y/N. More than just a colleague, or even a friend. I know it's probably crazy, with everything going on, and the team, and my recovery, but… I can't stop thinking about you."

He cleared his throat again. "And I was wondering… if after everything, and when I'm properly back on my feet, if you'd… if you'd consider going on a date with me? A proper one. Outside of this apartment, outside of McLaren."

The world seemed to hold its breath. This was it. The silent understanding that had been building for weeks, now laid bare, vulnerable.

An answering warmth bloomed in your chest, blossoming into undeniable joy. You had suspected, you had hoped, but to hear him say it, to see the raw honesty in his eyes, was something else entirely.

You found yourself grinning, a wide, genuine smile that made your eyes crinkle at the corners. "Oscar Piastri, are you asking me out?" you teased gently, your thumb caressing the back of his hand.

He let out a shaky laugh, a wave of relief washing over his features. "I… I believe I am, yes."

"And you're worried about what the team will say?"

"A little," he admitted, his gaze softening. "But mostly I was worried you'd say no."

You leaned closer, your voice dropping to a soft murmur. "Well, you don't have to worry about that." Your smile widened. "I'd love to go on a date with you, Oscar. A proper one."

A genuine, radiant smile finally broke through the nervous tension on his face. It was the first time you'd seen him completely free of the shadows of the crash, completely himself, in weeks.

His grip on your hand tightened, a confident, hopeful pressure. "Really?"

"Really," you confirmed, your eyes twinkling. You felt a lightness in your chest, a sense of rightness. This was a new adventure, one you hadn't planned for when you joined McLaren, but one you were incredibly excited to embark on.

He leaned in slowly, his eyes still fixed on yours, a question forming in their depths. You didn't pull away. Instead, you mirrored his movement, closing the small gap between you.

His lips were soft, hesitant at first, then more confident as you responded. It was a gentle kiss, a promise of something new and beautiful, full of the unspoken feelings that had simmered for weeks.

When you pulled apart, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm on your cheek.

"Wow," he whispered, a small, breathless laugh escaping him.

You chuckled, your heart soaring. "Yeah. Wow."

The sun had finally set, bathing the room in soft twilight. The Mclaren data could wait. For now, there was just this, this new, exhilarating connection, forged in the crucible of a terrifying crash and nurtured in the quiet moments of recovery.

This wasn't just about human data science anymore. This was just human. And it was wonderful. . . .

[klymilark]

For mobile NewPipe works, but it's iffy with a VPN. Also anything that's labeled as mature is blocked (that's all third party clients though). You can also download your subscriber list off of YouTube and upload it to NewPipe, which for people who only watch videos is basically your entire account.

You can do the same with Invidious BTW! Instructions linked

Other browsers are going to be Chromium based (which is fine. Google does control a lot of Chromium, but you can find forks that strip out all of the google stuff). Vivaldi is the Chromium fork I use on desktop, Vanadium on mobile, Floorp is the Firefox fork I use, Fennec on mobile (I'm also not using Firefox directly because they've made their intentions clear). My actual main browser is Qutebrowser on desktop, but it's for people who are okay memorizing keybindings.

For email I use mailbox.org ($36/yr), I've also used disroot.org ($0/year). Disroot has a lot of other services, and I'd recommend at least looking at them if you're trying to get off Google.

While switching all of my stuff has taken years of tinkering and looking around, but the finding is the hard part. Disroot takes a couple days to approve an account (if you don't want it tied to Google At All I'd recommend setting up a temporary account on altaddress.org to set it up, you'll want to do the same for protonmail). Besides that it's a lot of waiting for downloads, and then waiting to reupload. You can switch everything over in a couple of hours.

Tip for switching emails: Forward your gmail to your new mailbox, and then set all of the emails that come from that to go to a folder called "Change me" or something. That way you can see what you still need to change, and it's just a process of changing them as they pop up instead of having to do a massive cleanup right now.

Oh! And for passwords: Disroot's cloud service has a password bank last I checked, and KeepassXC is what I've been using for about 15 years to manage mine! You can export it from Google as well

Welp. Google's AI horseshit has arrived. And I'm not complying. They can pry my ID out of my cold dead hands. I will simply go elsewhere. Remember folks, DO NOT GIVE THEM YOUR IDs. Do not comply. Resist, fight it, use other browsers or sources beyond youtube and google controlled services. Call them. Email them. Make noise. Fight back.

[cottoncandyswirls]

sukuna loves to record you while he fucking you

the first time you noticed it, you were lost in the haze of him. his two lower arms were braced on either side of your head, a cage of muscle and ancient ink, while the top set did things to your body that made you see static. his mouth was at your throat, teeth scraping your pulse point, a low growl vibrating against your skin. you were so close, so utterly wrecked and pliant beneath him, that the soft, almost imperceptible click didn’t register. not until the faint, dim glow of a screen caught your bleary, half-lidded gaze.

you turned your head slightly on the sweat-damp pillow, trying to focus. there, propped up on a stack of discarded robes on the nightstand, was a phone. his phone. and it was recording. the red dot was a tiny, malevolent eye, unblinking, capturing every shudder, every tear, every broken plea that fell from your lips.

“s-sukuna?” you slurred, your voice thick and unfamiliar to your own ears.

he didn’t stop. his rhythm, a brutal, punishing pace that had you seeing stars, didn’t falter. one of his upper hands slid from your hip to grip your jaw, forcing your face toward the camera. his thumb pressed against your bottom lip, smearing spit and making you look utterly debauched.

“shhh, little one,” he rumbled, his voice a dark caress that went straight to your core. “just capturing a moment, my favorite moment.” he drove into you harder, a sharp, punctuating thrust that stole the air from your lungs. “the moment you forget how to be anything but mine, look at you. look at how pretty you are for me, for this.”

humiliation, hot and sharp, lanced through the pleasure. you tried to turn your face away, but his grip was iron. “please… don’t…”

“don’t?” he chuckled, a low, wicked sound. he leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “but you’re my most treasured possession, and a king documents his treasures. i want to remember the exact shade of pink on your cheeks when you cum. the way your eyes roll back, the pathetic, little hiccupping sounds you make when i’m buried so deep you can’t remember your own name.”

he adjusted his angle, hitting a spot that made you cry out, a sharp, involuntary sound that was immediately swallowed by his mouth crashing down on yours. it was a claiming, a branding. all the while, the camera recorded it.

it became a ritual. the phone would appear, sometimes held by one of his lower hands, the screen angled for a more intimate, devastating view. he became a director, a perverted auteur obsessed with his star.

“arch your back for me, pet. yes, just like that. let the camera see how perfectly you take me.”

“say my name. louder. i want the microphone to pick it up, filthy and broken.”

“look at the lens. look at it when you come. i want to see the exact second you shatter.”

he’d replay the videos for you afterward, forcing you to watch your own degradation with his chest pressed against your back, his chin hooked over your shoulder. his laughter was a dark rumble as you squirmed in shame.

“see?” he’d purr, pausing on a frame where your face was a mess of tears and ecstasy. “a work of art. this one… this one is when i had three fingers in your pretty little mouth while i fucked you. you were gagging so sweetly.” he’d fast forward. “and this… this is my favorite. the sound you made when i finally let you cum. it’s pathetic, i’ve listened to it a hundred times.”

the worst was when he’d get creative. he’d use the camera’s light to illuminate the darkest, most private parts of your joining, commenting on the lewd, wet sounds it captured. he’d zoom in on where your bodies were connected, on the tears tracking through your mascara, on the bite marks he left littering your thighs.

“i’m building a collection,” he confessed one night, his voice giddy with perverse pride as he scrolled through a hidden folder labeled ‘mine.’ hundreds of videos. hours of you. “a library of every time i’ve ruined you. i watch them when i’m bored. when i’m on a tedious mission. it’s better than any memory. it’s real, it’s raw.”

he’d kiss your shoulder, a mockery of tenderness. “someday, if you’re ever foolish enough to think of leaving, i’ll have these. a perfect, digital reminder of who you really belong to. who you really are when you’re stripped bare. my perfect, filthy little thing. forever captured in high definition.”

and as he’d flip you onto your stomach, reaching for the phone to set up the next shot, you’d realize the deepest violation wasn’t the physical one. it was this. it was knowing that your most vulnerable, animalistic moments were not just for him, but for his cold, unblinking archive. a testament to his ownership, a dirty little secret he kept and cherished, a sick bastard with a camera and an eternity to rewatch you break for him, over and over again.

[rylem33]

The Fortress

Here's a super-hero corruption story for you all. Enjoy! The soil was dry again. Millie dragged the hose across the rows of overgrown tomato plants, the worn denim of her jeans darkening at the knees where she’d crouched too long. She thumbed the nozzle and sent a lazy arc of water over the vines. Her arms still remembered how to throw a car, but these days they were just good for digging up weeds and hauling compost. It was easier this way.

She adjusted the bandana tied over her hair. No one expected much from a woman with dirt under her fingernails and a sunburn on her shoulders. That’s what she needed. That’s what she’d chosen.

“Hey, Millie!” A voice called from behind the chain-link. Kevin, the college kid that lived nearby, waved as he jogged past. “You gonna be around next week?”

Millie raised a hand in return. “As long as the beans keep growing.”

He laughed and kept running.

She stayed for another ten minutes, pretending to check on the kale. But really, she was just listening to the distant buzz of cicadas. The garden was relaxing. It kept her mind off things.

This is better, she reminded herself. This is how it has to be.

Her tote bag was heavy with gloves and produce as she walked home. The town had grown on her after all her time in the city. It was a small place with smaller people and no skyline in sight. No one here remembered The Fortress.  Her she was just Millie.

She passed the bakery and caught her reflection in the window. She hadn’t thrown a punch in three years, but her body was still toned. She had always been that way, ever since her powers manifested.  The ability to be super-strong as The Fortress also impacted her “normal” self.

The house she rented was nothing special, one story and modest. But it was hers, and more importantly, it was quiet. She stepped up onto the porch, dropped the tote by the bench, and sat on the top step, elbows on her knees, fingers laced. The breeze was warm.

She heard the steps before she saw the man. She recognized them immediately. Her spine straightened before she realized it, some buried instinct flaring up through the years of repression. She rose slowly and turned towards her old friend.

Rhys walked up the steps to her porch with a lazy smile.  He looked mostly the same, tall and thick-shouldered, but older now.  She guessed they were both looking older now. 

“Hey, Millie,” he said, his voice low and familiar.

Millie blinked at him, unsure what part of her wanted to push him away and what part of her wanted to throw her arms around his neck.

“Rhys,” she managed. “That’s a voice I haven’t heard in years.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Didn’t know if you still wanted me around.”

She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe. “I’m not sure I do, though it’s nothing against you.  You know that.”

“I get it,” he said. “You look… different.”

“Good.”

“Not good. Just… different.”

Millie exhaled through her nose. “Cut to it. You didn’t drive three hours to make small talk.”

Rhys glanced over his shoulder, then he pulled a thick folder from inside his jacket and held it out.

She didn’t move to take it.

He kept his arm extended. “I know what he did to you. What he started. But that was three years ago.”

“That’s not long enough.”

“He’s active again. Stronger. And he’s not working alone anymore.”

Millie narrowed her eyes but didn’t take the folder. “Then call someone else. There’s a whole new crop of kids out there who’d kill for a shot.”

“None of them are you.”

“Exactly.”

Rhys stepped closer, forcing her to meet his gaze. “I wouldn’t be here if I had any other option, Mills. You think I want to drag you back into this? But I’ve seen what happens when we sit on our hands. We don’t have time.”

She snatched the folder, but didn’t open it. Not yet.

“I gave it up,” she said. “Because I had to. Because I could feel it. Whatever that bastard did to me, whatever his corruption changed in me. I could feel it waiting. Clawing at the inside of my skull. I stopped because if I didn’t, I was going to hurt someone.”

“I know,” Rhys said, his voice quieter now. “That’s why I’m here. Because you’re the only one who would rather quit than go dark.”

They stood in silence for a long time. Only the cicadas made a sound.

Finally, she stepped back into the doorway.

“You’ve got five minutes to convince me,” she said. “And if I don’t like what’s in that folder, I’m burning it.”

Rhys nodded and stepped inside.

----------------------------------

The footage replayed for the fifth time in twenty minutes. Millie sat frozen on the weight bench at the gym. She watched emergency personnel pick through the rubble of a collapsed parking structure, dragging twisted metal aside to free trapped bodies. Fires raged along the outer edge of the frame. Civilians ran for cover. The screaming was muted, but it was still clear.

At the center of it all, behind the smoke and chaos, stood him. His crimson coat swayed as he walked calmly through the carnage. The camera tried to zoom in, tried to get a clear shot. Millie already knew who it was.

The Corrupter had returned and was creating chaos.

There were maybe four people inside the gym and no one paid her any attention as she got off the bench and walked to the locker room.

She stood in front of the mirror and willed herself to become The Fortress. The transformation didn’t happen all at once. It began with pressure. Heat crawled across her skin, then buried itself deeper. Her chest pulled tight and she clenched her fists as the first wave passed through her muscles.

Her calves thickened visibly as her stance adjusted. Her thighs followed next, growing denser, stronger. Her glutes rounded and rose with the same tension she remembered from years ago. It was like the strength was bubbling up from inside and forcing its way out.

Her torso followed. Her abdominals contracted hard, deep lines cutting across her midsection as the muscle rebuilt itself in seconds. Her waist tightened, but only to exaggerate the new size of her lats and shoulders. Her arms pulsed outward, biceps and triceps reemerging with perfect symmetry and explosive mass. She rolled her shoulders back as they bulked into the full frame of The Fortress. Her delts capped into place, neck thickening just enough to support the shift in her posture.

She exhaled sharply.

Her spine straightened and she rose to her full height of 6’8”.  Once again, she was The Fortress. 

When she stepped back out onto the gym floor, people noticed. One of the treadmill runners slowed to a walk, glancing sideways. The man on the bench did a double-take, eyes drifting from her face down to her waist and then lower, before quickly looking away. She didn’t acknowledge any of it.

She walked directly to the squat rack.

She didn’t warm-up, she didn’t need to. She loaded four plates on each side of the barbell, ducked under, braced, and stood with it like it weighed nothing. Her legs barely flinched. She dropped into a full squat and exploded back up. Once. Twice. Ten reps in, she re-racked the bar and moved on to the sled.

One of the gym-goers muttered something under his breath. She heard it but didn’t really care.

She reached for the sled handles, loaded on more weight than the average gym even kept on hand, and pushed across the turf with steady, controlled steps. The floor rumbled with every pass. Her forearms strained, glistening under the overhead lights. Veins surfaced across her arms and shoulders, clearly visible now. Her stomach was a wall of tight muscle, her legs pumped with power she hadn’t felt in years.

A few onlookers had stopped pretending not to watch. It’s hard to ignore the massively tall, blonde, visibly muscular woman in tight blue gymwear as she bench pressed the entire rack of weights.  Not that she minded.  She actually kind of liked the attention.

It felt good to be back.

Twenty minutes later, she stepped out into the night air. Her body still hummed with energy. Every inch of her was sharp and capable. 

The Corrupter had made his return and so had The Fortress.

She turned east and started running. 

It was time to return to the city.

----------------------------------

The city block was already gone.

Chunks of concrete littered the street in every direction. The entrance to the parking structure had collapsed entirely, crushed under its own weight. Ash clung to the edges of broken windows, and the air reeked of oil and burning metal. Smoke rolled through the intersection, thick enough to hide the bodies. Emergency teams hadn’t breached the perimeter yet.

Rhys stood just behind a disabled cruiser, one arm pressed against a piece of twisted steel, the other cradling a bruised shoulder. His breathing was shallow, and the burn across his jaw was fresh. The others were holding position behind what little cover remained. Lane’s suit was scorched across the chest, and Vera’s shield had cracks spidering out from the center. They were outmatched. The Corrupter had made sure of that.

The man himself stood twenty feet away, untouched, his hands were still glowing faintly, flickers of red pulsing at his fingertips. He stood surrounded by his corruptive powers waiting for them to break.

Rhys swallowed deeply and tightened his grip on the metal beside him. He shifted his weight forward, readying for another desperate charge. But before he could move he heard a thunderous noise

Something fast dropped from above and struck the pavement with both feet. The shock traveled up through the ground, dull and immediate. 

She stood in the smoke, tall and wide-shouldered, body straightened in full posture. Her hair was tied back, pulled high and clean. Her frame was massive. Thighs thick and flexed, arms sculpted, core tight and cut. Her presence alone pulled the focus of every set of eyes in the area.

The Corrupter turned toward her, confusion on his face. She didn’t give him a chance to do anything.

The Fortress moved in a blur. She made one solid lunge forward and her fist landed square against his chest, sending him flying backwards into the side of a garbage truck. The impact crumpled the metal like paper. He gasped, trying to right himself, but she was already on top of him.

Her second punch drove into his ribs. Then a third, angled across his jaw with a short, sharp movement. Her gloves struck hard, shoulders rolling into every hit with full weight. She shifted her stance, straddled him, and brought her fist down again.

Blood sprayed across his cheek.

She adjusted her grip and drove her elbow into his collarbone.

The Corrupter’s arm lifted to defend himself, but she caught it mid-air and shoved it aside with barely any effort. Her strikes continued one after another. The damage mounted quickly. His face began to swell. Blood pooled in his mouth and trailed down over his chin.

She kept going.

She caught Rhys out of the corner of her eye as her next punch sent teeth scattering across the pavement.

She barely registered voices as her fists pounded into the wet mess that was The Corrupter’s face. She realized, suddenly, that he was no longer fighting back. His arms were limp at his sides, but her body didn’t want to stop.

It was only when Rhys knelt beside her and reached for her wrist that she paused.

“Millie,” he said, quietly, keeping his voice calm. “That’s enough. He’s dead.”

She didn’t look at him right away. Her eyes were still locked on what remained of the Corrupter’s face. The sound of sirens crept back into her awareness.

Behind her, Vera and Lane were regrouping. Lane said something she didn’t catch. Vera’s voice cracked with relief. Rhys turned toward the others and gave a short nod. It wasn’t a celebration, but the shift in the air was clear. The battle was over. The villain was down. They had won.

But The Fortress didn’t move. She stared at her fingers. The blood was still warm. It ran across her skin in slow, heavy lines.

Rhys returned to her side.

Rhys stepped beside her again. “You really saved our asses,” he said.

She finally turned to face him. Her expression softened with satisfaction. Her lips curved into a slow smile. 

“I killed that son of a bitch,” she said.

Rhys didn’t respond right away.

She turned back to the body, then down to her hands again, still smiling.

----------------------------------

The apartment overlooked the city skyline. Millie stood in the center of the kitchen, leaning against the counter, one thumb hooked casually into the waistband of her camo pants. Her midriff was bare, and her abs were on full display. The tank top she wore clung to her chest and left very little to the imagination. She wasn’t dressed for training, or errands, or anything, really, beyond attention.

She liked the way it made people look at her.

Someone knocked at the door, but from the footsteps she already knew who it was.

When she opened the door, Rhys stood there, wearing the same armor he’d worn when they started together years ago. His expression was tight. He looked her up and down. 

“You’ve been busy,” he said.

She raised her brows slightly, smiled, and stepped aside to let him in. Her hip brushed his as he passed.

“Make yourself at home,” she said. “Or don’t. Your call.”

Rhys took a few steps into the living room and stopped. There were two open wine bottles on the counter. Half a joint in an ashtray. The TV was still paused on a slow-motion replay of last night’s rooftop altercation where The Fortress had thrown a mercenary through a billboard. The man had been working for a gang, armed, but not superpowered. He wasn’t really a threat.

Rhys turned.

“This isn’t what we fought for,” he said.

She walked past him, hips swaying, then leaned one elbow on the back of the couch and tilted her head slightly.

“You came here to give me a lecture?”

“I came here because you’ve stepped over the line,” he said, voice low.

“Rhys, I’m doing good. I stopped the Corrupter. I saved that bus two weeks ago. I took down the Helix operation on Ninth.”

“And ripped a man’s arm off on camera,” he snapped. 

Her mouth curved upward. She walked closer, slowly, until she stood directly in front of him, looking up into his face with calm amusement.

“I’m stronger than I’ve ever been,” she said. “I’m in control.”

“You used to care about restraint.”

“I used to be afraid of what might happen if I let go.” she said, voice firmer now. “Now I know.”

She leaned in closer.

“You’re not worried about me, Rhys. You’re worried you can’t keep up anymore.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?”

She tilted her head, eyes softening for a second. Then she brushed her fingers gently across his chest, smirking.

“I’m fine. Really.”

She turned before he could answer, walking back toward the open kitchen, one hand trailing along the marble countertop as she passed. Her shoulders rolled with quiet power. Her stride was relaxed, almost lazy, but each step radiated confidence.

“Maybe you should take a break,” she added without turning around. “You look stressed.”

Rhys didn’t answer. He stood still for a few more seconds, then let out a slow breath.

“I regret pulling you back into this life,” he said.

She shrugged, smiling over her shoulder.

“Too late now.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

She looked at her reflection again in the kitchen glass. Her biceps swelled just slightly as she flexed. She watched the curve of her body, the way her waist narrowed perfectly into the flare of her hips. Her eyes lingered on the faint shadows under her collarbone.

No regrets.

The city would just have to learn to love a different kind of protector.

----------------------------------

The rooftop was quiet. The night sky above was clear. The distant hum of sirens didn’t touch this far up. The city below went on with its business, oblivious to the showdown playing out twenty three stories above them.

Millie stood near the ledge, heels planted confidently, one hip cocked outward. Her tight black lace outfit clung to her curves, her neckline dipped low and deliberate. Blonde hair fell down in soft waves across her chest, catching the city’s light with a faint shimmer. Her lips were parted slightly, as if mid-thought. Or mid-laugh.

Behind her, Lane’s body lay slumped against an AC unit. He was gasping for air, but not for long. Vera was worse off, her barrier shattered and spine twisted at a wrong angle near the staircase exit. Neither of them had been real challenges. 

Rhys was the only one left. He stood ten feet away, chest rising and falling with uneven breath, one hand still clutching the small wound above his ribs. His armor was cracked at the collarbone, his left gauntlet missing. He looked smaller now. Older. 

She tilted her head and watched him try to find the words.

“Millie,” he said, finally. “Please.”

She didn’t respond right away. She looked over her nails instead, lifting her hand delicately to inspect a faint trace of blood between her thumb and forefinger. Lane’s, probably. She sighed and wiped it off against the black lace that clung to her thigh.

“You’re better than this,” he tried again. “I know you.”

She turned her head slowly, eyes meeting his.

“You knew me,” she corrected, voice cool and clear. “She’s gone.”

“You don’t have to keep going down this path. You can still—”

“What? Go back?” She laughed, short and sharp. “Pretend to care about everyone else again? Pretend the weight of the world’s my responsibility?”

She stepped closer. Her heels clicking on the concrete.

“I spent years being careful,” she said. “Years holding back, hiding, suppressing every part of myself.  I was scared, but no longer.” She gestured behind her toward the unconscious bodies. “You think I’m a monster?”

Rhys didn’t answer.

“I don’t really want to hurt people,” she continued, circling him slowly now. “But they just keep getting in my way.  Insects should not get in the way of giants.”

Her voice had a softness to it now, almost affectionate. Her fingers brushed along his shoulder as she passed behind him.

“You want to believe there’s still some broken little hero under all this,” she said, now standing at his other side. “But I’m not broken. I’ve never felt more whole.”

Rhys turned toward her. He was bleeding more heavily now, pain obvious in the way he moved. He raised one arm as a plea.

“I still believe in you,” he gasped.

She smiled.

With one sudden motion, she grabbed his throat and lifted him from the ground. His legs kicked briefly. She held him suspended, eyes locked on his.

“You always did lean more into faith than logic,” she said, almost whispering.

Then her hand clenched. Bones cracked beneath her fingers. His gasp cut short.

She let the body drop.

It landed beside the others with a dull, wet thud.

Millie exhaled, slow and satisfied. Her hands smoothed down her waist. Her chest rose with a long, content breath. The power humming beneath her skin sent a pleasant throb into her core. That familiar buzz she got now after a fight, after a kill.

The city’s skyline glimmered in the distance. She turned to face it.

There were still a few playthings out there, she was sure.

She smiled.

Time to get back to something more fun.

[waytooinvested]

random wip tag game

tagged by @sideguitars to post a random wip snippet - thank you for the tag!

Continuing with sideguitars' theme and in honour of rojascorp day (because it may not be the same day anymore, but only on this planet. On Venus a day lasts 243 Earth days, so who's to say how long this one can continue for?) here is the rojascorp-i-est snippet currently in my WIP folder. (is it going to be rojascorp? Is it actually supercorp? idk, endgame undisclosed so interpret it how you like I guess? Either way Kara is not having a good day 😔)

(also fair warning it's more of a whole scene than a snippet, but since there's a chance the longer fic it's part of will never make it to completion, I'm posting it anyway).

-------

Kara watched from her lowly corner of the bullpen, arms folded tight across her chest to avoid inadvertently breaking yet another keyboard, while her boss and her former best friend hugged goodbye.

It was an unnecessarily long hug (seriously, they had just spent an hour and a half together and had made plans to meet again for drinks that very weekend, a 27 second goodbye hug was just excessive), but eventually they broke apart, and with a final press of Andrea’s lips to the delicate pink of Lena’s cheek (was she blushing, or just wearing a touch of blush?), Lena stepped into the elevator.

The doors had closed behind her and Kara was just daring to ease the death-grip she’d been maintaining on her own biceps throughout the little scene, when Andrea turned back to face the office. The soft expression she had had for Lena was entirely gone now, and instead her features wore the kind of resolve that suggested she’d heard a rumour about the Superfriends’ favourite ice cream flavours and was determined to beat everyone else to the scoop as she made a beeline for Kara’s desk.

‘A word in my office please, Ms Danvers.’

Kara scowled as she got to her feet, though she couldn’t help casting a furtive, guilty glance towards her already-behind-schedule article, the cursor blinking accusingly from the exact same place on the page it had been at the start of Lena and Andrea’s extra long “working lunch” (a working lunch that had – Kara couldn’t help overhearing – involved spending a good half of it or more reminiscing about old boarding school hijinks without so much as a word of actual business talk exchanged).

She was so busy taking in the empty boxes of (extremely high end) take out sushi still scattered across the table that it was a moment before she realised there was something… off about this meeting.

Instead of delivering a few clipped words of command followed by a prompt dismissal the way she usually would, Andrea’s stern expression had melted into a genuine-seeming sympathetic smile as she leaned back against her (Cat’s) desk, fingers tapping what would to anyone else have been a near-inaudible tattoo against its edge.

‘Do you know why I asked you here today, Kara?’

��Because my article is late?’ Kara suggested, trying to head off trouble before it could begin. ‘I know I said this morning, but I’m nearly done, I just need-’

‘It’s not the article – although since you’ve been nearly done since I first asked how you were getting on at 10am I did think you’d have it ready for my review by now – but no. I called you in here because I have an assignment for you. It’s an important one, and I need you to try to see it as an opportunity to learn, and do your best to make the most of it. Do you think you can do that?’

Kara perked up at once. A new assignment, especially an important one with learning opportunities, would actually be exactly what she needed to distract herself from-

Well, from everything else that was going on in her life at the moment.

‘Of course I can! What do you want me to do?’

Andrea sighed, and though her expression remained unchanged, the tempo of her finger-tapping increased from a steady 90bpm to a more frenetic 180.

‘I’ve arranged for you to attend a seminar next week on appropriate workplace conduct, with particular regards to sexual harassment.’

‘You- I- what-?’ Kara stammered, so completely taken aback that if it had been a physical possibility for her, she would have been convinced she had misheard.

‘Andrea, I haven’t harassed anyone!’

‘You didn’t intend to do it, I understand that, but intentions and outcome are not the same thing. It’s standard in every case of reported sexual harassment, no matter how mild you might have considered your actions to be, for the employee in question to attend a seminar. It’s a way for us to make sure that everyone who works here – and their guests – can enjoy a safe, mutually respectful environment. I’m sure that’s what you want too, isn’t it?’

Kara shook her head slowly – not to deny the overall point (because yeah, obviously she agreed that no one should be sexually harassed at work, she wasn’t a monster), but because the idea of applying it to her of all people made no sense. She was super respectful. She was like, the most respectful. If Catco held a contest for the person least likely to sexually harass someone, it would be a tie between Kara Danvers and that guy from finance whose species reproduced asexually and didn’t even have a concept of sexual attraction, let alone actual-

Anyway, the point was, she would never.

She put her hands on her hips and glared back at her boss, chin jutting in defiance.

‘Who reported me? Because I can guarantee that they’re either lying, or mistaken.’

‘Is that right?’ Andrea cocked an eyebrow (though without the impressive level of control and finesse that Lena could manage with the same gesture, Kara couldn’t help noticing).

‘Then explain to me why, earlier today, I personally witnessed you barge uninvited into a closed office where I was having lunch with a guest, and try to pressure her into going into the stairwell with you?’

Wait.

What?

‘You mean Lena?’ Kara sputtered, ‘I just asked to talk to her! Since when is that sexual harassment?’

‘I would say demanded, more than asked, but regardless of the semantics, you then refused to take no for an answer, refused to leave when asked, and stated your intention to continue your advances in future, no matter how unwelcome they might be.’ Andrea said, ticking off each point on her fingers. ‘If you can’t see that that’s inappropriate, it just goes to prove my point about how sorely needed this intervention is.’

For a full 10 seconds after that, Kara didn’t dare do anything but hold herself rigidly controlled, every ounce of her attention focused on not breaking anything (or anyone, with particular reference to Andrea Rojas, who although no longer smiling, was still gazing at Kara with a sickeningly sympathetic look, like she was looking down on her from her comfy position as Lena’s new best friend, and she pitied her). She closed her eyes against the suspiciously kiss-shaped faint red smudge marking the otherwise perfectly porcelain skin of Andrea’s cheekbone, and just breathed.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In-

‘Lena is my best friend.’ She tried again, sounding impressively calm to her own ears despite the fact that just below the surface her blood was still boiling like an active volcano on the brink of eruption.

‘I know she’s mad at me right now, and okay, maybe I should have listened when she said she didn’t want to talk, but I wasn’t harassing her. She knows I would never, ever hurt her.’

As soon as the words came out of her own mouth they hit Kara like a truck to the chest, and it was all she could do not to flinch away from them. Because who was she kidding? Of course she had hurt Lena.

She had hurt her so badly that the two of them had been shattering and re-shattering the shards of each other’s hearts ever since, and just a few days ago when Lena had offered her a way to make things right (a terrible way that would never work and would probably make everything a whole lot worse for the entire world when things inevitably went wrong, but a way, all the same), she had had to hurt her all over again.

Claiming that she never had – that she never would – was the grossest of injustices to all the pain they had both been enduring ever since Lex’s death.

But still, it hadn’t been like that.

It had never been like that.

‘Did she really report me?’ Kara asked at last, the question wobbling more than she would have liked in the face of Andrea’s apparently boundless composure.

‘No,’ Andrea admitted. ‘Actually, I reported you. What I witnessed this afternoon made it clear to me that you need some training on appropriate boundaries and consent, so I thought it best for us to nip this in the bud now, before anything more serious happens.’

Kara let out an exhale that was half relieved sigh that it hadn’t been Lena after all, half frustrated growl that they were here in the first place, and just barely resisted the urge to stamp her foot. Now that she knew the complaint hadn’t come from Lena, this whole situation was back to being plain annoying. And stupid. And just- GAAAH.

‘Andrea, this is ridiculous!’ she exploded. ‘You know it wasn’t like that, you’re taking everything out of context!’

‘No means no, Kara, no matter what the context. That’s something you’ll learn in your seminar on Tuesday.’

‘I am not going to a seminar!’

‘It’s not optional. Either you attend, take what you learn on board, and you can put this behind you without a black mark on your record, or you don’t, and this will escalate to a disciplinary. It’s up to you which you choose, but I take harassment in my company very seriously, and I would suggest you accept the option I’m giving you to resolve things informally.’

‘But-’

‘That will be all, thank you Ms Danvers.’

With that Andrea pivoted to seat herself behind her desk, her fingers beginning a rapid tapping at the keyboard so immediately that Kara suspected she was just typing nonsense to make the point that she should leave now.

After another long, furious moment she did, ears already straining to pick up even the barest hint of trouble out in the city.

She needed something to punch.

no pressure tags: @fazedlight, @theredcapeofk, @cynicalrainbows, @kj-yikes

I've tagged people I know probably have wips, but if you want to play and I haven't tagged you, please join in and tag me, I'd love to see your snippets!

[un-fwuit-un-fwog]

Sketch Him: Heartslabyul Edition

Part one of the Sketch Him series

Synopsis: You sketch the Heartslabyul boys and they see

TW: none

Characters: Heartslabyul

A/N: For anyone who doesn't know, the post above is from my art account so I'm not saying anything bad about another artist's work! Also, these were all drawn in JUST pen, no sketch. In other words, no erasing when I made mistakes :') (if you want to see the og post about this it's here)

Part 1 (here), Part 2 (coming soon), . . .

Sitting in your study hall period, you sat bored out of your mind. You had already finished all of your assignments and the friends in this period were working on assignments of their own.

You sighed, lifting your gaze from your blank notebook paper up to look around the room for something to draw. Your plan to overcome the boredom was to doodle something, but nothing came to mind. It was then that your gaze landed on Riddle sitting ramrod straight at a table diligently studying. Well, that solves it.

Riddle sighed as he finished going over the last of the material he planned on studying this hour and reached his arms above his head to stretch. Checking the time, he noticed there was still 10 minutes left this period. He could go back over some of his material. . .or perhaps he should go and check if his dear friend The Prefect needed any help with their studying. Yes, that sounded like a responsible use of his time. He certainly didn't just want to talk to his friend.

As he approached the rapid sound of a scribbling met his ears. If you were writing that furiously perhaps you actually did need his help. A smile graced his face and he made his way over to your table. Your back was facing him and your headphones in, so you didn't notice his approach or him softly calling your name. When you didn't respond he took a step forward and reached out to tap on your shoulder. That's when he saw what was on your paper. He didn't want to assume anything, but as he watched you write his name on the doodle's shoulder his face lit up with a blush.

Finally finishing your sketch of Riddle you set down your pen. Not your best work, but certainly not your worst. You had been periodically looking up at where Riddle sat while you drew in order to get his features right, but for a while now you had just been shading stuff in sou had had no need to look up at him. You looked up one last time to compare your drawing to the real thing only to realize he was no longer at the table. Confused, you looked around, finally turning around to come face to, well, chest, with a Heartslabyul blazer. Crap.

Your gaze slowly shifted upward to see a red-faced Riddle. Double crap! However, as you took a moment longer to study his face, you noticed this wasn't his usual 'angry red.'

"Sorry, I should have asked!" tumbles out of your mouth the moment you recollect yourself

"N-no! It's okay." Riddle clears his throat. "It's. . .an acceptable portrayal of my visage."

The two of you sit in an awkward silence for a few moments before you finally break it: "Do you want it?" The moment the words leave your mouth you mentally curse yourself. This definitely isn't your best work, you could do better if you used a pencil and could erase. He was probably only being nice earlier and-

"If you wouldn't mind parting with it." the red-faced boy mumbles.

Before you can say a thing the sound of the bell signaling the end of the period fills the room. In a split second you shove the paper into his arms before bolting out of the room with your things.

Riddle watched you bolt from the classroom, his eyes wide and face red. However, he quickly snapped himself out of his daze and hurried to leave to his next class as well, the paper held delicately in his hands as if causing a single wrinkle in the paper would result in it shattering into a million little pieces.

The moment he got to his next class he made sure to carefully tuck the paper into a folder so it wouldn't get creased. When he got back to his room in Heartslabyul the first thing he did was rummage through some boxes of frames (he had them because of the numerous framed pictures around Heartslabyul and the tendency of the students there (Ace) to break their frames meaning a need for replacement frames). He searched until he found the perfect frame in not only size but quality that would befit such a masterpiece (his judgement may or may not have been clouded by the knowledge of who the artist is). Once he found the perfect frame, he hung it above his desk where he spent most of his time and would see it more often.

Trey found out about the doodle you did of Riddle one afternoon when he visited the red head's dorm room to bring him a slice of tart. Riddle had explained quite smugly that you were the one who drew it for him. The moment Trey heard it was all he could think about. He'd be lying if he said he didn't consider asking you to draw him as well, but he decided against it. He'd remember hearing at some point that it was a question artists dreaded hearing.

You were visiting Heartslabyul one evening, sitting on a stool in the kitchen as you watched Trey cook. You had originally come to hang out with Ace and Deuce, but the moment you arrived they, along with Grim, caused trouble and were now being scolded in the other room by a fuming Riddle.

As you sat, you boredly tapped your pen against the paper that sat infront of you. Originally, you had planned to doodle to pass the time while you waited for Riddle to finish scolding the boys, but you were once more left at a loss for what to draw. As you stared at the lines that seemed to taunt you, you suddenly remembered the other day in study hall when you had drawn Riddle. And, wouldn't you know it, you once more had a perfect subject standing before you.

Immediately, you got to work on transferring Trey's likeness to the paper. You realized pretty early on that this absolutely would not be a work you would be proud of or want anyone to see, but kept on anyway as you had already gotten this far and only had a single sheet of paper on you at the moment. With a sigh and a cringed expression, you got back to it.

You had learned from last time and made sure to keep an eye on Trey even when you only had the shading left to do.

As Trey took the cookies he was making out of the oven, he took notice of you looking up at him before whipping your eyes back down to the paper repeatedly. He found it suspicious and decided he'd just come out and ask you what was up. With an amused smirk he walked up to you and leaned over the counter.

You looked up to see Trey approaching you, but in the moment it took you to process, he had already reached the counter you were sitting at lean leaned over. Not only that, but when you snapped your head back up to look at him in horror, you realized that his nose was a mere breath from yours.

Trey took advantage of the shock you got from the proximity and swiftly swiped the paper away. He chuckled as he watched you desperately reach out to nab it back from him, but it was no use. He was on the other side of the counter and already looking at the paper. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second before his grin grew wider. As you sped around the counter and tried to grab the paper away from him he lifted it above his head.

"Trey! Give that back!" You protest, jumping to try to reach the paper he held, but he was simply too tall. You jumped once more to try and reach the source of your shame, but as you did, you felt an arm snake around your waist and hold you firm to Trey's chest.

"Now, now. This is a drawing of me, isn't it? Don't I deserve to see it?" Trey asks in a maddeningly innocent tone as he watches you try futilely to escape his grasp and curse under your breath: "D*mn all that bread. D*mn all that kneading."

"That one looks really bad!" you try to argue "I only used pen so I couldn't erase any mistakes I made and-"

"I like it." He chuckles. "If you hate it so much, just let me keep it."

Right after he says that, Cater enters the room and you yank yourself away from Trey before Cater can see and begrudgingly grumble "Fine. Just. . .don't go around showing it to people and telling them I made it. With that, you scurry out of the kitchen to go see if Ace, Deuce, and Grim's scolding has concluded.

Cater watches you hurry out of the kitchen with a confused expression on his face. When he looks back over at Trey he sees him tuck a sheet of paper with what looks like a drawing on it into a cookbook. After about an hour of pestering, Cater finally manages to get his hands on the cookbook and take a look at the paper inside. Seeing no point in hiding it now, Trey explains to Cater that it was a drawing from you but you had asked him not to show anyone since you weren't proud of it.

Cater doesn't straight up ask you to draw him, but over the next few days you notice him not so stealthily stealing glances at you.

You sat in detention, the only two students in the room being Cater in yourself. The two of you were under the watchful eye of Professor Crewel. Cater had gotten himself a detention because he was on his phone in class, meanwhile you had failed to turn in an assignment on time that morning. Luckily, Trein had understood how busy, stressed, and sleep deprived you were and said he'd still give you full points if you finished it that evening in detention.

You had finished your assignment a while ago but decided to stay for the rest of detention as it was a much needed opportunity to enjoy some peace and quiet without having to worry about being interrupted and dragged off to fix some issue.

However, you didn't plan to sit there and simply do nothing, so you got out a piece of blank notebook paper and a pen. You had faced doodleblock enough times to know that a good strategy to get rid of it is to search the room for someone to draw. Crewel was busy organizing some papers into a filing cabinet with his back turned to you, so that was a no-go. Your only other option: Cater.

You noticed Cater's suspicious glances but decided to pay it no mind. Afterall, he couldn't see your paper from over there and would no doubt assume you were drawing something else. Even if he did realize you were drawing him, you'd just stuff the paper in a folder before detention ended and he could get a good look and book it if he asked any questions. A foolproof plan.

Cater absolutely thought you were drawing him. He was torn between posing for you so you'd get his good side and watching you like an excited puppy waiting for a treat.

He settled on trying to act like he didn't notice and pretend to read a book. Candid shots always turned out the best in his opinion.

Just as he was getting antsy, an annoyed sigh came from the front of the room where Professor Crewel now stood with a scowl on his face as he set down the phone. "Something urgent came up. This will likely take a while so just. . .you're free to go back to your dorms, but just this once." And like that, he disappeared out the classroom door, mumbling cursed under his breath the whole while.

You were too distracted watching Crewel leave and mentally placing a bet on whether it was a Crowley problem or a ADeuce + Grim problem that Crowley pushed onto him.

The moment Crewel left the room Cater bounded over to you excitedly. You were too distracted to notice his presence until it was too late and he already had his arms slung over your shoulders and was peeking over at what it was you had been drawing.

When he confirmed his suspicion that it was, in fact, him you were drawing he pulled you up from your chair and spun you around in a hug. "OMG! You finally drew me! I was feeling so left out when I saw you'd drawn Trey a picture. Not to mention when he told me you drew Riddle as well!"

When he finally set you down you were dizzy and had to hold onto the desk for support. "Uh, yeah. . .huh?" You mumbled, a little dazed before the words processed in your mind. "What?! You saw that?! I asked him not to show anyone!" You start rambling and Cater only shrugs.

"I kinda made him. Plus, It wasn't even that bad! I thought it looked just like him." the ginger giggles. "Well then, do I get to have mine now?" He reaches for the paper but before he can grab it you swipe it off the desk and hold it behind your back.

"Don't!" You shriek "It just uh. . .It's not very good."

Cater huffs and a pout forms on his face "Oh, c'mon! Trey said you said the same thing about his, but you let him keep it!" You can't exactly argue with that, but you still hesitate to give it to him. "If it like his and you don't want anyone seeing it, I'll keep it a secret! I won't even post it!" Cater gives you his best puppy dog eyes as he begs you to let him have it.

". . .Fine. " You finally sigh, hesitantly extending the paper to him. "But, I mean, I feel kind of bad only letting Riddle let people know I drew him. I don't think I'm all that great or anything, but you all seemed so happy. . ." you trail off as Cater excitedly yet gently takes the notebook paper from you. ". . .Alright. You can tell people-"

"REALLY?!" Cater cuts you off with an excited glimmer in his eyes.

"J-just let me finish!" you add urgently. "You can tell people, but- just make sure you let them know I couldn't erase while I was making it and that this isn't a reflection of my ab-" Cater cuts you off once more by picking you up in a tight hug and swinging you around in circles.

"Is that all! How cute! Who knew our prefect had an ego!"

"Cater! You're going to wrinkle it!" you yelp, actually less worried about the paper and more about your lungs which he's squeezing in his bone crushing hug. Cater quickly lets you go and smooths out the wrinkles in the paper, he looks disappointed that he wrinkled it so you sigh and add: "If you put a towel over it and iron it carefully you can get the wrinkles out."

There go your lungs again, you think as he once more sweeps you into his arms.

Ace found out about you drawing his three upperclassman and, unlike Trey and Cater, didn't have the consideration to not straight up ask you to draw him. First thing he did when he saw you walking back to your dorm after school that say was ambush you and ask (tell) you to draw him. Turns out more people than him found out, and a handful of students, all of which you weren't even close with, had asked you to draw them for free.

So, you made Ace a deal. You'll draw him, but he has to do something for you in return. He has to spread a rumor that while, yes, you've been drawing your friends, you would absolutely under no circumstances draw someone once they asked you. He agreed and so here you are.

You sit on one end of a couch in Ramshackle, with Ace on the other end. You had originally tried drawing him while sitting at the kitchen table, but the ginger had made a point to be constantly peeking over your shoulder as obnoxiously as possible. You ended up having to grab a clipboard and order Ace to sit on the other side of the couch while you drew so you could focus.

To his credit he did as you said, but not without complaining. He eventually settled down and opted to scrolling on his phone when you threatened to tear up the paper right then and there.

Ace sat acrost from you, glancing up at you every so often to 'see if you were still working.' Definitely not because he thought you looked really attractive when you were so focused like that. At some point he even abandoned his phone in order to just watch you (not before sneakily taking a picture, of course.). When you asked him he made the excuse that he was just looking at the old paintings littering Ramshackle's wall behind you.

"Don-" before you could even finish announcing that you were done Ace was already stood behind you, his hands propped on the arm of the couch and his face leaning over your shoulder.

"I so do not look like that." You readjust the paper so you're holding it like you're about to rip it and he hurriedly shouts at you to chill and that he was just kidding. Once you think you've scared him you hand him the paper with an unamused look on your face. You'd admit that, sure, it did look too soft and cute to be a completely accurate depiction of him, but you were working without an eraser here.

"Remember our deal" you sigh and Ace meets your exhaustion with a smug grin.

"When have I ever let you down."

"Ah. Give me that. I'm going to put it through a paper shredder."

"Hey!"

Ace would never admit it, but when he saw that drawing he smiled, and it wasn't even a cocky one. Sure, it was too soft and sweet to really be him (he definitely didn't use a criticism you made to find some reason to keep nonchalant about it), but the fact you took the time to draw him. . . Yeah, he was gonna stop that train of thought before he started getting all sappy.

Deuce saw the drawing you did of Ace pretty quickly since the first thing the ginger did upon getting back to their shared dorm was rub it in his face and brag. Deuce had already heard you made similar drawing for all of your other friends in Heartslabyul so for a moment he felt a pang of sadness at being left out, but he quickly dismissed the thought. You two were friends whether you made a drawing of him or not.

Ace kept good on his promise and told Deuce that you wouldn't, under any circumstances, draw him if he asked you to, but it's not like he needed Ace to tell him that. He wasn't planning on pestering you in the first place.

It was the weekend and the track club was having a meet. You'd told Deuce you'd come and cheer him on and take some pictures for the yearbook and so here you were sat under the team's tent (you were given special privilege because you're the designated yearbook photographer) watching as he and the other athletes ran.

Jack didn't have an event at the moment, so he sat beside you on the tarp. You had already gotten a decent amount of pictures from this meet and decided it wouldn't hurt to take a short break.

Of course, you had taken note of the fact that Deuce was the only one of your friends from Hearslabyul that you had yet to draw and so you took your clipboard, pen, and a sheet of paper with you to the meet. Jack looked over occasionally to watch you silently as you drew, and not from right over your shoulder like someone you knew.

Deuce headed onto the track to get ready for his event and as he did he looked over at the tent to see you sitting there with clipboard in hand. 'She must be taking notes for yearbook.' he thought to himself. Before his event started he glanced back over at you one more time to see you giving him a thumbs up and a smile. With how fast his heart was beating he could have sworn it was like he already ran.

He ended up beating his PR (personal record/personal best) in his event. When he was about at the tent he noticed you running to meet him and, in the excitement, he engulfed you into a bear hug the moment you reached each other. After a moment he freaked out: "S-sorry! I wasn't thinking! I'm all sweaty and-"

You cut him off by hugging him tighter and looking up at him with the widest smile: "You were great out there, Deuce! I'm so proud of you for beating your PR!"

Okay, now his heart was really beating fast. His eyes met yours and all he could do was stare. Unsure what else to do he wrapped his arms back around you, burying his face in your hair "'ts all because you were cheering me on."

"What?"

"N-Nothing!" he stutters, finally pulling back, scolding himself mentally.

You give him a weird look but then suddenly smile: "Oh, right! I have something for you!" you announce, grabbing his wrist and dragging him with you to the tent. His teammates crowd around him and congratulate him once you reach the tent before heading off to either warmup or to the track to get queued for their events.

When he was finally free from the whirlwind of people you approached him again, holding something behind your back. "I was planning on giving this to you anyway but, since you just PRed, you can think of this as a congratulatory thing too."

You move your hands from behind your back so he can see what you're holding and he completely freezes.

"I'd say it's my favorite so far in how it turned out, but don't tell the others- Wh- Hey! Are you crying?!"

"'s just- Nobody's ever drawn me before and i-it's so good! I thought you forgot about me and-"

You kneel down to clip the paper ack onto the clipboard so it doesn't fly away before standing back up and reaching a hand out to pat Deuce on the head before hugging him once more. ""Course I didn't forget."

When Deuce got back to his dorm that night it was with the biggest, smuggest smile on his face. When Ace watched Deuce tenderly sliding a picture of himself, seemingly drawn by you, into his nightstand drawer mumbling something about 'getting a frame' and 'telling his mom' he chalked the navy haired boy's expression up to being caused by receiving the drawing from you and leaves it at that. However, if he would has listened a little closer, he would have also heard the words: 'her favorite so far' whispered under Deuce's breath.

Note: Ngl, I totally forgot I asked y'all if you'd be interested in this. Thanks for being patient!

And since most of you probably weren't there for the original upload and didn't get to participate in the poll:

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Twisted Wonderland Time! Heartslabyul is 1st ♡

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Close-ups:

As you can probably tell from the formatting, Deuce is my fav on this page ♤

Riddle is in a comfortable second

Remember, feel free comment sharing which you think looks goofiest! I really enjoy hearing your opinions and would like to see how they compare to mine 🤗

[freezerbnuuy]

Sims 4 - 'Gryphon Rider' Pose Pack and Decos

DOWNLOAD: Patreon | SFS | MediaFire (.zip folder) (Free, no AdFly, No Membership Needed)

An update on an older pose pack, including new decos! A full change log is on the Patreon link and in the .zip folder.

NOTES - HIGH POLY: 30-35K each at the highest, 8-11K lowest detail approx. - REQUIRES: Teleport Any Sim mod or the Pose Alignment mod. Instructions for each are included in the description of the first two 'empty' poses in the pose pack. Photo refs used for some decos from lions to ensure a rough level of realism. - Tagged to not receive snow falling on thematches on them in winter. Approx. 23 deco models, and poses include expressions variants and has flying, flying with friend / partner, falling, petting, landing, take-off, running, being grabbed, and hanging on for dear life! - The newly-added models are: Depressed, Lying 2, Sleeping 2, Sitting 2, 'Cool Landing', and Preening. Depressed, Sleeping and Sleeping 2 include an eye closed swatch. - Feather textures are just 4 feathers repeated, so easy to recolour - Model is not mine, link to the model here. Here's my tutorial on how to make your own decos with the model. - The arms on the preview image for 'Cool Landing' look a bit wonky, they are fixed in the actual pose pack. - ISSUES: weird shadows on gryphon's body is caused by SSAO shadows. Follow this link to find out how to turn off SSAO shadows and it will get rid of the weird shadows on the gryphons. The outdoor lighting can look odd on the feathers. Some are also Standalone Recolour of a in-game table and not made via 'Create 3d Mesh' so some may still have table slots to put stuff on, haha... Tag me if you use them! If you want to make your own poses using these decos you can, but no CurseForge / Early Access / AdFly / any paywalls, and credit me in both the post download by linking back here, and in the description of the Pose Pack itself.

@ts4-poses @alwaysfreecc @sssvitlanz

[barmadumet]

Who wants to read a Star Wars ‘fanfic’ I wrote TWENTY YEARS AGO? 👀

Twenty years ago, when my sister and I were having our Best ROTS Summer Ever (sweet summer children), I was fresh out of high school and waiting to start college. I was working nights, and my sister was working a 9-5. We would hang out together every chance we got (mostly to talk about Star Wars), but during the weekdays. . . we’d send emails. . . because there was no texting lol.

We’d conclude each daily email with a quote from one of our favorite movies – comedy movies. Star Wars was not a comedy. So, we basically started writing what’s known today as ‘incorrect quotes.’

As the days passed, we started to tell a little story. It was born of the notion that Padmé was absolutely insane to not take Anakin up on his offer to rule the galaxy together. My sister said she’d go anywhere with him. So, these funny little scenarios were written of my sister and Anakin living in a sweet penthouse on Mustafar, shopping with a ‘Dark Side Express credit card’ and eating at ‘Sith Lord’s Hamburger and Lava Food Co.’ 😆

Eventually, a true plot formed, and we were writing fic without even knowing what fic was. The plot consisted of my sister (we’ll call her Padmé for these purposes) and Anakin deciding they didn’t want to be Sith anymore and teaming up with none other than the Obi-Wan Kenobi. . . and. . . ‘Sexy Blue Jedi.’ 🤣🤣🤣🤣 which was basically me, but also Aayla Secura, because I was obsessed with her, and before I knew her character name (back in ‘02), I called her the ‘Sexy Blue Jedi’ lol.

On this 20 year anniversary – 20 years this week since we finished the story, I thought it would be fun, and healing, to share an excerpt. Because 20 years ago today, Hurricane Katrina hit us hard, and put a swift end to that amazing summer of 05.

It was probably about a 2 month period that we’d each send a morning email, and finish it off with a ‘continuation’ of our story. It was incredibly seamless how we’d add onto it without prior discussion. It was even clear when we were approaching the end, which coincidentally coincided with the Thursday before I would start university. . . but little did we know, just two days later, we’d be evacuating our city.

As my family packed our valuables, I opened up that gigantic, wooden computer cabinet one last time and powered on the Gateway 2000. I opened a Word doc, and compiled all the ‘quotes’ together and printed them out. . . 93 freaking pages lol. I knew there would be no way to access the (dial up) internet for quite some time, and I wanted to have something with us on our travels to brighten the mood. I tucked the pages into a yellow pocket folder, and it has been an item I keep alongside my Star Wars collectibles for the last 20 years. . . But I had never actually read it, until now.

I’ve spent the last couple of weeks reading a little of this story at a time and laughing like I haven’t laughed in ages. Our Star Wars parody is full of movie references (namely Adam Sandler, but also Austin Powers, Lethal Weapon, National Lampoon’s, and of course, Bill and Ted 🤙🏻 among others), and the celebrities of our heyday (Brad and Angelina, Paris Hilton, Lindsey Lohan, we got you).

As Anakin tries to be the good guy again, the characters all hear the Imperial March play in the background every time he gets a little angry or raises his voice lol. ‘Padmé’ feels left out that she is the only one in the group that isn’t a Jedi, and discovers she has a Midi-chlorian count of 6,999.2. . . and 7,000 is needed to train as a Jedi 🤣

Ultimately, the four of them want to take down Sidious and rid the galaxy of Imperial control, and there to help them are Yoda and ‘the ghost of Samuel L (mother effin) Jackson.’ 😆  I can’t remember exactly, but the ‘mother effin’ was from some comedy skit which had the actor referring to himself that way bc he was such a bad mo-fo 😎 lol.

Anyway, Sidious had promised peace if Anakin were returned to him as his apprentice.

And Obi-Wan believes he has the perfect plan. . .

Below is a portion of the story that I thought you might enjoy most; it isn’t SO full of inside jokes that it’s unreadable, and it’s definitely one of my favorite parts. I did add some commentary notes in blue throughout, when there are references or jokes you might want/need clarification on. Please DO NOT take these characterizations seriously lol. This was all in good fun.

Everyone is silent and thinking.

Obi-Wan: Well, I think…

Padmé: Go on.

Obi-Wan: Well, I don’t know why, but… I still wanna clone Anakin… or someone!

Everyone looks surprised.

Obi-Wan: I really think it’s just the best solution.

Everyone is still staring and waiting.

Anakin: I’ll do it.

Silence…

Padmé: What?! How do you even clone someone?

Obi-Wan: (shrugs)

Sexy Blue Jedi: I think you just need something from the person, like hair or something.

Anakin: Oh! Then, forget it!

Padmé: Pansy. Now I wanna clone you, too.

Sexy Blue Jedi: I kinda do, too. Just to see what will happen.

They are all slowly moving toward Anakin. He starts running. They chase him into a room called ‘the cloning room’ where there is a scary looking sunglasses case machine.

Obi-Wan: Just do it!

Anakin: All right…

(‘sunglasses case’ is in reference to Star Trek, The Wrath of Khan. . . On the show, ‘I Love the 80s,’ Michael Ian Black refers to Spock’s coffin as a ‘sunglasses case’ 🤣)

MEANWHILE

Yoda feels a disturbance. He is talking to the ghost of Samuel L (mother effin) Jackson.

Samuel Legolas Jackson: What’s wrong, Master Yoda? (I can’t recall why we decided this was his middle name, but LOTR 🙌🏻)

Yoda: Done something wrong the four have yet again. Good intentions they always have, but bad judgement they have.

A WHILE LATER IN THE LA-BOR-A-TORY (Dexter’s La-bor-a-tory 😏)

Padmé: Did it work?

Sexy Blue: I don’t know. I know the plan was to make a dumb and untalented version of Anakin, but I’m worried about these results.

Obi-Wan: If we did right, he should look like Anakin, but basically that’s all. He’ll be like, lifeless; no personality and whatnot.

Anakin: Just open up that sunglasses case and let him out!

They open the sunglasses case…

A man steps out that looks just like Anakin. He even has no arms. (earlier in the story, Anakin loses his other arm trying to lightsaber train Padmé illegally)

Padmé: Great! That’s two more Gucci gloves we have to buy.

Sexy Blue: We’ll get fake ones; he’ll never know the difference.

Obi-Wan is just standing there, amazed and smiling.

Anakin: I shall call him… Hayden!

Everyone: HAYDEN?

Anakin: He just looks like a Hayden.

Sexy Blue: He looks like you, Anakin!

Anakin: Well, yeah, but (he goes to stand by Hayden and puts his arm around him), we both look like Haydens.

Padmé: I think he looks like a Sam.

Obi-Wan: I think he looks like a Stephen.

(these name suggestions are the names of Hayden’s characters in Life as a House and Shattered Glass - so crazy we didn't even have Awake or Jumper yet)

Sexy Blue: I like Hayden; it’s kinda cool – a little girly, but cool.

Anakin: I hate my name. I wish my name was Hayden.

Padmé: Why Ani? I love your name!

Anakin: That’s exactly why! I’m not a freakin CPR dummy!!! I hate Ani!

Padmé: (gasps) So, the truth comes out!!

Anakin: Just call me by my whole name… please?

Padmé: Sure. If that’s what you want (mumbles Ani under her breath).

Anakin: What was that, Padmé?

Padmé: I said, cloning is good. Can we start the process now? (Billy Madison reference 😂)

Sexy Blue: Yes, we need to test how intelligent he is. And for God’s sake, find him some Jedi pants. I mean, that little towel doesn’t leave much to the imagination.

Padmé: Tell him to run in place!

Obi-Wan: That’s a good idea; we can test his agility.

Padmé: Or we can stare at his sweaty physique?

Anakin: Oh, this is great. Now you have two of us to gawk at.

Padmé: (smiling and nodding like Bobby Boucher. ) (The Waterboy)

MEANWHILE

Yoda and Samuel L (mother effin) Jackson’s ghost have just watched the security recordings of what is going on in the cloning room.

Yoda: Feared this I have.

Samuel Legolas Jackson: Why couldn’t they just have cloned a dog or something? Why someone who has the power to become an Evil Sith Lord again?

Yoda: Work to our advantage this may. Quickly we must move.

BACK AT THE LA-BOR-A-TORY

Hayden is running in place and Anakin comes back in the room with some clothes for him.

Anakin: Here, Hayden, this is all I could find. (hands him a Sith Happens t-shirt and boxers)

(it was definitely this shirt)

Padmé: Oh, come on. You just don’t want him to be as sexy as you, so you are dressing him in bum clothes!

They look over at Hayden, who is eating the shirt because he’s so dumb, he doesn’t know what to do with it.

Yoda walks in with the ghost of Samuel L (mother effin) Jackson.

Yoda: Clone of Skywalker you have made. Job well done. An awesome plan you must have made, hmmmmmm?

Sexy Blue: Not really. Obi-Wan was just bugging the shit out of us to clone something.

Obi-Wan: Isn’t cloning cool, Master Yoda? Can we do you next?

Yoda: Clone me you will not. Have a plan for this new clone I do.

Obi-Wan: Okay good. Because we really don’t know what to do with him now; I mean, he’s dumb as shit!

They look over Hayden who has just peed on the wall.

Yoda: If the mind of a puppy he does indeed have, then send him to Lord Sidious we will.

Padmé: When?

Yoda: Soon. Further discuss the peace offering we will first… Be careful you must. Foresee you and your sister becoming very attached to this clone I do.

On that note, Yoda and Samuel Legolas Jackson leave.

Sexy Blue looks confused. She looks over at Padmé, who is petting Hayden like a dog. He kind of looks like a dog; he is rolled over in her lap with his tongue hanging out.

Padmé: (baby voice) Aww! You’re so cute, yes you are!

Sexy Blue: Padmé, he’s not a puppy! Yoda just warned us about getting attached! It’s going to be like when we were little and Dad sent our dog away. (that happened irl lol) Hayden will leave soon, too.

Padmé: No problem. I could totally leave him right now if I wanted.

Sexy Blue: Good. We gotta make the Emperor think that’s Anakin. So, let's go shop for some of those fake Gucci gloves. Obi-Wan, Anakin, watch him closely.

Padmé: Aww! I don’t wanna leave him. I’ll stay, you go.

Sexy Blue: THAT’S why you’re coming. (drags her away)

Anakin: (like Happy Gilmore to a golf club) Look at this stupid thing.

Obi-Wan: Anakin! He looks like you!

Anakin: I know, and I don’t like that. It’s kinda creepy. I think I would like him better if he looked a little different.

Obi-Wan: You just don’t want Padmé to have the hots for him.

Anakin: Yeah, I know. I don’t know why it’s bothering me. It’s not like she’s checking out another guy, it’s ME! But still, it’s bothering me, and I’m gonna do something about it.

Obi-Wan: (nervous) Oh great.

Anakin: You in?

Obi-Wan: Sure. What the heck?

MEANWHILE

Yoda and the ghost of Samuel L (mother effin) Jackson are discussing the peace treaty with Lord Sidious.

Yoda: Slept on it we have and Skywalker you may take.

Emperor: Gooooooood.

Samuel Legolas Jackson: And you will give us the peace you claim, right?

Emperor: Yea yea whatever, just give me Skywalker.

Yoda: Prove you can keep your word you must. . .

MEANWHILE

Padmé and Sexy Blue have found some great, fake Gucci gloves for Hayden and they were only $12.99 a piece! (thanks to Sexy Blue) (I was a notorious bargain shopper back when lol) They walk back to where they left Obi-Wan, Anakin, and Hayden… They’re not there.

Sexy Blue: Oh great. What have they done?

Padmé: What’s wrong?

Sexy Blue: I’ve got a feeling, but it’s not bad... but it’s not good.

They are walking around looking for them, and find them in Padmé and Anakin’s bedroom.

Padmé: Ahhhh! What have you done to him?!

Hayden is sporting a new look: shorter black hair, with blue streak, lots of piercings, including sexy chin ring, and he is dressed in all black, just waiting for his Gucci gloves. (he is basically Sam from Life as a House now 😆)

Padmé: (runs over to Hayden) Ahh! Poor thing. (hugs him) ANAKIN! You did this on purpose! He looks awful! Doesn’t he look awful, Blue?

Sexy Blue is quiet. Gawking.

Padmé: Blue?!

Sexy Blue: Yeah… awful. (in a daze)

Obi-Wan: THIS is his Sith Lord look. Doesn’t it work well for him?

Padmé: NO! (getting really upset) The Emperor won’t believe this is Anakin now!

Obi-Wan: Sure he will. Did you hear me? THIS is his Sith Lord look!! (I’m pretty sure ‘THIS’ is a movie or show reference, but I don’t remember lol.)

Padmé: Oh, no. (moans)

Anakin: Well, it’s safe to say, I’m the most attractive one here.

Padmé: Yes, but you’re the one I’m pissed at! Blue, say something!

Sexy Blue just stands there whispering to herself: I’m with Obi-Wan, I’m with Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan: What?

Sexy Blue: Nothing.

Obi-Wan: You LIKE the way he looks? (confused) (this is great because it’s before the visible confusion meme existed lol)

Anakin: Padmé, you don’t, right?

Padmé: No!

Sexy Blue: I, uh, I dunno.

Obi-Wan is speechless and shocked.

Sexy Blue: It doesn’t matter! Padmé and I cannot get attached to him. He’s leaving real soon! (walks out of the room)

Obi-Wan: I can’t believe this! Good job, Anakin! Make Padmé despise him, but make Blue drool over him! (he walks out, too)

Padmé: Look what you did! You made everyone upset!

Anakin: Not Hayden! Look, he’s smiling!

Padmé: (storms out.)

Anakin to Hayden: Come on buddy, we’ll do our own thing. I think you look great!

(this is on-point, because my sister was suuuuper preppy, and a lot of my clothes came from Hot Topic lmao)

Want to know what happens next? I will tell you. To try to reclaim Blue’s attention, Obi-Wan ends up looking something like👇🏻 this 🤣 Guyliner!!! 🙌 🥵 😂

Padmé gives birth to ‘Mark and Carrie’ (after going into a time travel phone booth to speed up her pregnancy, à la Bill and Ted), and they use the baby twins and their extreme cuteness to drive the Emperor into weakmindedness (it is described like the scene from the Waterboy when Coach Klien sees the rival coach as a baby 😆Sexy Blue even says, “Who here has seen the Waterboy?” when she is explaining the plan). Master Yoda then Jedi mind-tricks Palps into renouncing his throne and going into exile.

And if you like The Waterboy references, there was this tidbit after Hayden was sent to Sidious:

Anakin: I do miss the fella.

Obi-Wan: Remember that time Hayden peed on the wall and the evacuation was complete? (evacuation complete is an Austin Powers reference)

They all laugh.

Sexy Blue: Remember that time Hayden ate the Sith Happens t-shirt instead of wearing it?

They all laugh again.

Yoda: (like Farmer Fran) Remember the time Hayden ejroekm jekmrkemafj fkjfkjaj?

They all look at him strange.

And what happened to Hayden you ask?

Well, Sexy Blue’s Waterboy plan was mostly so they could get Hayden back. . . and then she and Obi-Wan adopt him!

So, I got my two boys in the end 😁 And let me tell you, there were DEFINITELY early obikin signs in my writing lol. There was a part where Obi-Wan tells Anakin to not get his panties in a twist lol. Then, a part when Anakin ‘bitch slapped’ Obi-Wan when he was getting too involved in his wedding planning. There was a mention of them shopping together at the Gap, and as you read above, Obi-Wan was pretty desperate to have a second Anakin. . . and pretty stoked for him to run in place wearing nothing but a tiny towel 😂😂😂

BONUS: (my sister’s comedic genius on this one)

Sexy Blue: STOP!

Everyone stops.

Padmé: What’s the deal?

Obi-Wan is smiling: I know what the deal is. Something is bothering you, right?

Sexy Blue: (nods) You know I’m not proud of this…

Obi-Wan lifts up the bottom of the Emperor’s cloak.

Sexy Blue: Well, look at that. I was right; he doesn’t wear shoes.

Padmé: WHAT?!

Sexy Blue: I was just thinking the other day… Does the Emperor wear shoes? I always picture him in kind of a Grim Reaper ensemble – which would be without shoes. (the Bill and Ted Grim Reaper lol)

Anakin: (laughing) Well, now we know. He’s heavy; come on, grab a bare foot and help.

Padmé: Anakin, do you always wear shoes?

Anakin: (annoyed) Yes, Padmé.

I hope you’ve enjoyed these supremely silly little snippets! I never thought anything inside of this yellow folder would ever be seen by the eyes of anyone but my big sis and me 💛

That’s how much I love you guys.

Twenty years has truly gone so fast ⚜️

[crossbowblu]

'Because of "disorderly conduct" they docked my savings. Now that I am not an official mercenary they don't pay me much. And I am not willing to let anyone here operate on me.'

No shot to John he just wouldn't put it past someone to botch the replacements or worse curse his skeleton for all the weird events that happen around here. He is frankly scared of being put under thus under a knife more so. Hah. Who knew sticking up against your asshole teammates would've ended with it biting him in the ass severely.

Clovis took quite a quick note over how the larger man is all pouty after his last sentence. Seemingly mad to some degree. Oh right. John had mentioned his mean streak and no doubt took personal offense. Oops. The darker haired man stays still. Not out of timid fear that certainly would have been the case ages ago, just curiously watching the older man get comfy with the little furry goblin. Careful she will start kneading and give him a taste of her murder mittens.

Sighs slightly, wanting to come at it from a different approach on what he qualifies as his previous statement. It's an event Clovis really thought he buried memory wise or got knocked into another folder. To pretend it didn't happen. Kind of wished it had stayed that way, the mental image of his last office is already making him feel sick. Maybe that's how the RED felt when he bought up pigs. It vaguely triggered him into asking just to put some things to bed and hopefully never end in a future argument. Clovis enjoys Roadhog's company. Despite sexual innuendoes and obvious dislike for BLUs. So he approached again, face carefully blank as he writes words across the pad in icy efficiency.

'Roadhog. I am going to ask a question but please try not to get all angry at me for asking. I am not personally attacking your character.'

He frowns, getting what he was coming from over with before he got cold feet.

' If John or I were to piss you off that badly, would you take it out on Misty?'

He quietly waits for a response while his eyes burn, pale fingers tremble, clearly anxiety riddled. The worst case scenario was to get throttled at all verbally then being tossed out of the shack. Clovis expects to be accused of trying to start something when that's not it. That's not his point. He is trying to describe the people he is repulsed by writing since he cannot verbally add anything for emphasis. Damn... trying really hard to not give into the urge to throw up talking about that personal experience. That would be rude to make the floor a mess.

'Because people do terrible things all the time to each other, it's human nature. The difference is if they commit a crime towards a helpless animal or a child. Perhaps calling those kinds of people "sadists" is bad phrasing on my end and I apologize. That's not how I view you either, so please Don't take what I said personally.'

@hog-style

"Oh .. it's you."

Yes. John is addressing Roadhog in a tone and facial expression of total disinterest and annoyance, having been busy unloading the rest of their personal items off the truck. Said vehicle having stopped a bit short from getting too close to BLU as there seems to be some REDs retrieving their own materials. Amazing. Took the company a literal month or two to ship things here. And it happened to be only five to six boxes. Sure the medical supplies arrived way earlier, like the day OF their arrival, but it had been very annoying having to substitute certain things.

"What is it that you want?"

[avirxy]

I’m like two years late with this au but to everyone who said it was Claire cash in