#Accountancy Class 12 Question | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

oddlydescriptive · 29 days ago

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Reset, Chapter Fourteen

Series Masterlist

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You wake up hating everything.

The light.

Yourself.

Beer.

Beer especially.

Life in general.

The ceiling, for starters- the same one you’ve stared at for months now in your little factory dorm room. The way it’s too close, too bright, too white. Your tongue feels like it’s been dragged across the production floor. Your brain is a dull, pulsing throb- not catastrophic, but persistent. Annoying. Like a reminder that yes, in fact, you drank three whole beers -big beers, mind you- last night. Possibly four. And no, you are not nineteen anymore. You’re also no longer a particularly seasoned drinker after three months of nothing more than an occasional, polite glass of white wine or champagne over business dinners.

Oh my God. What even was last night?

The call. Sure. Great. Dream-fulfilling, life-altering, seat-securing moment, and yeah, you’re happy, thrilled, all that. Whatever. Fine.

The beers- fine. Maybe a little fast, maybe one too many, but whatever. You earned it.

But the rest?

The jukebox.

The laughing.

The fucking kneeling.

The staring.

Jesus Christ, the staring.

You groan out loud and flop onto your side like you can physically wiggle away from the memory. Like maybe if you press your cheek against the cool wall and hold perfectly still, time will rewind just far enough to let you unlive the last thirty seconds before you caught Max Verstappen watching you like he’d never seen a person before.

And he wasn’t even trying to hide it.

“God,” you mumble to the ceiling. “What the fuck was that?” No one answers.

You feel yourself heat from the inside out, not with embarrassment exactly- more like offense. How dare he. How dare you, honestly. Getting punchy in the haze of cheap pilsners and vintage ABBA.

You throw the blanket off like it’s personally offended you and swing your legs to the floor. You’ve got a flight to Brazil. You’re going with the team. To sign the contract. To smile and wave and pretend you’re not still mildly hungover from a bunch of £5 pilsner and the world's stupidest standoff.

You feel disgusting, so you dress accordingly- real clothes. Overcompensate. High-waisted trousers, clean blouse, light makeup, hair pinned into something neat. The kind of outfit that says: I have my shit together, even if your brain feels like it was run over by the taxi cab that deposits you on the sidewalk of Heathrow.

Check-in is quick. Security is quicker. One checked bag. One backpack. That’s it.

No drama. No questions. No fire suit. No helmet. No gear bag stuffed within an inch of it’s life. No extra team apparel shoved between a neck brace and your HANS device. No holding up your backpack with two fingers while someone roots through your bag- Miss, is this a lithium battery? You blink as you clear the last scanner, almost suspicious of how easy it was.

Nothing about your luggage says racer. Because you’re on the other side of it. The side that had gear packed and sent before you even had to question it.

British Airways out of Terminal 3. First class. Direct. No layovers. That alone feels like a fever dream. Your seat was booked by someone else, paid for with a team card you’ve never even seen. No expense report, no hustle, no sideways phone calls, no backdoor travel codes that you begborrowstole from dark corners of the internet or schmoozed from a customer service agent. Just: here’s your itinerary. Have a nice flight. God, you don’t want to know what a 12 hour notice first-class flight to Brazil costs. Probably more than is in your checking account.

You’re not used to that.

Thanks to the ticket and the Amex Platinum your dad insists on keeping you listed under- for emergencies only, babygirl, I mean it- you’ve got access to multiple lounges. You spent the entire cab ride over scrolling r/heathrow and watching lounge reviews on YouTube like a psychopath. The Cathay Pacific First Class Lounge came out on top.

Small. Quiet. Mood lighting. Made-to-order noodles.

You take the elevator up, nod politely to the concierge, smile too wide- because you’re still not used to being let into these places without having to explain yourself- and step inside.

Instant exhale. The rest of the airport vanishes like someone hit mute. Carpet under your boots. Leather chairs soft enough to make you want to sleep for a week. It’s small. Quiet. Dim in a deliberate, expensive way. The kind of quiet that doesn’t ask for silence, just assumes it.

You still don’t love traveling. The flights, the time zones, the disorienting lights of arrivals halls in cities that don’t know your name yet.

But the lounges?

God, yes.

You’re not new to lounges. You’ve practically got a doctorate in them. Back in America- especially during your Indy days- you were the undisputed queen of squeezing every drop out of a Priority Pass guest allowance. You learned how to hustle your way through them. Flash the card, assess your options, and above all- come prepared. Water battle. Tupperware. Ziplocs.

The trick was never about getting in, even if your greasy fingernails and stained pit polos did earn you a side-eye or three. The trick was about what you did once you were there.

Eat fast. Use everything. Fill your water bottle with their fancy cucumber water or designer espresso- yes, sir- three lavender oat milk lattes. Yes. Three. Load up your Tupperware when nobody was looking. Slip some goods in your backpack, if the snacks were pre-packaged. Grab an extra banana. Swipe a few granola bars.

It wasn’t about greed or gluttony or some deep-seated kleptomania. It was about strategy. It was about survival.

It was about landing in a town you didn’t pick, at a time you didn’t agree to, with zero food options except for -maybe, possibly- one terrifying “grill” next to the motel that definitely wasn’t making its money from selling food.

Fuck you, Steam Corners, Ohio.

You and six of the pit guys got in at a respectable 9 p.m.- not even late by race weekend standards- and found the entire town locked down tighter than a Sunday church. No grocery stores. No drive-thrus. The bar across the street had plywood in the windows and hadn’t looked like it had been open since the 2008 recession. So you all ended up huddled around a vending machine in the lobby, shoving wrinkled dollar bills into it like it held a prayer. You walked away with beef jerky sticks, off-brand chips, and a melted chocolate bar you had to scrape off the inside of the wrapper with your teeth.

That night, you learned two things:

Always carry your own fork.

Lounge leftovers could mean the difference between starving and not.

So no- it wasn’t indulgence. It was about having something edible by the time you hit the motel roulette in whatever town hadn’t updated its Yelp listings since 2011.

This time, you’re not the exception. You’re on the manifest. It’s disorienting. Not wrong. Just... new.

It used to feel like cheating.

Now it just feels... strange. Now someone is bringing you a menu with hand-pulled noodles and duck broth and you’re not even plotting how to smuggle leftovers into your carry-on. Now there’s no hustle. No sleight of hand. Just you. A seat. A name on the list.

You’ve been in lounges before. Dozens. But never like this. Never without the need to justify it- to earn it. To sneak, to scavenge, to prepare for whatever Mid-western hellscape waited for you in Indy.

Eventually, your boarding group is called. First. Naturally.

You hesitate, just for a second, then rise, sling your backpack over one shoulder, and thank the lounge attendant with the kind of southern politeness that refuses to die even under duress. Your legs move automatically. Your brain’s still catching up.

You walk past the crowd at the gate- past the boarding lane packed with families and couples and the guy who’s holding his neck pillow like it’s going to save him from the cramps that come with a transatlantic flight- and head straight through the First Class lane like you’ve been doing it for years.

One scan. A nod. “Welcome aboard, Miss.”

The jet bridge is the same as always. Too cold. Too bright. Smells faintly of metal and carpet glue. You walk it like a runway you didn’t ask for.

And then-

Left turn. And suddenly, you’re not in an airplane. You’re in another world.

Your seat isn’t a seat. It’s a capsule. A private, high-walled cocoon of brushed aluminum and butter-soft leather, wide enough to stretch in and deep enough to disappear into. There’s a pillow. A mattress pad. A console. A welcome card with your name handwritten in actual ink. Real pen ink. That someone wrote with their hand.

You take one cautious step in, and then another. Sit down like you expect it to vanish beneath you.

It doesn’t.

It cradles you. It welcomes you. It instantly forgives every cheap red-eye and Greyhound bus you’ve ever endured.

A flight attendant offers to hang your jacket. Another one brings you a hot towel. There’s a glass of champagne waiting on a tray like it missed you. You’re pretty sure you just heard someone order caviar. On a plane.

You start poking around, careful but curious- fingertips skating over unfamiliar buttons, compartments, sleek metallic seams. One panel flips open with a click. Another releases a drawer with a blanket folded military tight. You find the noise-canceling headphones. The amenity kit. The menu.

And then- curious, stupid, a little drunk on luxury- you press a button without reading the label.

Whirrr.

The divider wall between you and the next seat begins to descend. Oh no. No no no no no.

“Shit- ” you whisper, eyes widening as the panel hums down, smooth as silk and definitely not stopping until it hits the bottom. Abort, abort, ABORT. You fumble, jabbing the button again like that’s going to make the wall rise faster- or erase the last five seconds entirely. You’re halfway out of your seat, stammering out a panicked, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to- ”

And then the divider finishes its glide- and you’re staring directly into the seat next to you.

George Russell blinks. Then smiles. “Oh,” he says, like he’s amused and already halfway into being polite. “Hello.”

You freeze, still hovering over the console like you’ve been caught rewiring the aircraft. Your voice gets stuck in your throat, then comes out all at once: “I didn’t mean to do that.”

He laughs, easy and warm. “That’s alright. I was wondering when I’d get to say hello.”

And just like that, you're caught. Trapped somewhere between mortification and high-altitude diplomacy. You freeze. Because of course it’s someone you know. Because of course it’s someone from work.

And just like that, you shift. Shoulders back. Jaw loose. Smile calibrated. You sit like someone who’s been in first class before. Who’s tired of the champagne. Who rolls her eyes at warmed towels. Who belongs here.

“Hi,” you say, light and charming, like that button press wasn’t a small social catastrophe. “God, sorry about the- ” you gesture vaguely at the console, at the divider that just revealed way too much. “Didn’t realize it actually worked. Total accident.” Like you’ve been here before. Like you didn’t even expect it to work. Like you’ve been here enough to pick out the flaws. Nice. Smooth.

George lets out a polite laugh. “No harm done.” He adjusts slightly in his seat, still watching you with that carefully unreadable expression. “Nice surprise, really.”

You mirror his posture- effortless, elegant, like the seat wasn’t a mini theme park of compartments and features five minutes ago. “Wasn’t expecting company either,” you say. “But hey. Better than sitting next to someone who takes their shoes off before takeoff.”

He smiles at that. “True. Though I wouldn’t have pegged you for British Airways.”

You raise a brow. “Why not?”

George lifts one shoulder in a mild shrug. “Just assumed Red Bull would have you flying private or something.” You laugh- easy, breezy, Covergirl, like that thought hadn’t just sent a minor wave of panic rolling through your ribcage.

“Oh, sure,” you say. “Maybe next season.”

And he nods, seemingly satisfied. No comment. No follow-up. Just that watchful, polite quiet that makes your skin itch, just a little. You sink deeper into your seat, legs angled, hands loose in your lap. You sip your Coke like you’ve had a hundred of them up here. You make a mental note to google BA first class etiquette when you land, just to be safe.

He studies you for a moment longer. Not invasive, just… curious. “I haven’t seen you since Zandvoort,” he says, like it’s a memory worth revisiting.

You smile. Professional. Clean. “Briefly. Podium.”

“I remember,” George says. “You disappeared in the cool down room, no?”

You hum. “Yeah, I… wasn’t feeling great.” Which is a much classier way of saying: I threw up everything but my teeth five minutes before they handed me the champagne.

He nods slowly, still watching you. Not too intently. Just… enough. “You looked strong,” he says.

You smile again, automatic. “Thanks.”

There’s a pause. Measured. Warm. And then he shifts, smoothing his hand along the armrest. “I take it you’re headed to São Paulo with the rest of us?”

You nod. “Team stuff. Press. Just tagging along.”

He tilts his head. “Tagging along?”

“Support role,” you say smoothly. “A few meetings. A little visibility.”

George doesn’t press. He just offers a small nod and turns forward again. Still smiling. Still perfectly mannered. But you can feel it.

The curiosity. The mild surprise. Like maybe he didn’t expect you to fit in here. Like maybe he didn’t expect you to be this composed.

And you’ll be damned if you let him find out how new this is. You’ve never flown first class in your life. You still don’t know what half the buttons on this seat do. But George Russell won’t be the one to find that out. Not today. Not ever.

The divider stays down for a while.

You didn’t mean to leave it that way. But George doesn’t seem in any rush to raise it again, and you’re not about to be the one to imply conversation with a Mercedes driver isn’t worth having.

Besides, it’s... not bad. He’s not loud. Not nosy. Just casually curious in that very British way- polite questions shaped like compliments, wrapped in neutral observations. “So,” he says, somewhere over the Atlantic, after you’ve finished your meal and quietly declined the warm chocolate tart, “contract up for review soon, isn’t it?”

You don’t flinch. Don’t blink.

“Something like that,” you say, smiling into your glass.

He doesn’t push. Just nods like that’s exactly what he expected. There’s no point in pretending he hasn’t heard the rumors. But the AlphaTauri deal isn’t public yet, and you’re neck deep in and NDA, and even if you weren’t- you haven’t even told your mom. Fuck if you’re going to tell George before Marissa LeChriste. You still have some fear of God.

He turns back to his tray, wipes a crumb off the corner with a napkin, and says- like it’s nothing- “Toto and Susie mentioned you the other night.”

Your hand stills slightly on the stem of your glass. “Oh?”

“Susie said she’s been looking to get in touch. Formula Women Academy.”

“Really?” you ask, careful not to sound too surprised. “I didn’t know.” Try not to turn your nose up too fast. No ma’am- you are not racing the sideshow, noble as it might be. Susie Wolff has another thing coming if she thinks you’re interested in racing old money’s daughters in F4 cars.

George offers a polite little shrug. “Said you’d dropped off the map a bit this season. Thought you might be interested in some involvement. Media appearances, mentoring. That sort of thing.” Oh. Okay. Not driving, then. Fair enough.

You hesitate. Only a second. Then: “Yeah. That’d be great.” He pulls out his phone- new, shiny, no case- and passed it to you. You type in your number, save it under something innocuous, and hand it back with that same even smile.

“Consider it done.”

It’s quiet after that.

He cues up a film. You do the same. Occasionally, one of you makes a comment- a subtle glance, a half-smile, a dry joke passed just loud enough to carry across the shared space. Nothing that would bother a stranger. Nothing that would call attention.

The divider goes up once, midway through the flight. Not with finality. Just... a pause. An unspoken “we’ve said enough for now.” You don’t take it personally.

Hours later, after sleep and a half-watched documentary, it hums back down again. You murmur something about the snack service, and George agrees that, yes, the ice cream really is decent. You’re both groggy, faces soft from sleep, too disarmed to be fully guarded. There’s no bond here. Not really. Just a quiet agreement that being pleasant is… pleasant.

And when you land in São Paulo, it’s George who speaks to the driver first. Who casually says you’re headed to the same hotel. Who doesn’t offer- just assumes you’ll share the car.

You slide in beside him. Thank him, just barely above a whisper. Outside, the city rolls by in flickers of orange streetlight and fogged glass. Inside, you sit tall. Hands folded over your phone. Skin warm from too many hours of recirculated air.

You’ve never felt more legitimate. You’ve never felt more out of place.

After check-in, you offer George a polite nod, a gentle expression of thanks- something neat, polished, gentle- as you part ways. You throw your bags down in the corner, not the closet, and head back downstairs in search of some food. You skip the hotel restaurant.

It’s too glossy, too curated, full of white linen and waitstaff who look like they’ve been coached not to make eye contact. The menu’s in three languages and somehow still vague. You’re not in the mood for vague. You want comfort. Eleven hours in proximity of George Russel, pretending you’re someone who absolutely understands how to read wine notes, and you’re done. You’re tapped. The endurance of your soft smile has reached its absolute limit.

Instead, you find a street vendor a half block down. Open cart. A line of locals seven deep. The smell hits you halfway down the block- charred meat, cilantro, lime. You don’t even ask questions. Just hold up three fingers and exchange a few crumpled reais. He hands you a few hot skewers wrapped in butcher paper and a paper boat of what looks to be fried potatoes.

Hell yeah. You eat the first skewer on the walk back to the hotel.

And it tastes like home. Not even the flavors, per se, just the simplicity of it. Like spice and salt and honest money. Like county fairs and brandings and barbeques and long days that end in dusty tailgates. Like normal people.

Back at the hotel, you don’t go upstairs. Not yet. You settle into the corner of the lobby with your tablet balanced on your knee. One earbud in. Head low. Film pulled up- public stuff, just YouTube- past Brazil races, lap analyses, old helmet cams. Nothing you’d get into trouble for watching out in the open.

You’ve seen most of it before, but that’s not the point. It’s not about learning. Not anymore. It’s about rhythm. Sound. Familiarity. The weight of tires in your ears. Food tastes better when it’s accompanied by a racecar, and that’s just a fact. Can’t argue with the facts.

You’re not hiding. Not even a little. You’re just… re-centering. Letting the ebb and flow of the world, the people, the evening move around you like a river coursing around a stone. People watch. Enjoy a few more hours of relative anonymity in this city while you still have it. As soon as the contract news breaks it’s going to be another feeding frenzy of interviews, cameras, pictures, soundbytes.

But right now, you’re still a normal person, eating a normal meal, doing normal things. And that’s nice.

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They’re halfway back from dinner when it happens.

The three of them- Max, Lando, and Danny- trailing through the hotel’s wide, dim lobby, stomachs full, conversation lazy. Lando’s half-telling a story about a rental car disaster in Dubai. Danny keeps interrupting, loudly, adding fake details just to hear himself talk. Max isn’t really listening. Just nodding occasionally, arms crossed, eyes drifting. He’s thinking Barcelona should be able to beat out Osasuna tonight. Hopefully.

The restaurant glow fades behind them. Soft jazz filters through the lobby speakers like an afterthought. The elevator’s still a good fifteen meters away when Danny suddenly stops short.

“Hey!” he says, like he’s just spotted a long-lost friend across a train station platform. “That’s her, right?” Max follows his gaze, already knowing exactly who he means.

You’re curled into a corner of the lounge, half-lit by the warm, low lighting, legs folded under you, tablet balanced on your knees, hoodie slouched off one shoulder. One earbud in. Lost in your own world.

Trying not to be noticed.

Which, of course, means Danny notices immediately.

Max doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to, because Danny’s already moving. Like an over-eager puppy let off the lead at a dog park. Arms too loose, stride too confident, smile already forming. He drops into the armchair next to yours like it belongs to him. “You’re real!” he crows. “Jesus, I thought maybe you’d evaporated.”

You look up, a little startled- but only for a second. Then the switch flips. Max watches it. That thing you do.

That warm, lightning-fast pivot. The way your shoulders square and your posture tightens- not defensive, just rehearsed. Professional. Polished. It’s your PR mask, clean and seamless, the one you’ve worn in sponsor rooms and press pens and garage interviews where everyone’s already decided what kind of girl you are before you open your mouth.

The one that pisses him off.

Your smile clicks into place, pleasant and untouchable. “Hi, Danny,” you say, voice dry and careful, clipped just enough to keep things neutral.

And then Danny Ricciardo- human chaos engine, adult golden retriever- grins like you’ve just handed him the keys to a convertible. “Hi, Danny,” he mimics back, voice all exaggerated smoothness. “You know, I really didn’t expect you to be fast and good-looking. Bit rude, honestly.”

Your mask cracks instantly. Not subtly. Not in stages. Just- gone. Danny has that effect on people.

You laugh.

And not the clipped, controlled thing you offer when someone says something mildly inflammatory in a media pen. Not the gentle sound you offer when a sponsor cracks a joke that’s not as funny as they think it is. This is… loud. From your chest. Full-bodied and real.

Max feels his stomach twist like someone just yanked the steering wheel too hard.

You say something- he can’t hear it- and Danny throws his head back and howls like you’ve just told him the world’s funniest line. And just like that, you’re off.

You shift in your chair, leaning forward, one elbow on your knee, gesturing now with both hands like you’re trying to tell him five stories at once. Danny keeps pace effortlessly, already pointing to your tablet like he belongs there, like he was invited. You tilt the screen toward him without hesitation.

You two are obnoxious. Cringey. Instant combustion in human form. You talk with your hands. You talk a lot. You match Danny’s energy in real time, and that’s saying something. Like you’ve got the same outlet. Like you're wired into the same kind of stupidity.

It’s not flirting.

It’s worse.

It’s compatibility.

You’re not trying. That’s the worst part. You’re not doing anything performative. You’re just existing, and somehow you’re funny, magnetic, loud, and completely unfazed by Danny’s hurricane enthusiasm.

Max watches. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He’s not jealous. He’s not angry. Just… disoriented. Because he’s never seen you like this. So bright. So open. So uninterested in guarding yourself. This you is a stranger entirely, except Max doesn’t know any version of you well enough to understand what is and isn’t manufactured.

And worse- you like him. Danny. Immediately. Loudly. You’re already chattering about something Max can’t hear- something about a street vendor and suspicious meat and strange men with grills- and Danny’s practically drooling over whatever you brought back with you from outside.

And then Danny takes your fork. Max can’t tell if you offered it or if Danny just took it, but it’s in his hand, and then his mouth, and then he’s moaning like he’s never eaten before.

“Oh my God,” Danny says, chewing, dramatic as hell. “This is insane. Where did you get this?”

You shrug, smirking. “Sidewalk cart. Didn’t speak a word of English. Definitely wasn’t licensed. I trusted him completely.” He eats it. You let him. Neither of you blinks.

Seriously?

Danny too?

“Jesus, take a fucking breath,” Max mutters under his breath, not loud enough for anyone to hear. “Dumbass.”

It’s not like he expected restraint- this is Danny, after all- but something about the immediacy of it is almost offensive. Max hasn’t seen him this animated since the last time someone lost a bet with Danny and ended up in a tattoo parlor.

And now he’s here, absolutely in his element, double-dipping conversation and eye contact like he’s known you for a decade.

Gross.

Whatever. Max doesn’t bother approaching. Just stays planted, arms crossed, watching the performance unfold.

Danny’s not serious. He can’t be. He never is. He’ll say anything if it gets a laugh and everything if it gets attention. He flirts with dogs and baristas and traffic cones if they smile at him first. He’ll forget about this by tomorrow.

Still- Max shifts his weight. Doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t say a word. Lando sidles up next to him with a soda in one hand and a stupid grin already forming. “You think they’re getting on, huh?” he murmurs, tilting his head toward the chaos in the corner.

Max doesn’t answer immediately. Doesn’t have to. He exhales hard through his nose, eyes fixed straight ahead.

“They look and sound stupid,” he mutters.You and Danny are still talking over each other, bouncing jokes like tennis balls. Your laugh has gotten louder, like you’re not in the middle of a four-star hotel lobby, and Danny is eating it up.

Lando snorts and waves his hand at the two of you like he doesn’t have the words for it. Extrovert-on-extrovert extravaganza, in a way that only people from countries that don’t believe in inside voices or taking turns to speak can be.

“I mean, come on,” Max adds, sharper now, “she’s American, he’s Australian. Of course the volume doubles. You put two dogs in a room, they bark louder. Doesn’t mean they’re communicating.” He says it like a fact. Like he’s explaining gravity.

And in his mind, that’s that.

Danny will burn out in ten minutes. You’ll get bored. And Max will go upstairs with the boys, watch the Barcelona match in peace, maybe crack a beer and yell at the screen. Life will return to normal.

But then he hears it.

Danny: “You should come up.”

And Max’s heart stops. His head snaps toward the group just in time to see Danny half-sitting on the arm of your chair, holding a water bottle in one hand and gesturing toward the elevators with the other.

“We’re watching the Barcelona game,” he says, all grin, all ease. “Lando’s already in, a few of the others, right Max?” He doesn’t wait for confirmation. “You should come. Hang out.” Max goes still.

You raise an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “With you guys?”

Danny shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Why not? You’re already out, you’re already fed, and you’re way too interesting to be stuck down here watching race film alone like some weird little robot.”

Max feels something in his chest go cold. Because this was not the plan. No. Nonono. The plan was just the guys. Just the match. Just noise and a drink and the comfort of knowing nothing unexpected would happen.

And now?

Now you’re coming upstairs.

To Danny’s suite.

To the same room where Max was planning to take off his shoes and stretch out on the floor and complain about passing accuracy and not think about you.

He doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t protest.

But internally, he’s screaming.

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You’ve tucked yourself into the corner of the couch like it’s instinct. Knees pulled up. Hands folded. Half watching, half not. The suite filled up, and fast- Lando, Max, Carlos, Charles, Fernando, Danny- shoulders crammed together, half-eaten snacks on the table, bottles of beer already sweating onto coasters.

Everyone’s locked in on the screen.

Except you.

You’ve never really gotten soccer. Football. Whatever. You know the rules, kind of. Understand the basics, mostly. But the obsession? The tribal loyalty, the screaming at the screen like your voice might physically change the outcome? Not really. You’re not bored. You’re just… not about it. You’ve never been a soccer girl. You’re a ranch kid with a race car problem. This isn’t your arena.

You keep quiet. Not shy, exactly. Just aware.

You’re the outsider in a room of heavyweights. Guys with race wins, titles, legacy. And it’s not that you can’t belong in this room- it’s just... not the night to prove it. You know better than to force your way into a rhythm you don’t know the beat of. So you stay quiet.

Still, it’s… nice. In the way background noise sometimes is. The rhythm of the match, the dull commentary, the occasional groan or cheer when someone misses or makes a goal. The way Carlos keeps ejecting himself from the couch and pacing around the room is entertaining, if nothing else.

But Danny-

Danny doesn’t leave you to drift.

He slides into the cushion next to you. Casual. One foot on the coffee table, beer dangling between two fingers, eyes half on the screen. “Y’right?” he murmurs, voice low enough that it doesn’t carry.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… not really a soccer girl. Football. Whatever.”

That gets a small grin out of him. “Yeah? What kind of girl are you then?”

You narrow your eyes. “If you’re trying to make that sound flirty, it’s failing spectacularly.”

Danny lets out a soft laugh. “Nah. Promise. I’ve hit my limit for the night. Just makin’ conversation.” You believe him. He’s settled now. Less animated. Less golden retriever at the dog park. Just Danny. And for once, it doesn’t feel like small talk.

“So where’s home?” Danny asks. “Proper home. Not the Europe version.”

You shift in your seat a little, glance at the game, then back at him. “Washington.”

He blinks. “As in… D.C.?”

You snort. “God, no. State. Eastern side. Not the rain and coffee shops. The hot, dry, endless wheat field side.”

Danny squints. “Washington has a hot side?”

“Yep. Lotta people don’t realize it. It’s farmland. Orchards. Sunburns in April.”

He tilts his head, studying you. “Still doesn’t explain the accent.”

You smile a little, tugging at the hem of your sleeve. “Yeah. That’s fair.”

He grins. “No offense, but I’ve met, like, three people from Washington and none of ‘em sound like they wanna offer me iced tea on a porch swing.”

You laugh. “My mom’s from Texas. Proper Southern girl. Real pearls-and-praise-the-Lord energy. I did most of my junior career down there. Close to her family. Think it just… rubbed off.”

Danny raises a brow. “Rubbed off?”

You shrug. “Accents are sticky. You spend your formative years getting yelled at in one, it sticks. Plus, the sponsors love it.”

He leans in a little, grinning. “Oh yeah? Bit of drawl, a little ‘yes sir’- all part of the package?”

“Exactly,” you say, deadpan. “It’s branding.”

Danny chuckles, voice warm and easy. “God. That’s grim.”

You smirk. “That’s motorsport.”

He tips his beer toward you like a salute. “Well, for what it’s worth, it works.”

You smirk sideways at him. The noise of the game swells behind you- cheering, commentary, the scrape of someone’s bottle against the table- but it all feels distant. Muted. Like you’re sitting just slightly outside of it all. By choice.

Danny shifts beside you, slow and casual, his elbow sliding along the back of the couch until his arm drapes behind you- not touching, just resting there like it belongs.

His voice drops a little. Softer now. “So… you miss it? Home?” You glance at him, surprised he asked. Not because it’s invasive. It’s not. Just that no one ever really does. Not like that. Not in a way that feels like they care about the answer.

You hesitate. But something about his face- open, kind, not trying too hard- makes it feel okay. “Yeah,” you admit. “A lot more than I thought I would.”

You twist the edge of your sleeve between your fingers, the screen across the room blurring into background noise. “I miss the quiet. The space. My family.”

Danny doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t give you that look- the one people give when they’re trying to relate but don’t actually understand. He just nods, slow and thoughtful. “Yeah. That makes sense.”

“I didn’t think I would, this much,” you say, trying to keep your voice light. “I’ve lived off the ranch more than on it for the better part of ten years- but it was still just a plane ticket and a half day of flying away. I was so ready for this. But… now that I’m here…” You trail off. Shrug.

He finishes it for you. “Now it feels like you left a part of you behind.”

You nod, exhaling through your nose. “Something like that.”

Danny leans back, eyes on the screen but not really watching. “I felt like that my first year in Europe. Had this flat in some beige building in Nogaro. No heating worth a damn, weird neighbors. I was flying out every other week, chasing the next thing. Couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t sleep. Just felt… off.”

You steal another look at him, and this time he’s not grinning. Not teasing. Just steady.

“I missed my mum’s garden,” he adds. “Didn’t realize that until I walked past someone cutting rosemary and nearly lost my shit.”

You laugh- quietly. Soft. “Not the rosemary,” you say.

“The rosemary,” he repeats, mock solemn. “It’s always the little stuff.”

You smile. Small. Real. And for once, no one tries to poke it. No one rushes to fill the silence or turn it into a joke. Danny just… stays there. Still and steady. One arm draped lazily over the back of the couch like he’s holding space without needing to claim any of it.

Not fixing anything. Just there.

The moment hovers. Not long- just long enough to register. Long enough to feel it bloom in your chest, slow and unfamiliar. Something soft. Something warm. Something you forgot you missed. It’s nice. Too nice. Like maybe- just maybe- you could feel that way again. Let your guard down. Be a person instead of a weapon.

Which is precisely when Danny kills it.

Not cruelly. Not even consciously. Just- swerves. He nods toward the TV with a grin already tugging at his mouth. “So. Still not a soccer fan?”

And just like that- it’s gone. The warmth. The ache. The weight.

It snaps closed around you like a door slamming shut, and you blink as the air shifts. Like someone’s poured a pitcher of cold water straight down your spine. You try to recover fast. You’re good at that. Exhale a soft laugh. “Not really. But I am glad you call it soccer.”

He grins, all bright mischief again, like the last sixty seconds never happened.

And you? You pull the softness back where it belongs. Out of sight. Out of reach.

He grins- bigger now, looser. “Yeah, that won’t last.” You arch a brow, suspicious. He nods, too solemn to be trustworthy. “No, seriously. Stay here long enough and one day you’ll be screamin’ about offsides and actin’ like you were born wearin’ cleats. Swear it’s in the water.”

You scoff. “Doubt it.”

“Sorry to tell ya,” he says, raising his drink. “It’s a slow infection. No symptoms. One day you just wake up with a favorite team and an enemy for life.”

You laugh, and it surprises you that you’re not still stinging from the gear change in moods. It’s easy. Thoughtless. Like your body didn’t ask permission first. You shake your head, still smiling, something soft catching behind your ribs.

It’s not a big conversation. It’s not terribly deep, at least not for long. But it’s real. And it’s the first time in a long time someone’s asked about your life- not your stats, your sim times, your strategy. You.

And it didn’t feel like a test. Didn’t feel like small talk. Even if it was just a moment.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

Series Masterlist

This was a super natural chapter to write- I love this character set and all the things it's going to reveal about 66 and who she is and what her needs are and why Max and her do work so well once they're together. And it's just nice to get into the part of the story where she gets to form real relationships that are all diverse and multi-dimensional and serve different purposes. We get to build her a rich personal life that helps ground her and shape her as she steps into this new stage of her life! As always, I am shamelessly pandering for your interaction in the comments and asks- helps me stay motivated and find passion in the fic :)

#f1 #max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #f1 fanfic #formula one #max verstappen x y/n #f1 x reader #max verstappen x you #mv1 fic #mv1 x reader #mv1 #mv33 #max vertsappen fic #formula 1 x you #formula 1 #formula 1 x reader

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andhumanslovedstories · 1 year ago

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I was in the ICU last night taking care of medsurg overflow patients—that’s when you aren’t sick enough to be in the ICU anymore but we don’t have a bed anywhere else for you yet. I don’t like floating to the ICU. It’s such a coin flip as to whether you’re gonna have a hard night or an easy one. You almost never get a full load of four patients, and that’s so nice, but the one or two or three patients you do have are all sick enough to have needed intensive care six hours ago. They’re usually still not doing amazingly. But they’re floor status now, so it’s medsurg patient ratios. But if you were a medsurg floor, the charge would probably be like “let’s not give three patients of this high an acuity to one nurse.”

Also some of them are NOT floor status. They’re just “slightly less likely to die in the next 12 hours status.” What we really need is a step down unit which is somewhere between the extreme high acuity of the ICU and the catchall category of medsurg. Instead we have a couple units that are “essentially step down units,” which means they are just medsurg units but you know your night is probably gonna be so hard.

Besides the patients, the ICU is just so spread out and lonely. Most critical care patients have a 1:1 ratio—one patient to one nurse. That’s on account of how intensive the care is, you see. But it also means whenever you’re like “I would love some help,” everyone else on the floor is like “if I step more than six feet away from my patient, he will die so badly.” It makes it really hard to casually engage in conversation, especially since I’m not qualified to do like anything in the ICU rooms, so I would clearly be going over there to expressly talk to them. And I don’t want to have a conversation! I just want to establish some rapport. I love bounding ideas off other staff! I love being about to shoot the shit a lil bit and then be like “well I have rounds” when one of us has to wander off. No one here has rounds. They are already Right There.

Anyway then the shift ends, and it’s time to pass off your patients. If you’re lucky it’s to another medsurg nurse who also looks a kid realizing too late into the lecture that this is not their class. But sometimes you give report to an ICU nurse who asks questions that are so pertinent and are so fair to ask, but they’re also like. the kind of questions you ask when you expect the person you’re getting report from is another critical care nurse who only has one patient. At a certain point, I just wanna be like “what do you want from me, dude. i’m stupid. every lab you’re asking about is in the chart and you understand them better than I do. can I go home”

That also means when they give you a real softball like “and how many IVs does he have” and you’re like “uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh let’s go count them together shall we” you feel like the biggest dipshit in the world. And then they ask you three more questions each easier than the last as you have traumatic flashbacks to nursing school, specifically the parts where you failed a quiz and also misspelled your name. It just ends the shift on a bad note. Not even a bad note. Real burp of a shift change.

I’m feeling particularly salty because I overheard a couple critical care nurses last night joking about how medsurg nurses are so nervous about the medical boarders and basically saying that we’re always freaking out over nothing while being completely oblivious to the actual symptoms that matter. And as a nurse who once called rapid response because my patient’s heart beat weird for about twelve seconds, I was like “hey. you’re correct. but also must be nice to have just one patient and all shift to read every single thing about them and to sit outside their door next to your fully stocked equipment cart, and to be able to watch them all shift.” And it’s like yeah, critical care nurses can take all the blood out of a person and then put it all back better than before. But I know to turn off lights when I leave a patient room at three in the morning, and apparently in the ICU that’s an even more illusion trick.

But anyway it’s twelve hours later and I’m on the other side of a good good sleep, so I’m less cranky, and back to being appreciative of the specific skills critical care nurses being that are so essential, and also I was like, how pressed can I really be about one group of nurses joking about another group of nurses. that’s like 25 percent of my blog at this point.

#nursing tag

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gisachi · 6 days ago

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12 Games: Shinichi and Ran Game # 8 - Secret Rating: T Summary: How long can they keep up? How long until they give in?

(Read here or in FFN ! Link provided.)

It wasn’t that they were purposely avoiding the topic of their relationship.

First of all, and to be absolutely clear, there was no relationship to speak of. They were as casual as could be, the typical standout beauty and brains, coexisting with the mortals in class. But everyone in the room thought they looked good together, and it came as a shock when one blessed soul mustered the courage to ask, “Are you two secretly dating?”

Shinchi blinked once, Ran looked at Shinichi, Shinichi looked at Ran, both looked at the classmate.

“No we’re not,” they said in unison, in a manner that sounded like they were actually secretly dating.

“You’ll make beautiful babies really,” the blessed soul blushed. Shinichi’s eye twitched. Ran nearly choked. Both could hear Sonoko’s laughter in the distance.

To be asked that question was crazy, to hear that follow-up was even crazier, because not only did it plant strange seeds in their heads - they were good friends, damnit - but constant and collective affirmation by people around had made them pause and think and wonder, really wonder, whenever they’d lend the other a pen or space out at lunch break or lie alone in bed at night, even for just a split second, whether as just a joke, what it would be like to bond, to date, or–god forbid–to hook up.

Which they hadn’t done, of course. All silly thoughts stayed in the head. Perhaps the farthest they’d gone physically was that extra two-second fingertip graze during the baton pass at the sports festival. The touch lingered a bit, and Shinichi wasn’t exactly sure if the burning sensation up his skin was due to the scorching heat of summer or something else as he watched Ran's back, sun kissed and sweaty, ponytailed hair flowing gloriously with the wind as she sprinted to the finish line.

They did hang a couple of times since then, left in the lab after school for research. Contrary to what others may imagine, all interactions were in fact, wholesome. In empty classrooms they learned a lot about each other – her favorite color, his favorite food. The way she’d touch her chin before selecting strawberry yogurt from the vending machine. The way he’d crinkle his eyes when reading texts from the bulletin board like he needed a pair of glasses. All sorts of trivial matters only a few knew about because nobody would dare hang around popular kids unless they were themselves popular. A misconception the rest of their classmates should learn to shake off.

Because the thing was, whether or not the other held such stature, it had nothing to do with why his heart did weird somersaults on the day she started addressing him by his first name. It was silly, it happened after a successful English report and he found himself fighting the urge to ask 'it isn't just me, is it?' in front of the whole class like a desperate sadboy loser. The same way it wouldn’t alter the words scribbled behind her notebook - her full name beside a heart beside his full name beside a question mark, under jagged loops of erasures caused by an approaching threat that was Sonoko.

There was no relationship to speak of. Not even situationship. But definitely there was something that had become impossible to ignore. And if it weren’t for that godforsaken question still lingering in their minds a month after it had been asked, they wouldn’t allow themselves to be put into this awkward position.

Maybe the best way to let the telltale fire die down was to be firm in the belief there was none to begin with. So they wouldn't talk about it. Wouldn't dwell on it.

If it was just them, they could survive this easily. But there was one major factor to take into account. The setting.

For what was high school if not absolute lack of privacy and the inane need of youngins to be informed of one another’s lovelife?

“I guess our friendship means nothing to you now huh, Kudou-kun.”

Shinichi glanced up and back at his phone, merely giving a light snort to Nakamichi who sat opposite him, back on the blackboard. After seconds of his classmate’s unrelenting stare of death despite Shinichi’s obvious nonchalance, he decided to address the lad, albeit begrudgingly. “What’s it this time, Nakamichi.”

“Suzuki-san said she saw you and Mouri-san walking home together yesterday. As expected, getting the girls waay before us.”

Shinichi sighed. “I told you. Our houses are in the same direction. It was nothing.”

“It rained and she said you shared an umbrella.”

“She left hers at home. Were you expecting me to let her get soaked while I hog the umbrella?”

“Nah actually, was expecting you to give her the umbrella and you dash under the rain, dude.”

“She wouldn’t allow it. Ran isn’t that type to let such a situation happen.”

“Huh. Already at that level of familiari– wait, first name. You heard that, Aizawa?”

The classmate sitting diagonally across Shinichi nodded, invested in the ongoing conversation.

“Again. You all are misguided moro–”

“Guess brushing shoulders with Mouri-san and having his own seinen manga moment are just something he can do so freely now. I get it man. We all do. We’re jealous, man, but we’re happy for you, congratulations.”

“Guys, please–” Shinichi ran a hand over his face, “Quit it. Ra– Mouri-san and I have nothing going on. She can stare me down all day and we’ll both be chill. Take everything she does and everything she says like a classmate to a fellow classmate. Nothing more and nothing less. Believe me.”

Shinichi regretted making that remark instantly.

Because with eyes drilled to his phone, he could practically see the menacing expression exchanged between the two dudes in front of him. Talk about a non-existent fire. Just now, he believed he might have fueled something akin to a disaster.

It didn’t take long for the bad hunch to be validated as the next thing he heard was Nakamichi beckoning to someone across the room.

“Mouri-san! My bad. Are you doing something right now? Have time to spare before our next class?”

Ran, ever so courteous, acknowledged Nakamichi. A quick glance at the wall clock, before a friendly “sure, what is it?”, facing his direction. A mix of emotions stirred inside Shinichi. He especially felt sorry for Ran. More so for himself, because whatever the hell his friends were about to do, he knew they were up for the kill.

What was high school if not a bunch of teenage idiots and their countless attempts to embarrass their friends in front of the opposite sex just for something to talk about over SNS the same night?

“Our good friend here–” Nakamichi walked behind Shinichi and patted his shoulder, about to go on with a fake script, “There’s something off with him today, or not, maybe just his usual conceit, but in any case we need you to say magic words to him to bring him back to earth.”

‘I have no idea what he’s talking about.’ While Nakamichi droned on, Shinichi relayed his message to Ran through telepathic eye contact, as he often did. Easy to catch his worldless complaint, Ran fought back the smile that wrung her lips, acknowledging Shinichi’s honesty with a soft knowing blink.

Jesus, why did that gesture make his heart tumble for a second?

“Ten times and… Has to be me?” Ran pointed to herself, tone slightly surprised. Shinichi snapped back to reality and became aware of the way her eyes widened at Nakamichi, Shinichi having completely missed the latter’s words.

“Has to be you, yes.” Nakamichi replied gallantly.

“Has to be what?” Shinichi turned around to seek confirmation, only to be answered by Nakamichi’s sly grin.

“Yeah right, Kudou-kun. Pretend you didn’t hear what I just said.”

“I really didn–”

“I like you, Shinichi.”

As quick as lightning, Shinichi whipped his head back at Ran, who sat across her resolutely, eyes fixed on him. “Wh–”

“That’s the first! Wahaha nine to go!”

Almost everyone started gathering around their table by then. Nakamachi’s roastings were morphed out as Shinichi remained dumbfounded the entire time. All that was in his head was the ringing of Ran's words. Something like—

“I like you.”

He didn’t mishear, right? That was the second time. But despite this phrase uttered out of her lips, shouldn’t it have caused everyone to shut up like he was now, instead of creating a ruckus around the room? Was the world tripping with him right now?

Maybe it was, because in the haze of his senses he heard the girls squeal and Nakamichi declaring “That’s two already! Whoa, Mouri-san’s good!”, almost like a referee in a boxing match with Shinichi close to being K.O.’ed. And they were just at round two.

Immediately, his mind tried to digest the scenario: the stupid classmates horsing around five minutes ago, the blurred words of Nakamichi consisting of phrases ‘ten times’, ‘magic words’, ‘say it with a straight face’, ‘maintain eye contact’, ‘we tried but he kept winning’, Ran in front of him being a good sport acknowledging Nakamichi, Ran’s surprised gaze, Ran’s determined self as she said the sacred phrase twice without faltering… wearing her usual game face.

It didn’t take long to click. This was the game. This was a game.

The first ‘I like you’ made him want to float and disintegrate into particles. But that was the trap. He wanted to check his watch and glare at Nakamichi but surprisingly had the mind not to in fear of being called a loser. Great. Now he felt like he was indeed in high school. Had the game already started? Why did he suddenly become so competitive?

“I like you.”

She said so again, and at this point he was uncertain if he was being absorbed by the game or by his own delusion. He could hear his heart pounding rapidly in his chest, uncertain if caused by the thrill of the game or the actuality of hearing Ran say those three words, eight letters, to him.

“I like you.”

She was a natural, saying heartstopping lines meant to be told to a lover while looking him straight in the eyes. They weren’t lovers, maybe he wished they were, oh dear lord what was he thinking? What was she feeling?

“I like you.”

That phrase made him want to throw himself out the window to hide the gradually shifting colors of his cheeks, to loosen his tie to allow himself to breathe.

“I like you.”

It made him sweat on his palms, eyes unable to drag themselves away from hers because perhaps, there was no harm imagining that this could be real.

“I like you.”

It made him want to cave in and pull her close and kiss her senseless like they were meant to do that for ages. But before he could do that, of course, he must…

“I like you, I like you, I like y–”

“Marry me, Ran.”

The classroom went still.

And then, berserk.

Nakamichi may in fact be right. There was something wrong with Shinichi. On a normal day, his brain generally worked faster than his mouth. Not today, he supposed. He wanted to put a tape over it, having imagined himself in the headlines: high school boy slapped hard on the face for being too rash to ask a classmate’s hand in marriage. All because the concept of ‘like’ got him reeling. Let the collective yelps drown out her response, he’d rather not hear it. Whether it be a good or bad one, he’d die.

Stunned at Shinichi’s sudden declaration, both Shinichi and Ran remained unmoving as the rest of the class celebrated what seemed like a successful engagement. The game had ended, right? Would he even call it a game? How stupid. God forbid he had to repeat what just left his mouth nine more times–

“Might be more apt to ask again in ten years, don't you think?"

As much as they couldn't keep the excitement back, all became silent when Ran spoke. Her eyes were set on Shinichi, gentleness marking her features. The apple on her cheeks was pinker than ever, but she spoke with utmost sincerity, enough to make everyone in the room partly scared and partly curious. Had she started taking this seriously amidst the crazy childish chaos?

“I– huh. In ten years? No, I dunno, Ran, sorry I was– Um.”

A bumbling mess, Shinichi tried his best to swallow the lump down his throat and meet her eyes. It was for this exact reason that Shinichi held back for the longest time, aware of the risk of putting people on the spot. The risk of falling, and failing miserably. Yet, at that moment, deciding between taking everything back and succumbing to his yearning tore his teenage brain apart.

The ticking of the clock was so loud that it could drive one mad. Expectant eyes were all set on him and her. He knew, absolutely knew at this second he should stop prodding. Because the moment he spoke it into existence–

“Okay. If ten years is now, Ran – What will you say?”

“Yes, I think I will marry you.”

Everyone along with him died.

It was a mystery when the game started and when it culminated, who won and who lost, what their classmates chanted and screamed in the background. Even as the noise receded after their teacher came in class and students hustled to their desks, two pairs of eyes refused to break connection, subtle, secret, relenting only when the teacher started recapping yesterday’s Biology lesson.

All he could think about was how he’d actually, actually want to put a ring around that finger, ten years into the future.

(And perhaps, maybe, possibly, kiss her senseless, later.)

A/N: This one is inspired by the Aishiteru Game, Tama Craindre’s one-page comic, and an anon request. (Hi all. Yes, I am still alive. :D)

#shinran #kudou shinichi #mouri ran #fanfic #12 games #wowoooewuw is this the real life i updated !#a shinran oneshot in the year of our dear lord 2k25?#i think i ate some cutesy high school butterflies for dinner so here we freaking go lmao #oh to be sixteen again #SIGH #with this i hope to pick up on my wips #anyway if you read this thank u! this sat for 4 yrs in my draft so 4-yrs ago gisa is glad it saw the light of day

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religion-is-a-mental-illness · 12 days ago

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By: Maia Poet

Published: Apr 11, 2025

When I began to find myself swimming in a sea of trans content at the age of 12 in 2012, one of the first stories of "trans kids" I saw was the story of Jazz Jennings. I watched grainy, low-quality footage from his 2007 special. Even though Jazz is only one year younger than me, I thought he was much younger—because I was seeing him at six years old when I was already 12. It didn’t occur to me until months later, when I saw one of his more recent media appearances, that I had been watching a video from five years ago. That was my level of life perspective at the age when I declared my trans identity— I didn’t understand that the change in video image quality was a sign of how old the video was. When I realized that Jazz was around my age, I was stunned.

From there, I consumed every video I could find about "trans kids." There were only a handful of documentaries and talk show appearances. Once I’d exhausted those, I moved on to watching content created by adult transitioners. I began studying the intricacies of hormonal and surgical “sex change.” I watched hours of footage of women ten years older than me binding their breasts, and vlogging about ‘top surgeries’. Within two years, many of them had full beards and were talking about their mastectomies the way I talked about going to the trampoline park with my family— as a joyous, gravity-defying liberation of the Self.

When I finally got my own phone and was old enough to make a Facebook account, I even messaged a few of these adult women whose gender transitions I had watched play out over the course of my adolescence. If I had more understanding of how the world works, I would have known that I could have lied about my age to get onto the platform earlier. I was that naive. In retrospect, as a young adult myself I’ll never understand why those adult transitioners chose to respond to the messages sent to them by a 14-year-old. But that’s beside the point.

The point is, that as a pre-teen, I became so obsessed with understanding this phenomenon that by my early adolescence I memorized all of the information available to me online at the time. And because I already had a habit of being an elementary-aged kid who read parenting books and researched niche medical conditions, it was easy for me to convince myself that I, too, was a "trans kid" who in the absence of experimental medical treatments, would very well die.

Far before most people had even heard of this issue—and long before it became a teenage identity trend—I knew almost everything there was to know about transgenderism. It’s odd now to see adults twice my age acting as though this phenomenon came out of nowhere. I didn’t just see it coming. As a 12 year old who adopted a trans identity in 2012, I predicted it. I grew up immersed in all things ‘trans’. I watched this phenomenon morph in real-time from the narrative of old-school transsexualism into the invention of the "transgender child," and finally as it pervaded into the dominant youth culture of my ‘non-binary’ generation.

Many times during my detransition journey, I’ve asked myself the same haunting question: Where was everyone when Jazz Jennings got castrated?

In order to answer this question, I will publish this piece in two parts. Part one will focus on the ways in which mainstream media and medical authorities partnered to create the “transgender child” within the Western collective consciousness. Part two will focus on how collective shifts within parenting trends and attitudes about child-rearing amongst middle and upper middle class families, in combination with rapid shifts in the availability of internet-connected technologies— created a perfect storm of factors which culminated in the ‘transgender tipping point’.

I hope these papers will inform the public about how trans issues have gone from an unknown obscure topic, to the subject of a raging culture war— seemingly in the blink of an eye. I believe that trying to dissect the culture itself through the case study of Jazz Jennings, readers will come away from these essays with a greater understanding of the complex sociocultural and medical underpinnings of today’s trans phenomenon. After reading this paper, let me know how I’ve done!

The Jazz Jennings Phenomenon

[ Barbra Walters interviewed six year old Jazz Jennings in 2007. The “trans kid” narrative had just been born. ]

In 2007, America was introduced to the story of Jazz Jennings, a six-year-old boy from Florida whose parents had decided to raise him as a girl and share his story publicly. Cameras followed Jazz and his family as he grew up, chronicling his transition for an audience captivated by what was presented as a courageous and heartwarming journey of self-discovery.

But beneath the uplifting narrative was a far more troubling reality. At age 11, Jazz was chemically castrated to halt his male puberty. In high school, he was prescribed cross-sex hormones, which, when paired with early puberty suppression, rendered him permanently sterile. By 14, he was the star of the reality show I Am Jazz. In 2018, at age 17, the cameras followed him, hugging a teddy bear, into the operating room as surgeons attempted to construct a simulacrum of female genitalia from his underdeveloped male anatomy—an operation so experimental that multiple follow-up surgeries were needed to address serious complications.

[ 17 year old Jazz held a teddy bear as he waited to be wheeled into the operating room for his penile inversion procedure, aged 17. ]

Despite the fact that every stage of this boy’s process of being indoctrinated, exploited and maimed—was filmed and broadcast for national and international audiences, widespread concern over what was happening to Jazz did not surface until about 2021—far too late to intervene or prevent the damage. With millions watching I Am Jazz, no prominent voice broke through the mainstream media to question what was unfolding before America’s very eyes.

So again we must ask: Where was everyone when Jazz Jennings got castrated?

The Creation of the “Transgender Child” Was Televised.

The short answer is that we were all sold a story. We were led to believe in the existence of a new category of person—the “transgender child.” Most Americans were familiar with the concept of a transsexual, which in the schema of the 2000’s-era adult, was either a gay drag queen who “took the next step” or a middle-aged, married crossdresser with a wife and kids. The transsexual wasn’t an adult female on testosterone. The transsexual certainly wasn’t a child.

Jazz’s case was the first to introduce this idea to the English-speaking world, featured prominently on 20/20 with Barbara Walters. His parents claimed they had always known Jazz was “different”—even pointing to behavior as early as 15 months old, like unsnapping his onesie, as evidence of a cross-gender identity. Unlike Jazz’s older twin brothers, Jazz did not grow out of his ‘girly’ phase by the time he was a pre-schooler. He continued to be a gentle boy, not a rough and tumble one. So, his parents decided to see an “expert” gender therapist in 2003— while the child was probably still in diapers.

The documentary featuring Jazz Jennings, alongside a few other “trans kids” called My Secret Self presented gender dysphoria as an innate, intractable condition detectable in small children and treatable with a medical protocol we today know was imported from the Netherlands. While it acknowledged the experimental nature of these treatments, this fact was easily obscured by the narrative that without such extreme, irreversible interventions being done on young children- that these children were doomed to end their lives. Viewers were reassured: no permanent changes would occur until Jazz was older and better equipped to make informed decisions.

But this was a lie of omission. Social transition in childhood, especially when paired with puberty blockers, is not a neutral intervention—it entrenches a cross-sex identity and all but guarantees progression to cross-sex hormones. We now know that over 98% of children who begin puberty blockers proceed to further medical transition.

The idea that blockers merely “buy time” has been thoroughly debunked– but only after a generation of children were sacrificed. What’s even worse, is that the Dutch clinicians who created this child transition treatment protocol, themselves advised against the early full social transition of a child prior to the early stages of puberty.

A Story That Subverted Our Common Sense

[ Jazz instilling his childhood passion of creating mermaid tails into another little boy whose parents are raising him as a girl ]

Jazz’s story was compelling because he was photogenic and looked feminine: he had long hair, princess dresses, a love for Disney songs and mermaids. His mother even speculated that Jazz’s love of mermaids was related to their lack of genitalia—a theory she picked up from other parents of gender-nonconforming boys on internet forums. But many kids, both boys and girls, in the early 2000s loved mermaids because of The Little Mermaid. It wasn’t because of a pathology. It was a trend.

This shows a broader trend of how the parents of “trans kids” have a tendency of scrutinizing their child’s every behavior as evidence of some problem just itching to be solved. They are superimposing their own adult analysis onto a child’s behaviors, in order to derive meaning from them.

An adult who has tons of kids and is working multiple jobs to support them wouldn’t fixate so much on which fictitious character their child is obsessed with– nor would they have the time to construct an elaborate fairytale about why the kid wants to become that thing. But if you’re like Jazz’s parents, who are wealthy enough to have four kids living in a big house, who were really on the cutting edge of child-centered parenting, and who happened to have a kid who was very gender non-conforming– you’ve got yourself a perfect storm to find yourself as the parent of a “trans kid.”

Many young boys go through phases of dressing up as princesses. In Jazz’s case, what might have been a passing interest, or one that evolved into a career in dance, theater or fashion design— became a diagnosis. His parents, like many of those who now champion their young “trans kids,” were not initially ideologues. Most began as concerned, bewildered, or overwhelmed—struggling to soothe their distressed child and feeling inadequate in the face of it.

In today’s climate, these parents are swiftly ushered into the world of gender medicine. Pediatricians refer them to gender clinics, where experts frame early social transition as harmless and reversible. The same experts falsely claim that puberty blockers are reversible interventions which “pause” development so a child can consider whether they wish to proceed to cross-sex hormones, and that blocking healthy puberty in its early stages is something which must be done urgently, as a form of suicide prevention. Out of love and fear, parents hand the reins to medical professionals—believing they’re doing what’s best for their child. Importantly, all of these life-changing psychosocial and medical interventions are framed as neutral, harmless opportunities for self-exploration. Even as a child’s puberty is being actively suppressed, parents are lead to believe that no permanent, life-altering decisions have been made yet. They are given a false illusion of having ‘more time’ to decide upon the future opportunities which will be available to their child, not understanding one basic truth:

The first permanent decision regarding a child’s gender transition is often made much earlier than parents realize. Social transition in early childhood initiates a path that almost always leads to medicalization. Puberty blockers interrupt natural developmental processes necessary for resolving gender distress. By the time cross-sex hormones are introduced, the child’s trajectory has already been firmly set for years.

How the Dutch Protocol Created the Market for Trans Children

[ Jazz Jennings and the doctors who removed his genitals ]

The widespread belief that pediatric transition was a response to an existing and urgent medical need ignores a crucial reality: the existence of medical interventions for children with gender dysphoria has itself created the demand for those very interventions. The Dutch Protocol, which introduced the use of puberty blockers followed by cross-sex hormones in carefully selected adolescent patients, did not emerge in response to a large population of children begging for medical transition. Rather, it introduced an entirely new treatment pathway that shaped how gender dysphoria was understood and managed—one that was soon exported across the Western world.

Developed in the Netherlands in the early 1990s, the Dutch Protocol was initially presented as a compassionate innovation for a small group of carefully screened adolescents whose gender dysphoria was severe, persistent, and began in early childhood. These adolescents were described as psychologically stable, supported by their families, and free of major comorbid mental health issues. The protocol’s authors claimed that, for these specific patients, early medical intervention could reduce distress and improve quality of life. Mostly, these clinicians seemed concerned with the ability of these young (mostly) boys to “pass” as women in adulthood, as a way to correct for the difficulties faced by adult transsexuals who attributed their mental health and life difficulties following transition— to their inability to pass as the opposite sex in adulthood.

But the Dutch studies that laid the foundation for this protocol were small, lacked control groups, followed participants for only a few years, failed to keep rates of loss to follow up within a clinically negligible level and were deeply methodologically flawed. Despite this, the model was rapidly adopted internationally as the gold standard for pediatric gender care. Before any outcomes were published on the Dutch kids, the practice of transitioning kids was adopted with full confidence in countries like the United States, where the cautious gatekeeping of the original protocol was largely abandoned. Screening criteria were loosened, psychological evaluations were fast-tracked, and transition timelines were compressed. What began as a narrowly defined intervention for a rare group of patients became a mass treatment pathway for any child who expressed discomfort with their sex.

As more clinics adopted the protocol, more children were referred for treatment. As more children were referred, more clinicians trained to meet the need. As medical infrastructure for youth transition expanded, so did public awareness—and with it, parental anxiety that they may not be doing ‘enough’ to ‘help’ their gender non-conforming children, by simply allowing them to grow up without psychosocial or medical intervention. Suddenly, any child questioning their gender could be perceived as a ticking time bomb. The narrative of “better a trans kid than a dead kid” spread, not because the risk of suicide had been proven to be high in non-transitioned children, but because it had become a rhetorical tool to justify medicalization.

In this way, the existence of a medical treatment pathway for gender dysphoric youth created the perception of a crisis of “trans kids not getting the healthcare they needed.” The “trans child” was no longer an anomaly but a potential reality for any child who failed to conform to gender norms, and then– a reality for any kid no matter how gender-conforming they were in childhood, to declare themselves as trans in adolescence, and to find themselves on an operating table where a surgeon carves away at their healthy bodies in a futile attempt to create for their patients, a new metaphysical reality.

Where once clinicians waited for children with intractable dysphoria to emerge from adolescence before prescribing interventions, they now trained parents, educators and pediatricians, to look for signs of gender nonconformity in children—converting ordinary developmental exploration into medical red flags.

Jazz Jennings became the poster child of this new paradigm. His transition was held up as proof that early medical intervention could be a success story. But what was never mentioned was that Jazz’s transition was not done by the criteria of even the Dutch Protocol. He was socially transitioned in early childhood, long before the onset of puberty, and he began puberty blockers at age 11. Because his male genitals never developed, surgeons later struggled to construct even a functional approximation of female anatomy. Jazz’s experience exposed the flaws in the protocol’s logic: puberty suppression might prevent unwanted physical changes, but it also stunts the very development needed for later surgeries. In trying to erase male puberty, clinicians created new medical challenges—ones Jazz paid the price for.

Almost a decade before Jazz had his penile inversion procedure, the Dutch clinicians already knew that boys with suppressed pubertal development would need a more invasive procedure involving tissue from the colon to make up for the lack of genital development. Yet, for some reason, it doesn’t seem that any of the clinicians treating him were aware of these findings, nor did they make him or his parents, or the public whom they were actively propagandizing to, aware that a more complicated surgery is the inevitable, well-known outcome of early pubertal suppression in juvenile males.

Today, the Dutch Protocol is being re-evaluated even in the country where it began. Dutch clinicians have acknowledged that their original research cannot justify the global expansion of pediatric gender medicine as it has come to exist. Will that stop them from justifying their protocol on other grounds? No. Definitely not. But, systematic reviews in Europe have found that the evidence base for youth transition is weak, and that the risks may outweigh the benefits. The world is beginning to wake up to the harm inflicted upon children in the name of ‘compassion’ and ‘mercy.’

Pediatric social and medical transition protocols were not a response to rising rates of gender dysphoria, nor an ‘uncovering’ of a dysphoric population of kids who always existed but were finally receiving the “‘life-saving” treatment they deserve—it just created lifelong medical patients out of healthy children. Gender medicine, both for kids and for adults, offered solutions that promised to resolve complex psychological distress through medical means, while failing to address the root causes of that distress. And it created an illusion of necessity, when in truth, what had changed was not the metaphysical nature of the children, but the treatments made available to them.

Norman Spack & Ken Zucker: Two Different Treatment Protocols

[ Norman Spack describes “salivating” at the pediatric transition protocols of the Netherlands ]

The rapid shift toward medicalizing childhood gender distress did not happen spontaneously—it had architects. One of the most pivotal was Dr. Norman Spack, a pediatric endocrinologist at Boston Children’s Hospital, who helped bring the Dutch Protocol to North America. After learning of the work being done in the Netherlands, Spack was reportedly so eager to adopt puberty suppression protocols for children that he later described himself as having “salivated” at the idea of blocking puberty in gender dysphoric youth.

Spack opened the first major pediatric gender clinic in the United States in 2007, the same year Jazz Jennings’s story went public. He was not alone in his enthusiasm. By the time Jazz was a toddler, his parents were already being told that puberty blockers would be available to prevent their son from developing into a man. This promise was made long before Jazz reached puberty, long before he had even learned to tie his shoes, and more importantly, long before there was any robust, long-term evidence showing that the Dutch cohort fared better than their non-medicalized peers. The idea that “doing nothing” was cruel—and that intervening medically was compassionate—had already taken root.

[ Ken Zucker— the man, the myth, the legend. ]

This marked a dramatic departure from the predominant therapeutic model of the prior decades, as practiced by clinicians like Dr. Ken Zucker. Zucker, a psychologist at Toronto’s Centre for Addiction and Mental Health (CAMH), focused on helping children explore and potentially resolve their gender distress without affirming them as the opposite sex. His approach—common throughout the 1990s and the 2000s after being practiced in earlier decades—emphasized watchful waiting, play therapy and parenting strategies aimed at reconciling the child with his biological sex—rather than socially transitioning or medically affirming the gender distressed child. Zucker recognized that the vast majority of gender-dysphoric children would ultimately reconcile with their natal sex if left alone, and his research showed this to be true.

His approach was grounded in the simple fact that, at the time, there was no medical intervention to offer these children. Puberty blockers and cross-sex hormones for minors were not yet part of mainstream medical practice. This therapeutic orientation existed not only because it was cautious, but because it was all that existed. Because medical transition was off the table, clinicians were forced to understand gender dysphoria as something that could evolve—and often resolve—over time.

The emergence of puberty blockers as a tool for interrupting development radically altered that framework. Once medical interventions were available, the question was no longer, “How should we help the child learn to accept their body?” but “When do we start altering the body to match the child’s stated identity?” The very presence of a medical option redefined the ethical terrain—and subtly, but powerfully, redefined what was seen as “affirming,” “progressive,” or even “life-saving.”

This shift did not occur because new evidence demanded it, but because a new possibility existed. And it was this possibility—not a genuine explosion in a new strain of particularly intractable childhood gender dysphoria—that drove the ballooning rates of pediatric transition. Once clinicians could prescribe blockers, more parents began to seek them. Once parents began seeking them, more clinics opened. Once clinics opened, more children were diagnosed. And once children were diagnosed, the cycle reinforced itself—bolstered by an uncritical media, ideological activism, and a medical community eager to innovate before fully understanding the consequences of the past experiments done on earlier cohorts of adolescents and adults.

Jazz Jennings was swept into this current at the very beginning. His journey, far from being an organic expression of his inborn “gender identity,” was shaped at every turn by the availability of interventions that had only recently entered the medical arena, and by the burgeoning American obsession with reality TV shows centered around extreme variations within different parenting styles. By the time Jazz’s trajectory was cemented with an early social transition, he no longer fit neatly within the original Dutch Protocol criteria. The practice of early childhood social transition showcased a new ethos– not that many of these kids would naturally grow out of their distress, and that caution is required, but that these children were doomed to never outgrow it. That is, at least, the bold-faced lie which Jazz’s parents allege was told to them by the therapist who diagnosed their toddler with Gender Identity Disorder in 2003.

He had not even reached puberty when the path of medical transition was laid out before him. He never had to contend with the fact that someday he would become a man. By the time he was five, he was fully convinced that his (or his mother’s) childhood fantasy could continue forever.

The story of the “transgender child” is not a story of new, emerging science responding to a medical need that has always existed. It is the story of medicine creating a new patient population—and a society that eagerly embraced it, blind to the harm it might cause– because the “experts” who stood to gain so much in profit by recommending intervention over non-intervention, would begin to develop a bias in the way they approach medicine: to prioritize the short term happiness of a child over his long-term well-being.

Reflections

As I look into Jazz’s story, with an understanding of the way that medical interventions for pediatric gender dysphoria spurred a cultural shift in how we understand the nature of children, I am left with so many more questions.

What really did Jazz Jennings’s parents know about the pathway they were signing their son up for? I know that the Jennings’s were aware of how experimental these interventions are. But, I often wonder whether they even knew that this treatment protocol they were signing their son up for, was pioneered by clinicians in the Netherlands, who had been doing these treatments for less than a decade by that point. I wonder if they were even aware that there were non-medicalized models for treating pediatric gender dysphoria which showed promise, and had been practiced for far longer than the medicalized ones. Were they even made aware that they had options other than “a dead son or a living daughter?”

What exactly did their toddler’s gender therapist tell them about the nature of their son’s condition? I wonder why Jazz’s parents were told by the gender therapist who diagnosed their toddler son with Gender Identity Disorder in 2003, that it was unlikely that their son would outgrow his distress and reconcile with his sex— when everything in the literature of that time suggested the opposite. If this was what the therapist indeed said, this isn’t just a spiritual belief in a gendered soul passed off as medical advice— this is a clinical pathway sold to parents of a toddler on the basis of a bold-faced lie. The dogma that “kids know who they are” would not emerge into popular culture until after Jazz’s social transition as a kindergartener had commenced. Something about this arc of the story is fishy.

Were Jazz’s parents not told that early gender non-conformity is more indicative of a later homosexual outcome than a transsexual one?

Did Jazz Jennings’s endocrinologists not know that early pubertal suppression in juvenile males stunts genital growth and necessitates an even riskier “gender reassignment” surgery? Because the Dutch clinicians who had been suppressing boys’ puberties for about 20 years by the time Jazz got his puberty blocker implanted— certainly did. This ‘side effect’ of pubertal blockade was reported on in a Dutch newspaper. Did no one think to communicate this to…. anyone???

Don't underestimate the willingness of his mother - because, let's face it, it's never the father without the mother - to sacrifice her child for fame, money, attention and particularly applause at how virtuous she is.

#Maia Poet #Jazz Jennings #trans kids #trans children are victims #transhausen syndrome #munchausen syndrome #munchausen by proxy #medical mutilation #medical malpractice #medical scandal #medical corruption #dutch protocol

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ennard-is-near · 10 months ago

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Some Michael Afton headcanons and crack theories and whatnot

🚨 warning, If you know me irl (You know who you are, I see you) be aware that I’m not serious hahahahaha I would never be cringe hahaha 🚨

Okay, here we go:

Kid/Teenage hcs:

He’s super quiet after The Bite of ‘83. Like won’t talk to anyone or answer most questions outside of occasional one word answers. [I’ve talked about this before]

He was 13 during the Bite of ‘83.

Wasn’t really popular or a bully or anything before the Bite of ‘83. He was just like, a regular kid whose dad was well-known. It’s like if the mayor’s son was in your class or something. Yeah he’s kind of an asshole, but so is every middle school boy.

Ppl tend to avoid him after The Bite just because if you had the choice between talking to the guy who killed his brother or not doing that, you’d probably pick the latter. People felt bad for him or whatever but it’s not like they wanted to befriend him.

Cannot drive because he just never learned (William was NOT about to teach him). He walks most places.

I know this is semi-canon but he likes drawing stuff. He’s not very creative though, so he mostly draws what he sees around him. He ends of up drawing a lot of animatronics and TV show characters.

Mowed lawns and washed cars around the neighborhood for money when he was like 11-12. William was the type of dad who didn’t give pocket change and made his kids work for their own money. Michael wasn’t great at his neighborhood jobs though so people only hired him if they had money to give away and were willing to go through and fix the spots he missed.

The rest of these are Post-Scoop:

The FNaF 3 hallucinations are like a semi-regular issue for him. He occasionally just sees shit. Doesn’t have to be phantom animatronics, though. Can be more chill (by comparison lol) and like people he knew just standing there, weird shadows (especially in reflections) and sounds and voices. [I‘ve talked about this before too, sorry]

Really scared of the dark. Lights on in every room + flashlight on him at all times scared.

The power went out in his house a couple times when it snowed and (even though it didn’t get pitch black because of light from the windows) he did not like it.

He’s also the master of batteries, they’re scattered all over the house.

His power bill is so much. Like you’d drop dead if you saw it. TV and lights and air conditioning on 24/7 drive it up. His water bill is virtually nothing, though, so that’s good.

Doesn’t have issues with money because he has access to William’s bank account somehow.

Still lives in the house he grew up in. I just feel like he does.

Sort of has an issue with animals. They do not like him and will bark at and attack him whenever given the opportunity. He’s literally a dead body and animals tend to not like those. Birds will literally swoop down and attack him sometimes. He has fought two raccoons.

Absolutely a creature of the night. Only leaves the house past midnight and is back before sunrise. This is for a couple reasons, mostly just because there’s less happening at night. He carries a flashlight around when he goes out though bc he’s so scared.

Has like one guy who he’s on good terms with. It’s some random graveyard shift worker at the local corner store. He goes to the same store like every Tuesday or whatever and it’s always the same guy working there. They don’t even say that much to each other but they’re still buddies. When Michael works at the FNaF 1 location the employee is actually kinda sad because he doesn’t come in that week and he’s really confused as to where that guy could have gone or if he finally died or something. And then Michael comes in the next week and the routine continues and the employee will never know what happened that one week the weird guy didn’t come in.

Okay that’s it. <3

#fnaf #five nights at freddy's #michael afton #my headcanons #some of these aren’t even that it’s more like I’m just like ‘wouldn’t it be fun if…’#does that make sense?#like I don’t think this about canon Michael I’m sort of making up my own character #idk I guess that’s what hcs are anyway #who want me or whatever #I’m pretty tired #like for part 2 #or whatever kids are saying these days #tell me other characters to do this for and I will #I hope they lobotomize me for this one 🤞

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sagarrachnagrp · 7 months ago

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Best CBSE Class 12th Sample Paper Accountancy with 35+ EAD question papers 2024-25

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gallifreyinstituteforlearning · 4 months ago

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✨Regeneration: The Origins

Regeneration is the ultimate ctrl+alt+delete for a Time Lord and it often results in a brand-new face, a shiny new body, and questionable wardrobe choices. But where did this miracle of Gallifreyan biology actually come from?

Like most things on Gallifrey, the answer is... complicated.

Here are the many theories about the origins of regeneration. This is long. Get snacks.

🌌 1. Natural Evolution

What if regeneration was always part of Gallifreyan biology? Some historians think so.

Blame the Schism: According to this theory, millennia of exposure to the Untempered Schism gave early Gallifreyans their regenerative abilities. Kind of like living next to a nuclear power plant, but more spacey-wacey.

The Old Guard: Omega, the Gallifreyan engineer who helped harness time travel, is rumoured to have regenerated naturally before Time Lord society even existed. There are several instances of 'normal' Galliffeyans regenerating.

If true, Gallifreyans may have always had the ability, but it wasn't well organised. This would make regeneration a natural phenomenon, like breathing or complaining about Time Agents.

🔬 2. Rassilon's Experiments

Rassilon is Gallifrey's equivalent of 'that guy'.

The Biogenic Molecule: According to some accounts, Rassilon developed regeneration using biogenic molecules. These handy little cells could rebuild tissue, rearrange memories, and generally turn a dying Time Lord into a slightly confused new one. He then granted the ability to the Gallifreyan aristocracy, creating a biologically superior ruling class of all his best mates.

The Virus: Thremix reportedly created a virus that would grant regeneration to all Gallifreyans. Then Rassilon had Thremix assassinated (classic Rassilon), stole the idea, and released the virus—killing half the population and turning the survivors into Time Lords.

The Alternative: Some say Rassilon himself was the first to regenerate as a result of his experiments with the Eye of Harmony's elemental forces, and was the first to regenerate. Just like in his experiments with biogenic molecules, he then used the Eye to grant regeneration to the Gallifreyan aristocracy, creating a biologically superior ruling class of all his best mates.

The Alternative Alternative: Another theory claims Rassilon gained regeneration by "inoculating" himself with vampire biodata during the Time Lords' war with the Great Vampires, an ability he later shared. There's even a cult that worshipped Rassilon as a vampire. So sure, why not?

The 12-Body Problem: Rassilon supposedly limited regeneration to twelve cycles because 1) he wanted to stay top dog (he later realised immortality is a dumb idea), or 2) He was affected by the 12-body problem too, as the biogenic molecules used just can't sustain more than 12 renewals, or the body can't handle more than 12 psyches.

While Rassilon's methods were dubious (read: ethically horrifying), his experiments laid the groundwork for the modern Time Lord. I gues you can't argue with results… but you can question the morals.

👽 3. Stolen Power: The Timeless Child

If you thought this story couldn't get stranger, you're very wrong.

The Timeless Child: According to the Spy Master, Tecteun (a Shobogan scientist) found a child with regenerative abilities on another planet and "borrowed" their genes through some quite horrible methods. This child supposedly became the foundation of Time Lord society.

The 12-Body Problem: Tecteun has similar reasons to Rassilon for imposing the rule of twelve limit AKA I'm immortal you're not, neh-neh-neh-neh-neh.

If true, this makes regeneration a stolen ability that had nothing to do with Rassilon at all.

⚖️ The Ethical Cost

If regeneration isn't natural, then it didn't come cheap.

Mass Sacrifice: If the virus story is true, regeneration came at the cost of millions of lives.

Eugenic Society: If the Eye of Harmony/biogenic molecules is true, Rassilon was the architect of a class-based dictatorship driven by eugenics, which actively encouraged the death of poor people.

Vampire Gallifreyans: If the vampire story is true, then Gallifreyans are all a form of vampire, and that's kind of horrific if you're Gallifreyan, because you are told horror stories from birth/looming and are encouraged to kill Great Vampires on sight by Rassilon himself.

Genetic Theft: If the Timeless Child theory floats your boat, Gallifrey stole regeneration from an innocent alien species through the torture of a child by the Universe's worst foster mum. This was then hidden because all the above alternatives were apparently more palatable.

😟Regeneration: Any Idea Yet?

So, what's the truth? Gallifreyan history is so muddled and shady that quite frankly it could be all of these or none of these simultaneously. It's a Choose Your Own Adventure, or like reaching into a pick n mix and keeping your favourite sweets. No theory is the 'right' one, and no theory is the 'wrong' one.

Commence argumeeeents ... now.

💬|👥✨How do Gallifreyans deal with regeneration disparities?: How Gallifreyan society perceives and deals with those unable to regenerate.

💬|👤👑Why is Rassilon everywhere?: Who Rassilon is and why you should care.

💬|👤👩‍🚀Who is Tecteun?: Biography of everyone’s least favourite foster mother.

Whoniverse Facts for Friday by GIL

Any orange text is educated guesswork or theoretical. More content ... →📫Got a question? | 📚Complete list of Q+A and factoids →📢Announcements |🩻Biology |🗨️Language |🕰️Throwbacks |🤓Facts → Features:⭐Guest Posts | 🍜Chomp Chomp with Myishu →🫀Gallifreyan Anatomy and Physiology Guide (pending) →⚕️Gallifreyan Emergency Medicine Guides →📝Source list (WIP) →📜Masterpost If you're finding your happy place in this part of the internet, feel free to buy a coffee to help keep our exhausted human conscious. She works full-time in medicine and is so very tired 😴

#doctor who #dr who #dw eu #gallifrey #gallifrey institute for learning #whoniverse #TOTM: New Beginnings #nuwho #GIL: Facts #GIL #GIL: Gallifrey/History #GIL: Gallifrey/Technology #GIL: Species/Gallifreyans #GIL: Individuals/Rassilon #GIL: Individuals/Gallifreyans

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cbsesamplepapersblog · 2 years ago

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♦100% Updated with Latest Syllabus & Fully Solved Board Paper ♦Crisp Revision with timed reading for every chapter

#CBSE Question Bank Class 12 | Accountancy English Core Business Studies & Economics (Set of 4 Books)

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i-hate-liking-batman · 2 months ago

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20 Questions for Fic Writers

I was tagged by @yersina ! Warning that most of my fic links are Ao3 account locked!

1. How many works do you have on ao3?

13! They're all different lengths and about half of them are complete? And only more to come because I joined another big bang...

2. What's your total ao3 word count?

It's crazy because I only started really getting into writing in the past 3 years and I hit 151,653 words! I'm very proud to be here! I remember when writing 40k in a year seemed impossible for me.

3) What are your top five fics by kudos?

Haha this is more of me having one very popular fic and the rest are neck and neck, but here is the order! "Hello, Time Goes Quickly", "Fate Led Us to You (It Was Worth the Wait)", "I'll Take Care of Your Roots So Grow Tall, My Love", "Time to be Human", and "The Trials of Loving"!

4) What fandoms do you write for?

I've written all over the place, and some I won't come back to writing for even if I still read! I've written for D. Grayman, Marvel, Mob Psycho 100, Genshin, My Hero Academia, Welcome to Demon School Iruma-kun, and The S Classes that I Raised! I mostly write for the last two!

5) Do you respond to comments? why or why not?

I actually always respond to comments! Every time. I make it a point to respond to every comment I get on my fics. I just get so excited knowing someone cared enough to comment, and want the reader to know I see them!

6) What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I don't really write angsty endings so I'll just go with angstiest in general! I'd say my S Class Percy Jackson au, "The Trials of Loving" is the one!

7) What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Ooooo I have a lot of happy endings! And they're pretty happy if I do say so myself. Maybe my Percy Jackson au for Sctir "The Trials of Loving" again lol. It ends on their wedding day!

8) Do you get hate on fics?

Nope! I have gotten spam though rip. At most it's commenters who are confused so I explain, but my commenters are lovely people!

9) Do you write smut?

... I have one smut fic and it's my most popular one. It's 30k and only like 5k is smut, and all of it was hard to write lol. But it must be done! For anyone curious it is in fact "Hello, Time Goes Quickly" lol.

10) Do you write crossovers?

My first fic was actually a crossover fic! It's inspired by liketolaugh 's crossover fic "Cosmic Composite" which is an Avenger's and D. Grayman crossover. Everyone should check out their fics! One of my favorites is.... so many actually so here's a link to their PJO and Avenger's crossover: The Blue Food Project

11) Have you ever had a fic stolen?

I don't think so, but I don't really check for that, so it's possible!

12) Have you ever had a fic translated?

No, but it would be great if that happened!

13) Have you ever cowritten a fic before?

..I have tried and failed because I don't have a consistent writing schedule. I write 10k in 2 months and then go off the grid for 6 lol.

14) What's your all time favorite ship?

Oooo this is tricky!!! Maybe Sung Hyunjae x Han Yoojin from the S Classes that I Raised! I love them a lot. NEVERMIND MAIRUMA LATEST CHAPTER CHANGED ME LOVE TRIO FOREVER!!!!! (Welcome to Demon School Iruma-kun ship with Iruma Suzuki, Clara Valac, and Asmodeus Alice)

15) What's the wip you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

My Welcome to Demon School fic "I'll Take Care of Your Roots So Grow tall, My Love," I had so much fun with brainstorming ideas there is no set ending... I'll update it eventually though!

16) What are your writing strengths?

I'm confident of my characterization of characters! It's why I usually can't do other POVs for other characters. I need to feel confident in how I understand them to write for them.

17) What are your writing weaknesses?

Writing in detail. I like getting to the point, because too long sentences in my writing aren't interesting lol. So sometimes there are images in my head I don't describe enough for readers to picture what I'm imagining.

18) Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

Fun! I just want to make sure I use it right.

19) First fandom you wrote for?

Whoops I already answered this but D. Grayman and Avengers! For personal writing it's My Hero Academia.

20) Favourite fic you've ever written?

Oooo this is also a hard question because I don't read my fics lol. Probably "The Schoolmaster Must Die"! It's a School for Good and Evil au with the characters of "The S Classes that I Raised" and I had a lot of fun with it even if it's not close to done.

This was so much fun to answer! Tagging @frill-s , @enmu-redacted, and @meow-meow-magical!

#my writing #sctir #mairimashita! iruma kun #I hadn't even realized I passed 150k on ao3 until now!#well 3k is cheating because a friend guest wrote a chapter for me but still!

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patriottruth · 5 months ago

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12/29/2024 Update: March on Washington, D.C. January 3-5, 2025!!!

youtube

Hello, everyone, and thank you so much to everyone who's involved in this fight to protect and save all democracies and free people's in the world from a second donald j. trump presidency where he's clearly aligned with the dictators of the world to give all of Europe to putin and actually attempt to take Mexico, Canada, Panama, and Greenland by force.

But all hope isn't lost. The Marc Elias situation has gone to some really weird places, so he may decide he's not going to help at all. The Citizens for Responsibility and Ethics in Washington (CREW) situation is still strong. I've teamed up with Jessica Denson (a woman who defeated donald trump in court on behalf of herself and a bunch of other abused donald trump staff/employees) and she's teamed up with Laurence Tribe, Glenn Kirschner, CREW and Noah Bookbinder, John Bonifaz, and every constitutional scholar and law expert she can find via her "Lights On!" YouTube and Bluesky presence.

Jessica Denson put out a call for help to organize class action civil litigation and organized marches last weekend. NOWMARCH.ORG is the result of that call for help. Everything is coming together really fast. If you can make it to Washington, D.C. during January 3-5, 2025, this is your chance to make your voice heard in person to encourage Congress to enforce Section 3 of the 14th Amendment of the U.S. Constitution on donald trump and j.d. vance to keep them out of office. If you can't make it in person, there will be online opportunities to make your voice heard.

I've been working Democratic House Leader Hakeem Jeffries Bluesky feed to inform everyone there about Section 3/14A, the truth about the SCOTUS Anderson ruling, and the January 3-5, 2025 march and call to action for days as well as working the overall Bluesky membership to get the word out to as many people as possible since I took a hiatus from Tumblr on November 27th.

As to the question on why this hasn't gotten traction on more social media accounts here on Tumblr and on Instagram, Facebook, and the like; this movement has been criticized as being a protest against the peaceful transfer of power. It's not a protest against a peaceful transfer of power; it's a protest to demand that both houses of Congress do as SCOTUS informed donald trump, in their unanimous Anderson ruling on 3/4/2024, that he must have done in order to be legally elected as President of the United States.

Due to everything I'm trying to accomplish over on Bluesky, I'm time-limited here at the moment, but I wanted to give everyone an update now that there's something big to announce.

You can find me on Bluesky as Truth2TheRescue. You'll recognize the header and avatar as me. There's a lot of information over there that I don't have the time to copy and paste over here at the moment. Every moment that ticks by is getting us all closer to a donald trump disaster, so I'm focusing all my time where I can try and do as much good as possible. Thanks again to everyone here on Tumblr for all you've done and all you're doing for literally the sake of all democracies and free peoples of the world. I hope to see you all over on Bluesky if you're so inclined.

I'm tagging some fans of entertainers who supported Harris/Walz so they don't miss this last chance opportunity to have their voices heard.

May love never fail us. May love envelop, protect and guide us. May love win this fight against the hatred that threatens to divide and conquer all democracies and free peoples of the world.

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starrzies · 6 months ago

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★Sentinel Prime Charm!★

Charm Details:

Will Become Available at 12 pm PST on Friday, November 15th

$10 USD for Epoxy Keychain

$12 USD for Holographic Keychain

Will be Available on Ko-Fi and Etsy

Domestic (USA) and Worldwide Shipping Available

Option 1: ($12)

Holographic Keychain

Stars Holographic

Double Sided Holographic

Double Sided, Same Design

Star Hook Clasp

Option 2: ($10)

Epoxy Keychain

Front Side Epoxy

Double Sided, Same Design

Star Hook Clasp

It's finally time!! I have been working on getting ready nonstop between work, classes and homework! I hope all my hard work pays off and my efforts meet everyone's standards!! I am so happy to finally announce the drop date for these! This will be VEYR limited stock for right now because that is all I could afford! (Broke College Student Vibe.)

There are only 15 of each available and the stock is split between Etsy and Ko-Fi! If something is sold out on one site I would recommend checking the other!! The one perk of buying from Etsy is not being charged a flat rate for shipping, saving you a few cents!

Fear not! I will be restocking these! Any profit made off of these will be poured right back into this!

Hopefully you all enjoy, I've been having so much fun working on him and I hope to see you on drop day!

Pings:

(You may ask to be pinged! I will ping you on drop day!)

@terriblyrenderedenigma

----

Quick Reminder!! I DO NOT allow people to reupload, repost, claim, trace, reference or use my art without my Permission! If my art is posted anywhere else other than my accounts it’s not mine! If you like my work, consider following me or commissioning me!! (This does not count if the art was made for you! Please remember to credit me though!!)

Art Trades are Open - Mutuals Only! Commissions are CLOSED!! Do NOT ask me about Requests!! Do NOT; Reupload, Repost, Claim, Trace, Reference or use my art without my Permission! 💜

You can Dm me Questions or Concerns! Like my work? Check out my Carrd for where else you can find me!

#starrz-art #digital art #art #digital artist #transformers #maccadam #sentinel prime #sentinel #tfo sentinel prime #transformers one #keychain #charm #fandom merch #transformers merch #starrz merch

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miumura · 2 years ago

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LOVE ERROR ! — CHAPTER 18

#018 — couple goals!

warnings : cursing

WRITTEN PART (WC : 1189)

Time for lunch was approaching way too fast—almost as if the universe had planned it to add to your nervousness. You knew there was no way to come up with a last-minute excuse to avoid the situation. As the clock's hands ticked faster and approached 12, you found yourself anxiously biting your nails, feeling the pressure mounting.

"Are you good?" Gyuvin, your seatmate, asked, clearly noticing your anxiety. It wasn't hard to spot, and you looked at him, giving him a slight push. "Come on, YN, what is it? You're worrying me."

Taking a deep breath, you decided to share your secret with him. "I'm confessing to Sunoo—well, not like that, but how he's that anonymous person." You said it casually, but Gyuvin's reaction was far from that—he gasped loudly, leaving you shocked.

In your surprise, you smacked his arm, unintentionally causing him pain. He winced and rubbed his arm, the gasp now replaced with a slight grimace. “What the hell was that gasp for?” You whisper-yelled at him, giving him a death glare as he continued to look at you in shock.

"First off, you never told me you were going to do that, so of course, I'm going to be shocked," Gyuvin defended himself. "And second, you know the first time didn't go well. He wasn't even strawberry anon!"

"But I implied it on my private account?" you countered.

"You didn't?" Gyuvin raised his eyebrow, making you question whether you did.

"Oh." You said in confusion, clearly remembering that you did.

"What, you have another account?" He says with a mischievous tone.

"No, I seriously did tweet that on my private account, you know," you explained.

Gyuvin pulled out his phone and checked your tweets. "Well, I guess you did."

"See!" you exclaimed, feeling relieved that you had indeed posted about it on your private account. You knew Gyuvin would likely have snitched on you if you hadn't.

"Okay, but what if he's not cake anon? Then what?" Gyuvin asked, his curiosity sparking various possible scenarios in his head.

"Well, although it may be embarrassing to say it in person, I've already said it once online," you replied, sinking back into your chair. "It can't hurt, can it?"

"Well, you're right about that," he agreed, and as if on cue, the bell rang, signaling the end of the class. What perfect timing! Gyuvin had a big grin on his face as he heard the loud sound. "There's the bell! Hurry, let's go, and I'll leave you during lunch. Don't worry about the others; I'll let them know."

"Thank you, Gyuvin, really. But don't stalk me—I know you," you teased.

"Hey, if you sit next to us, it would be hard not to eavesdrop!" he joked back.

"I guess so. Well, let's go then?" you said, seeing Gyuvin packing up quickly. It seemed like he was even more excited about this whole situation than you were. As you both headed out of the classroom, you couldn't help but feel grateful for Gyuvin's support and eager to see what would unfold during lunch.

And once you both were in the cafeteria, you see Sunoo coming back from the line with two trays of food. He makes eye contact with you, and he would normally wave, but he had his and your food. Gyuvin pushes you forward slightly, raising his eyebrow and having a stupid grin—signaling to help Sunoo.

Rolling your eyes playfully, you speed walk to him, thanking and grabbing the tray from Sunoo. “We can just sit there, just away from the others while I tell you the things.” He nods, smiling as he takes a seat.

“Why do I have a bad feeling about this?” Sunoo laughs it off, making you laugh too.

“It isn’t bad! Not to me, I think.”

“You think? That's very convincing, YN.”

“Stop with the sarcasm!” You said as you poked a straw in your drink.

As you got comfortable and started sharing your thoughts with Sunoo, he asked eagerly, "Okay, okay! Now, what do you have to tell me?" Taking a bite of his food, he attentively looked at you.

"So you know the anons from that love news account that keep sending me messages?" you asked, observing Sunoo's subtle tension, though you weren't aware of the full extent of his nervousness.

"Yeah, I do," he replied, trying to keep his composure, though his heart began racing, almost audible to his own ears. He wondered if you could notice his inner turmoil.

"I think I know who one of them is," you said, and Sunoo felt his anxiety skyrocket. He feared that his utensils might slip out of his hands due to the nerves.

"Oh, which one?" he asked, attempting to sound calm despite the feelings inside.

"You know, cake anon," you responded.

"Oh. Who do you think it is?" he asked, trying to mask his nerves.

"You," you stated bluntly, catching him off guard. The shock made him choke on his food, but you quickly reached for a water bottle in your bag and handed it to him, unintentionally causing him to choke further. Panicking, you apologized while he took the water and drank quickly to relieve his discomfort.

"I'm sorry! I'll buy you a new one," he said apologetically.

You refused his offer, thinking it was unnecessary for just a bottle of water, but he still felt bad for no reason. That's when you dropped another bombshell, saying, "If you insist on returning the favor, you could just ask me out instead." Your straightforwardness left him slightly embarrassed and reddened, and he didn't know how to respond to your unexpected confession.

"Well, if you insist... I will take you out," Sunoo said with a smile, despite the blush on his face. Your smile mirrored his, relieved and excited that things were progressing positively. He then asked curiously, "How did you know I was cake anon?"

You chuckled, feeling a bit embarrassed about your reasoning. "Well... let's say the reason is a bit stupid. Since the cake emoji had a strawberry and I always accused you of being strawberry anon, I just asked?" you explained while scratching the back of your neck. Gyuvin smiled and nodded, accepting your explanation.

"Well, your 'stupid' reason is right," he replied, confirming your hunch.

"Right! And my other friends thought I was being delusional," you scoffed, your smile growing wider as you felt validated in your instincts. As the realization of your upcoming date with Sunoo sunk in, panic began to creep in, and you felt the need to clarify something. "And you know, if it's too sudden, we can just take our time with this."

Sunoo's eyes widened a bit, noticing the slight change in your demeanor. He nodded in agreement, "Oh yeah, I agree."

Despite the flustered moments, you and Sunoo managed to keep the atmosphere light by talking as you normally would. Sunoo was relieved that you had figured out his secret identity quicker than he expected, and he was genuinely looking forward to what the future held for both of you. Finally, the so-called cupid would have his happy ending.

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♡⸝⸝ sunyn 😊😊😊😊😊

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