#Cathedral of Circuits

[wickedzeevyln]

✮ Orpheus ✮

The alarm blared as another sector of Neonova’s neural grid collapsed. My fingers flew across the console, my skin gummy from sweat slithering down my forehead and dripping all over the buttons. Around me, the Control Spire trembled. Guts grating inside. The error codes are lambent, pulsating making me wheeze through my nostrils. The holograms of the city’s heartbeat flatlining into jagged red…

[bobendsneyder64]

[orellazalonia]

Comedic Relief

Summary: After overhearing teammates call you the "comic relief" and question your seriousness, you begin to doubt your place on the team despite being a genius in disguise. Bucky finds you spiraling in your lab, reminds you of your brilliance, and confesses how deeply he values and loves you. (Bucky Barnes x chaotic!reader)

Word Count: 1.4k+

A/N: Wanted something angsty. I also debated having them run away temporarily and having Bucky find them first, but I liked how this turned out in the end. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

You weren’t supposed to hear it.

Honestly, you never meant to. You were crawling through the ceiling vent to test your portable gravity-altering boots as one does and accidentally dropped into the hallway by the training center. You didn’t land gracefully. You bounced. Twice.

No one noticed.

You were about to make a dramatic entrance to demand “scientific respect and perhaps a sandwich” when your name floated through the crack of the door.

“She’s just… not serious,” One of the rookies was saying. “I know she’s smart, obviously, but it’s like, can you trust her in a real op? Last week she got distracted mid-mission because she thought the enemy base’s reactor looked ‘like a sexy espresso machine.’”

You could hear someone chuckle before another added, “Yeah, and she asked Fury if ‘thermonuclear’ was a made-up word.”

You blinked. That was a joke. You knew what thermonuclear meant. You’d accidentally built a thermonuclear coffee machine last year that tried to launch itself into low orbit. They made you name it and put it in a SHIELD containment box.

“Honestly, she’s more of the comic relief, you know?” Another said. “Like, she’s the team mascot. Not really part of the brain or someone you should trust.”

You weren’t sure what part of you tensed first. Maybe it was your jaw, your spine, or your heart. It wasn’t a new feeling. Not really. It was just louder this time. More final. Heavier.

Mascot.

The word stuck to you like wet concrete.

You backed away before you could hear any more of the conversation, suddenly hyperaware of every squeak of your boots and every stupid joke you’d ever made this week. The “avocado bomb” prank on Steve. The trivia challenge you crushed but then celebrated by pronouncing “Columbus” as “Co-LUMB-us.” The marble run you built through the ventilation system that made the whole compound sound like a wind chime when it rained.

God. Was that all they saw?

You didn’t go to dinner. You didn’t reply in the group chat, even when Sam tagged you and asked why Bucky was sulking in the corner muttering “Where is she?” like a pissed-off gargoyle.

You didn’t even remember walking back to the lab. Your feet had carried you here on autopilot to your safe place, your mess, your cathedral of chaos and half-finished thoughts.

You locked the door behind you, not that anyone ever came in uninvited. Not unless Bucky had something to smuggle in for you (usually food or a weapon you weren’t technically cleared to modify). Not unless Tony wanted to gawk at your entropy.

The lab lights flickered on automatically. You winced at the brightness.

You moved like a ghost, almost afraid to touch anything. Your hands hovered above your desk, your workbench, the tower of half-functional prototypes stacked like a junkyard Jenga tower. You didn’t sit. You just stared at the avalanche of yourself. Your weird, brilliant, overwhelming mind spilled out across surfaces. Wires like spaghetti. Notes written in both formulae and doodles. Gel pens next to soldering irons. A circuit board shaped like a cat.

It all looked… childish. Stupid.

What were you even doing?

You finally collapsed into your chair, spinning once, twice, then fast enough that the corners of the room blurred. You kicked off the counter and made a loop around the floor, feet dragging. The motion didn’t help. If anything, it amplified the static in your chest.

Mascot.

You blinked hard, squeezing your temples. “No. No no no. Shut up. We’re not doing this today.”

You spun to your desk. Grabbed a marker. Scrawled something on the board.

atomic weight of hydrogen: 1.00784 u. bananas are a lie. you don’t need potassium that bad. you matter. you matter. you matter.

You stared at it for a long time. Then erased “you matter” so hard the whiteboard squeaked. Your hand kept going long after the words were gone. Until it hurt.

You stood. Paced a little more. Opened a drawer. Slammed it shut. You tugged at the sleeves of your hoodie, pacing faster now, muttering in a half joking, half begging, yet all unraveling way. “Who the hell builds a weather balloon to see if birds migrate better with Taylor Swift playing on a speaker? Who sets a toast-loving AI loose in the kitchen and calls it a ‘learning moment’ when it sets off four smoke alarms?”

You knocked into your shelf, and something clattered. You didn’t catch it. You didn’t care.

You backed into your chair and sank again, hands braced on your knees like gravity got heavier just for you. Your eyes burned.

“They’re right,” You said quietly. “I’m a joke. A distraction. They keep me around because it’s easier than telling me to leave.”

Somewhere behind you, the electronic calendar chimed softly:

Reminder: Tell Bucky you love him. (He already knows, but say it anyway.)

Your throat closed up.

You covered your face with both hands and curled forward, trembling. The quiet buzz of your machines felt deafening. You had built this place, crafted it like a cocoon, a temple, a home. Now it felt like a parody of genius.

You didn’t hear the knock at the door. Or the creak as it opened.

But you felt it when Bucky entered, his presence like a storm and a lighthouse all at once. Steady. Warm. Wordless.

He stood there for a moment. Watching. Taking in the wreckage. You hadn’t noticed the tears on your face until he knelt in front of you and reached up, thumb brushing just below your eye. He didn’t say anything right away. He just held you.

You weren’t even sure when your body had folded into his. One moment, you were curled in on yourself, vibrating with self-loathing, and the next, your face was buried in the crook of his neck and his arms were wrapped around you like armor. Like he could physically keep the world out if he just held on tight enough.

You gripped the front of his henley like it was the only solid thing left. It smelled like coffee and the soap he never admitted to stealing from Steve.

“I thought you were joking when you said you could feel my breakdowns in your soul,” You whispered, voice raw.

“I can,” He murmured against your hair. “Like a bat signal but sadder.”

You let out a broken sound, half sob, half laugh.

His metal hand rubbed slow, careful circles on your back; warm from the adaptive heat plates he let you install. The other hand cradled your head like you were fragile, which only made the cracks inside you widen. He never looked at you like you were fragile. Not until now.

“They think I’m a joke,” You mumbled into his chest. “They think I’m just the team jester with a few fun facts and a death wish.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“They’re not wrong.”

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you, not with pity, but with fire.

“You built a quantum drive in a toaster oven,” He said firmly. “You hacked an alien translator using a flashlight and a Etch A Sketch. You—” He huffed, voice breaking. “You are the only reason half this team is alive.”

You stared at him, voice stuck in your throat.

“But I make everything a joke.”

“Because that’s how you survive,” He said softly. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to be underestimated because people are more comfortable laughing at you than respecting you?”

You looked down. “I just… if I stop being funny, I’m afraid they’ll stop wanting me around.”

Bucky reached up, cupping your cheek, thumb stroking beneath your eye.

“If they can’t handle all of you, not just the jokes and chaos and weird trivia, then they don’t deserve you. But I can.” His voice was low, steady. “I love you. All of you. The ridiculous, the brilliant, the heartbreaking mess of you. You could set the tower on fire trying to build a better microwave and I’d still think you’re the smartest person I’ve ever met.”

You blinked fast, and a soft smile tugged at your lips. “That was one time.”

“Twice,” He corrected. “And the second time, you swore it was intentional to teach Tony humility.”

You let out a breathless laugh, and he smiled. That sweet, rare smile he only ever gave you like you were something secret and sacred.

“C’mere,” He said, pulling you in again, tighter this time.

You curled into his lap and let yourself stay there, finally still, finally quiet. His hands never stopped moving, thumb tracing your spine, fingers gently combing through your hair, grounding you with every touch.

And in that moment, you didn’t feel like a mascot or a distraction.

You felt like someone loved and seen.

[rosachae]

it's couture | daniela avanzini x reader

⁍ song: telepatia - kali uchis ⁍ requested: yes! thank you anon ⁍ genre: fashion designer AU. ⁍ a/n: thank you for requesting this, anon! sorry for the delay in getting this out. i hope this is what you were looking for. ⁍ w.c: 4.9k ⁍ warnings: nothing i can think of ⁍ synopsis:

daniela avanzini and y/n couldn't stand eachother. period. when lara raj, a big name model, hires both of them to style a head turning dress for the upcoming met gala, daniela starts questioning her own emotions. especially when she sees her rival in a stunning wedding dress.

the venue for the annual new york fashion summit was a converted cathedral in soho, all stained glass and echoing arches, filled with the scent of hairspray, burnt fabric, and desperation. rows of dress forms lined the far wall, half dressed models drifting between them like mannequins that had come to life and developed an attitude. it was the kind of place where reputations were born, shredded, and stitched back together with gold thread and ego. the air practically crackled with ambition, and at the center of it all stood two women who would have gladly murdered each other with a well aimed pair of fabric shears.

 daniela avanzini, and y/n.

they couldn’t have been any more different.

daniela was reviewing fabric swatches by the emergency exit. she sipped coffee from a plain black thermos, its surface chipped and scuffed, and only half-listened as two assistants argued over zipper placements beside her.

“try the gunmetal. the brass looks like we’re trying too hard,” she said calmly, flipping through the swatches again without glancing up. the two assistants stopped mid sentence like she’d flicked a switch.

a makeup artist tentatively hovered near her with blotting sheets, and daniela gave her a glance that was more exhausted than cutting. “i’m not the one going on camera. use those on theo, he’s been sweating since the fittings started.”

the comment was dry, not cruel, and made the man laugh sheepishly as he adjusted a model’s cuff across the room.

from her corner, y/n watched the whole scene unfold and felt her molars grind together. there was something infuriating about the way daniela carried herself, like she didn’t have to scream to be in charge, like people just listened when she spoke, like she’d earned her place here even though y/n was convinced she hadn’t. she hated the calm in her voice. she especially hated the way everyone always seemed to defer to her like she was the only person in the room who had ever touched a sewing machine.

y/n was crouched by her garment rack, pinning a hand embroidered sleeve onto a model with the precision of a surgeon and the tension of a woman who hadn’t slept in three days.

daniela saw her before anyone else did. one second she was focused on the fraying edge of a hemline and the next, her eyes caught on a figure across the room, and something in her posture shifted. not dramatically, not enough for her assistants to notice, but enough. her spine straightened. her fingers stilled against the fabric. her mouth twitched like she’d just tasted something bittersweet and familiar, like burnt espresso or a memory that overstayed its welcome. daniela’s eyes followed her without permission. lit up and darkened all at once.

there was always something different about y/n. daniela didn’t exactly go out of her way to be warm to anyone, but with her, it was like her instincts short circuited. the jabs came easier. the irritation was more urgent.

“look who’s here,” she drawled, not bothering to lower her voice. “the duchess of diy. did you dig those sleeves out of a goodwill bin or is that just your aesthetic now?”

a few people glanced over. an assistant coughed into their elbow. the energy shifted, as it always did when those two were in the same room.

y/n didn’t flinch. she looked up, met daniela’s gaze, and smiled. wide and fake, all teeth and poison.

“don’t be jealous. not all of us have interns to distress denim for us. some of us still do it with our bare hands. like peasants.”

daniela’s jaw tightened, but her smile stayed fixed. almost too fixed. it wasn’t like she enjoyed these little spats, but somehow, every time y/n was around, her self control got... bendy.

she told herself it was just about the competition. that y/n brought out the worst in her because she was reckless and arrogant and frustratingly good at what she did.

but deep down, in some irritating corner of her brain, she already knew it wasn’t that simple.

it never had been.

the history between them was long, complicated, and aggressively documented by fashion blogs with too much time and not enough taste. there had been the infamous fabric dye incident at the copenhagen capsule show, when daniela’s models walked out with mysteriously stained hems that perfectly matched the palette of y/n’s collection. there was the time y/n’s mood board for a high end show mysteriously disappeared, only for daniela to debut a collection eerily similar to the sketches she'd posted in an instagram story months ago.

“coincidences happen,” daniela had said at the time, blinking with false innocence. “besides, she doesn't own baroque.”

“no,” y/n had muttered later to a reporter, “but it doesn’t change the fact that she doesn’t have a single creative bone in her body.”

just last week, someone had “accidentally” swapped out y/n’s feathered bodice with a tacky polyester replica right before a cover shoot. the model broke out in hives. daniela claimed she was just trying to help. “honestly, i thought it was part of her new budget-friendly era,” she’d said, sipping green juice while avoiding eye contact.

y/n, for her part, wasn’t above retaliation. she once paid a tech intern fifty bucks to redirect daniela’s website to a minions fan blog for twelve hours. another time, she subtly rewired the sound cues at a runway show so daniela’s dramatic finale walk was accompanied by the sound of a fart. daniela didn’t flinch. she just made her models pose harder.

daniela watched y/n from across the room now, arms folded, eyes narrowed. god, she hated her. the way she stomped around like she was the second coming of vivienne westwood. the way she talked like every sentence was a protest slogan. the way she treated fashion like it was a war and she was the last righteous soldier left. it was so exhausting, so insufferable, so unbelievably hot…

no. god. ew. absolutely not. daniela wanted to shoot herself.

y/n was annoying. and not in the charming, girl next door, quirky way. she was the kind of annoying that seeped into your dreams and made you wake up clenching your jaw. daniela pictured her yelling at a waiter over salad dressing and then realized she probably had. that was the kind of person she was. exhausting. grating. talented, maybe, but in a way that made daniela want to break something.

and yet, she kept watching her. the way her hands moved when she was adjusting fabric. the slight crease between her brows when she was concentrating. the rare moments when she smiled at a model and looked– almost– like she belonged in a different universe than this cutthroat, acidic one.

gross.

y/n, meanwhile, was quietly sharpening her metaphorical knives.

daniela avanzini was everything she hated about the fashion world. born into fame, raised in silk sheets, handed a platform and praised for mediocrity. she didn’t design, she curated. she didn’t create, she commissioned. and yet somehow she was always there, always floating in like a perfume ad come to life, pretending she’d stitched that damn corset herself instead of texting her atelier “make it better.”

it was infuriating. her perfect skin, her smug little smile, her complete lack of self awareness. daniela acted like a savior of the industry when she was really just playing dress up with someone else’s scissors.

and yet, y/n couldn’t stop checking the room for her. couldn’t stop collecting daniela’s insults like ugly souvenirs. couldn’t stop wondering, in the worst corners of her mind, if maybe she wanted daniela to notice her for real. not just as competition. not just as an obstacle. but as someone whose touch might ruin her in all the best ways.

y/n shook the thought off and stabbed a pin through a collar a little too aggressively. she was clearly hallucinating. probably from the fumes of hot glue and unresolved sexual tension.

the night ended in another catastrophe.

daniela had the closing slot of the show. the final walk, the anchor position. it was a silent nod from the summit’s organizers, a recognition of her lineage, her consistency, her ability to close a runway like a full stop. the venue was packed. editors, critics, celebrities half wrapped in custom pieces that hadn’t even hit the press yet. the front row was a garden of sunglasses and crossed legs, glossy lips and murmured predictions.

backstage, the air was sharp with tension and steaming fabric. daniela stood behind the curtain, expression calm, arms folded across her clipboard as the last model stepped into position. the dress she was wearing was the centerpiece of daniela’s collection. a structured black gown with asymmetric pleating and a long sculptural train. elegant, minimal, brutalist in a way that whispered power instead of shouting it.

daniela gave the model a nod. the music shifted, the lights dimmed, and the audience fell silent in that way they always did right before something beautiful walked past them.

the model stepped out. one step. two. three. the gown caught the light and moved like poured ink. and then the train snapped.

it happened fast. a sharp pop from the rear hem, and suddenly the delicate scaffolding of thread and boning gave way. the tail of the dress detached entirely, skidding a few feet behind her like a fallen shadow. the model faltered but kept walking, trying to salvage the moment with practiced grace. but the murmurs started immediately. the collective breath of the room stuttered. cameras clicked, trying to catch the exact second disaster bloomed.

backstage, daniela didn’t move. not yet. but her jaw clenched. just once.

she turned slowly, scanning the workspace behind her. a few stylists were frozen. others pretended not to have noticed. her team looked horrified. and then, there she was. y/n. standing across the prep floor, arms crossed, fingers tucked under her elbows, watching the runway with the cool detachment of someone who already knew what was going to happen.

daniela’s voice, when she spoke, was quiet and flat. “thread doesn’t snap like that.”

her assistant shifted nervously beside her. “the hem was reinforced this morning. i-i double checked it myself.”

daniela nodded once. her eyes didn’t leave y/n.

it hadn’t been loud. it hadn’t been dramatic. it was the kind of sabotage that would be dismissed as technical error to everyone else in the room. but daniela knew. she always knew.

y/n finally looked over, just long enough to meet her gaze. and she winked.

daniela turned back to the runway as the model disappeared backstage, trainless and humiliated. this was what it always was with y/n. quiet warfare in beautiful clothing.

and for reasons daniela refused to examine, it almost thrilled her.

almost.

__

lara raj was the kind of model whose face could launch a thousand brand deals and get a thousand designers into a fistfight. she was young, luminous, unbothered by gravity or expectations, and the current darling of every fashion house that mattered. it wasn’t just her look. it was the fact that anything she wore, she sold, like it was stitched directly from her bloodline. and this year, she’d be attending the met gala for the first time in three years.

her team made one thing very clear in the email blast that hit both daniela and y/n’s inboxes at the exact same time. she wanted something iconic. something unexpected. she wanted edge, but “make it couture”, words directly from her sister, rhea. and she wanted both of them to pitch.

daniela read the email once, then again, and then tilted her head like the text might change if she looked at it sideways. lara raj. the lara raj. she hadn’t just liked daniela’s last collection, she’d posted about it. unprompted. untagged. and now they were asking her to fight for the chance to dress her... against y/n?

“sure,” daniela muttered to herself, slamming her laptop shut. “just what i needed. a group project from hell.”

across the city, y/n was already halfway through building a preliminary mood board. her hands moved fast, decisive, sketching over silhouettes and draping test fabrics over her mannequin with a kind of fury that made her studio assistant pause mid step and whisper, “god, it’s happening again.”

“do you think lara knows they hate each other?” the assistant asked later when y/n disappeared into her sewing room.

“oh,” someone replied. “she definitely does.”

lara raj arrived at the shared workspace two days later, radiant and late. she wore sunglasses indoors, carried a pomeranian in a leather sling, and spoke like a woman who knew every room would wait for her to finish.

“you’re both so different,” she said brightly, looking between them as if they were two flavors of gelato she couldn’t decide between. “and i love that. i want both of your visions. i think this could be really... dynamic.”

y/n blinked. “wait. both?”

“yes, both. collaborative genius. chaos and elegance. the full spectrum. i mean, you’re already enemies, right? it’s perfect for press.”

“we’re not enemies,” daniela said flatly at the same time y/n muttered, “we’re not collaborating.”

lara giggled. “you’re so cute when you lie.”

and just like that, it was decided. the met gala dress would be designed together. one last look. one unforgettable outfit. two stubborn designers, neither willing to give in, caught in a tug of war over what would capture the theme ‘bridgerton marriage.’ 

when daniela first heard the theme, she nearly scoffed. she’d completely forgotten that the show existed, that it swept across america, turning everyone obsessed in a way she couldn’t quite understand. the idea of trying to create something that fit into that world made her stomach twist. how was she supposed to romanticize a story that felt so distant from her own reality? but still, there was no backing out now. the pressure settled heavy, and deep down, daniela wondered if she could even find the spark to make this work.

by day three of fittings, someone had already cried.

it wasn’t daniela, and it definitely wasn’t y/n.

the studio had been converted into neutral territory. models, stylists, and assistants buzzed between both stations, careful not to appear loyal to either. daniela had commandeered the left half of the space, all clean lines, pinned sketches, organized swatches labeled in neat cursive. y/n’s side looked like an art school exploded. loose threads everywhere. a hot glue gun sitting in a puddle of sequins. mood boards taped to the wall like protest flyers.

they worked ten feet apart, but the tension stretched like a live wire.

“those pleats are aggressive,” daniela said once, studying y/n’s half of the dress.

“says the woman who added steel boning to a neckline,” y/n shot back. “what is lara supposed to do, lunge at anna wintour? she’ll have the poor old woman hospitalized before she can even say ‘hello’.”

lara, sitting in the corner eating grapes like she was watching live theater, offered no help. “i love the passion. let it burn, babes.”

the fighting escalated fast. y/n accused daniela of trying to overwrite her half of the design. daniela accused y/n of playing messy on purpose. one of daniela’s interns found their measuring tape had been subtly shortened by half an inch. someone rewired y/n’s iron to only heat on one side.

by the end of week one, they were communicating exclusively through post-its and threats.

but the worst part wasn’t the sabotage. it was the fact that—against all logic, all reason—the dress was starting to look good. like, really good. like they accidentally made something brilliant just by trying to outshine each other.

and neither of them could stand it.

“stop adjusting my stitches,” y/n snapped one night, catching daniela bent over the bustier with her needle poised.

“they were crooked,” daniela said, not even bothering to lie.

“they were mine.”

daniela stood up slowly, eyes hard. “god, you’re so territorial.”

“and you’re so smug. do you even know how to collaborate or are you just here to micromanage and pretend you invented corsets?”

“oh please, if i left you alone with this dress for five minutes it would come back looking like william howard taft took a shit on it.”

they were toe to toe now, voices low but furious, surrounded by silk and tension and the electric hum of everything unsaid.

it escalated on a tuesday. most things did. the pressure was thick, deadlines crawling closer, and the fabric budget mysteriously short by five hundred dollars.

“i submitted the invoice,” y/n hissed into her phone, pacing her corner of the studio like a stormcloud in heels. “twice. check again.”

meanwhile, daniela calmly unrolled a new bolt of duchess satin she’d ordered overnight. pristine. expensive. definitely not on the shared supply list.

“must be a processing error,” she said without looking up. “that happens when you don’t itemize properly.”

y/n didn’t respond, but later that night, one of daniela’s hand finished embroidered panels went missing. just vanished. her team tore through every drawer and cutting table looking for it.

“it was right here,” one whispered, pale and sweating. “i swear, i folded it myself.”

daniela didn’t say a word. just stared across the room at y/n, who was threading a needle with the smug satisfaction of someone who’d just buried a body and dared you to find it.

by week two, sabotage had become ritual.

chalk lines were swapped. pattern notches redrawn half a centimeter off. someone turned the studio thermostat up to eighty five degrees and daniela’s couture grade fabrics warped beyond salvation. when y/n opened her supply drawer the next morning, every single spool of thread was knotted into a tangled rainbow of fury.

“what the fuck is this,” she growled.

“maybe your chaos finally reached critical mass,” daniela offered, sipping water like it was vintage pinot.

“oh right, because your side of the room is the picture of mental stability.”

“it’s called discipline. you should try it sometime. maybe then your hems wouldn’t look like they were stitched during an earthquake.”

the fitting was scheduled for friday. up until thursday night, both designers still hadn’t decided what to do about the neckline. y/n wanted a raw edge, deconstructed, like cracked marble. daniela insisted on a sharp, clean fold. symmetrical, exact, the kind of finish that whispered decadence in ten languages.

at 3:00 a.m., y/n fell asleep on a roll of batting.

at 3:10 a.m., daniela unpicked the neckline and resewed it her way.

at 3:14 a.m., y/n woke up and undid all of it.

they passed each other in silence at 3:17 a.m., scissors in hand, identical dark circles under their eyes and identical expressions of homicidal grace.

by friday morning, they hadn’t slept more than a few hours combined.

lara arrived in vintage galliano, sipped a matcha that tasted like money and algae, and climbed onto the riser like it was a throne. she looked radiant. the kind of radiant that made people say words like “visionary” and “ethereal” in the same breath.

“okay,” she said, clapping once. “blow me away.”

neither y/n nor daniela spoke. they just moved, almost in sync, adjusting seams and tucking folds like they weren’t locked in a psychic deathmatch. the dress shimmered. literally. someone (probably y/n) had added a sheer iridescent underlayer that caught the light like oil on water. but the silhouette was daniela’s. clean, structured, architectural. almost cruel in its elegance.

lara looked down at herself and exhaled slowly. “holy shit.”

it should have been a win. it should have been relief. but instead, it settled like cement between them. because they knew. deep down, past the competition and sabotage, past the snide remarks and the god awful passive aggression, that they’d made something beautiful.

and they’d done it together.

which was, frankly, sickening.

later that night, daniela found her sketchbook missing. y/n’s iron was mysteriously sticky. lara’s assistant overheard them screaming in the back hallway about something involving a bias cut, a metaphorical knife, and the phrase “i will ruin you, don’t test me!”

lara posted a photo of the dress the next day. just a tease. a sliver of fabric. the internet exploded.

“who designed this??”

lara didn’t tag either of them. she just captioned it with just one simple word. duality. and somewhere, in the very tense quiet of a split studio, two designers stared at the same post and clenched their jaws in perfect synchrony.

they weren’t done.

not even close.

__

the studio was too quiet without lara. normally, her presence filled the space with perfume and chaos and too many teasing questions about daniela and y/n’s scathing dynamic. now, it was silence broken only by the occasional snide remark or the telltale sign of sabotage.

lara was sick. nothing serious, just enough of a sore throat for her publicist to issue a polite but firm “absolutely not” when the idea of a pre gala shoot came up.

but the shoot couldn’t wait. the magazine deadline was locked. the editorial team was already there, sipping iced coffees and pretending not to be panicking.

“we need a body,” someone said. “just to see the shape on camera.”

y/n rolled her eyes, but before anyone could suggest another solution, she disappeared behind a curtain with the dress and came out ten minutes later, annoyed.

“happy now?” she muttered, brushing hair from her face.

and the room went still. even the photographer forgot to speak. daniela looked up from her notes and, admittedly, froze.

it wasn’t the dress. it was her in the dress.

the silk hugged y/n like it had been made just for her. the neckline, the one they’d argued over for hours, framed her collarbones like a delicate sculpture. the raw edge caught the light perfectly, soft and intentional, exactly how y/n wanted it. but her expression wasn’t the usual defiant glare or that sly, confident grin. it was quieter. almost hesitant. like for once, she didn’t know what she looked like. like she wasn’t performing, wasn’t pretending.

daniela couldn’t look away. and she hated herself for it. hated how her chest tightened, how her heart started pounding in a way that felt too sharp and unfamiliar. hated how y/n looked. not just styled or glamorous, but truly, achingly beautiful. like something daniela couldn’t touch or claim. she felt it settle deep in her throat, a lump she couldn’t swallow, a pulse she couldn’t name.

what the hell is wrong with me? she whispered, barely audible, the words meant only for herself.

seeing y/n in a wedding dress, even a sleek, modern one they’d designed together, made daniela’s stomach twist in a way she couldn’t ignore. it wasn’t just the dress itself. it was everything the dress stood for. everything she’d spent so long trying to shove aside but couldn’t. for years the tension between them, the push and pull, the sharp words exchanged at every show, had been something daniela secretly craved. the thrill of knowing y/n would be there, with that careless smile and quick tongue. it had always excited her. but now, seeing her like this, vulnerable and quiet beneath the layers of silk, all daniela could do was sit with that tight, unfamiliar knot coiling deep inside her chest. a quiet ache she wasn’t ready to name, and maybe never would be.

the shoot lasted twenty minutes. the photos were flawless. y/n slipped out of the dress without ceremony, passed it to an assistant, and left the studio with a half-hearted joke about how she was “too underpaid for this.”

daniela didn’t answer. she didn’t speak for the rest of the day. 

the silence stretched into the week.

daniela showed up early. stayed late. snapped at interns. adjusted hems that didn’t need adjusting. when y/n tried to joke, she shut it down. when y/n got snippy, she didn’t take the bait.

“is she okay?” someone whispered after daniela left the room.

“honestly?” the intern replied. “she’s acting like she saw god and then punched herself in the face about it.”

y/n noticed. of course she did. daniela wasn’t just cold now. she was distant. pulled tight. like even breathing the same air was suddenly unbearable. and it shouldn’t have mattered. not to y/n. not after everything. she’d long grown used to the stares, the clipped insults dressed up as critiques. she'd learned how to wear them like armor. but this was different. this wasn’t a fight. this was absence. 

“she’s been worse than usual, right?” she asked, poking at a seam.

 her assistant nodded. “like, full ice queen. not even passive-aggressive. just… gone.”

y/n hummed, not looking up. “figured.”

“did you say something?”

“no.” she clipped a loose thread, sharp and clean. “that’s the problem.”

her assistant hesitated. “you want me to slash her tires?”

y/n cracked the faintest smile. “not yet.”

but the silence that followed sat heavy. and try as she might, y/n couldn’t stop replaying it. she didn’t miss the way daniela had looked at her in the dress. like she was seeing something she didn’t expect.  like she didn’t know what to do with it. and then, nothing. no comments. no corrections. no post-it notes. just distance. quiet. just daniela, vanishing behind the wall she’d rebuilt overnight.

it all boiled over at rehearsal. a pre-gala fitting walkthrough, long past a reasonable hour. too many people with too many opinions, crowding the space with clipped instructions and high-strung egos. tension braided into every minute. it was only a matter of time before something snapped.

a pin caught on fabric. someone swore. a stylist made a face. and then, somehow, it was just y/n and daniela behind the risers, hidden by curtain and shadow. the hum of the room faded into the background, muffled and irrelevant compared to the heat pooling in y/n’s chest.

“what is your problem?” y/n asked, voice tight, arms crossed over the half-pinned dress like armor. “i know you hate me, but at least before you were consistent.”

daniela didn’t flinch. didn’t look away. just stared at her like she was trying to see past the question, past the room, past the week. like she was holding something back with both hands.

“seriously,” y/n said again, louder now. “what did i do to make you hate me this much?”

the silence dragged. thick and suffocating. daniela exhaled slowly. her voice, when it came, was quiet. but it cut.

“you walk in like you deserve everything you haven’t earned. like talent is something you can fake if you dress it up loud enough. and somehow, people fall for it. that’s what pisses me off.”

y/n didn’t react at first. she didn’t argue, didn’t push back. her face didn’t shift into anger or offense. it just... stilled. like something inside her had dropped, quick and clean.

“oh,” she said after a moment. not bitter. not dramatic. just quiet. “got it.”

she turned away.

daniela didn’t move. she couldn’t. and the regret came slow, creeping up her spine like cold water. unfamiliar and sharp and too late.

__

the met gala was a cathedral of spectacle. diamonds in the air, silk on every surface, photographers screaming names like prayers. lara stepped out in their dress. a hybrid masterpiece born of ego and spite and sleepless nights. gold silk, razor pleats, a neckline they’d argued about for three days straight. it fit her like prophecy.

she was breathtaking. but daniela wasn’t watching her.

she was watching y/n.

y/n, standing a few feet off the carpet with a clipboard tucked against her hip and a pin stuck behind one ear, scanning the crowd like she belonged to none of it. she wasn’t dressed for attention, not tonight. but she still managed to draw the eye. daniela’s eye.

especially when lara turned to say something over her shoulder and y/n laughed, low and real, the kind of laugh that reached her eyes and cracked something quiet open in the chest.

and just like that, it hit daniela.

she didn’t care that lara was the one in the dress. didn’t care about the interviews or the reviews or the fact that somewhere out there, vogue was already tweeting photos of their work under headlines like two designers, one moment. she should’ve cared. she’d worked her entire life to care.

but all she could think about was how y/n looked right then. tired, maybe. sharp as ever. but softer, too. looser around the edges. real. daniela had spent weeks building armor around herself just to survive working next to her, and now it wasn’t working. not anymore.

because the truth was ugly and sudden and impossible to ignore.

it hadn’t been hate.

not when y/n had stepped out in the test fitting and daniela forgot how to blink. not when they’d argued for twelve hours over fabric choice and daniela had secretly saved one of y/n’s sketches just because it made her feel something. not when she’d said that awful thing backstage and hated herself for how fast y/n’s face fell.

and not now. not tonight. 

she didn’t hate her. she wanted her.

the problem was that she wasn’t sure if it was too late to make things right.

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

cannot dream of returning to dust: marcnaia [m]

Marc dabs the corner of his mouth. It’s blood—stark, rusting, red.

He looks at Pecco. Startles after a disjointed moment like an old, whirring computer, too little hardware to contain the leaden software of his racing instincts and the bike data. And his soul too, but Pecco isn’t one for theatrics as much as he is for punishment.

“You alright?” He prods clumsily. He can’t not.

Marc shrugs—a disquieting thing to watch. Everything is half a second off, and his body jerks unevenly. “’s fine,” he spits, sharp, all at once. “Long day. But it is good.”

It was, technically.

He won.

Pecco doesn’t know how, exactly, but surely he’s long past asking that. Staring at Marc’s data is like staring at that little phial of fresh, millennia-old blood in the Naples Cathedral. And worse yet, if they tear the wiring out of Marc’s veins, Pecco thinks he’d still be Marc. Miraculous, except their kind isn’t in the business for that.

It’s not flattering. Being close to him at all isn’t flattering.

Marc keeps watching him. The whites of his eyes are too white. His fingers—carbon fiber, dented, dusted—spasm at his side, with a staticky hiss. There’s old blood on his upper lip.

“Here,” Pecco says, automatic. Hands him the towel wrapped around his neck.

One day, it won’t rake its nails through his nerves and sensors, the sheer fucking suffocating awkwardness of existing close him. Marc picks it up warily, wipes down his face twice. Pecco wants to twitch. The hardware embedded in his flesh feels like it’s groaning, overwhelmed, overheating.

“Thanks,” Marc mutters. Then: “I'm fine. You don't have to worry.”

Probably not. And probably impossible. Pecco huffs out a noise that can pass as a snort—reedy as it sounds. “Ok.”

It doesn’t settle anything.

Marc’s motorhome seems three sizes too small for them. Walls scraping against his shoulders, the ceiling too low, Marc everywhere he looks. Marc, Marc, Marc—distrusting, cagey like a kicked dog down to the hard line of his shoulders. Pecco picks at his cuticles until they bleed. The tips of his fingers ache, swollen.

The podium champagne is heavy in his stomach. He feels nauseous—faintly. Maybe they downloaded nervous puking along with his first riding augmentations.

Pecco crumbles on Marc’s sofa. He feels gritty, slow. Like there’s circuit rot in the hollow of his chest, melting his wires together and getting the signals to blur. Marc follows. Sits so close he might hear semantic errors piling up, the stutter of ram processors in overdrive.

He’s a pitiless thing through that—grabs Pecco’s hand and puts it on the crook of his elbow. The flesh one. When Pecco runs his fingers over the skin there, fragile, there’s only the faint knob of a sensor port, as familiar as the shape of his bones.

It’s too much, suddenly.

“You are excited for Sachsenring,” Pecco says. An abrupt, lumbering way out. Next weekend, more racing, easy stuff.

Marc barks out a laugh. Light, airy. “Of course.”

Of course.

“King of the ring. Right.”

It comes out—strained, maybe. Settles all under his skin with a red-hot kind of humiliation, of awe. The fans in this frenzied delirium. Ducati whispering among itself, that he’ll be splendid, glorious, like Pecco hadn’t been winning for them. As much as he humanly could, even.

The problem is that Marc might not be human—Valentino said it first, he remembers. After Argentina. That Marc is too much chromium and stainless steel and copper wirings and doesn’t care for the rest of them. There was a hanged cardboard robot in one of the Misanos, once.

Or he’s too human. The last great thing of real meat and real talent. A modern rider Agostini can admire. A rider from before the current, palatable bikes and the seamless lines of seamless implants.

“Pecco,” Marc says, urgent, gravelly.

When Pecco turns his head, Marc is right there, blinking up at him, looking miserable—pale, wan, cheeks gaunt—and handsome about it.

They’re both very good at miserable. In opposite directions.

Pecco doesn’t see it happening. It’s like an overtake—he only breathes out when it’s done and doesn’t ask questions. He curls his palm around the back of Marc’s head and kisses him. Chases the coppery bite pooling on his tongue with his own.

Marc makes a noise, hard, wanting. Then he’s on Pecco’s lap, wrangling him like a Ducati on the corners, all ten fingers digging into his shoulders. Those little flashes of pain scramble his thoughts, makes his systems fumble in every direction, frizzing.

“Can you,” Marc trails off, sighing against his mouth.

“Yeah, yeah,” Pecco mutters, halfway to delirious, the taste of blood and naked wires clinging to the insides of his cheeks.

He flips them around, presses Marc against the couch, boxing him with his knees. He knows what Marc wants—and doesn’t want to say why he knows. This is a terrible idea, but it was a terrible idea the last ten, eleven times too.

Pecco splays his thumb on the sharp cut of Marc’s cheek. He grins, waggles his eyebrows. It’s ridiculous. Doesn’t make it any less devastating when he turns his head to the side and sucks his finger into his mouth.

He tries to not think about spraying champagne on his face. Fails. Tries to not think about Marc, on his knees, lips spit shiny, and—

Fails too.

So Pecco kisses him again to stop himself, reckless, feverish, and Marc’s hands go under his shirt, the horrible red of it. He fucking hates it. The heat of Marc’s touch, how it flays him open. The mortification and amazement sizzling in his throat. The jealousy.

That Marc gets to be a mechanical haunting and still—still win. That he got bishops calling him a freak, and the Pope pleading sports to cease their fiddling into God’s own most beloved creatures, and Valentino branding him an enemy, and he just keeps going. Keeps winning. Godless twice over, and yet.

That Pecco—sleek carbon fiber, updated processors, the new deal—can replaced by an ugly, bleeding Frankenstein of wrong parts and outdated code.

“You are thinking,” Marc hums, face flushed pink and lovely, the bite of his prosthetic fingers unyielding on Pecco’s waist. It lilts like a question. “Francesco.”

“Hmmm,” he manages to pry out. He hates it a little less now. “About you.”

Marc laughs. “All bad things, I hope.”

And so Pecco laughs too—almost unwillingly. Chokes on it when Marc rocks up, grinds their cocks together.

That close to him, Pecco is washed out. Perfect, passionless.

But at least Marc is also less. There’s an electric hiss, and his entire body jolts. He’s in pain, probably. Parts two generations ahead of him and ancient wires misbehaving together.

If Pecco opened the panel on his back, he’d get to see what massacre of limits stripped and repeating signals is acting up, he thinks. What is hurting him.

Marc clings to pain like he’d cling to a naked razor, though—all maniac glee. When Pecco hesitates, hovering above him, he surges up for the kill. Bites down on his bottom lip, licks hotly into his open mouth. He’s fumbling—greedy and insistent—with his jeans.

“Marc,” Pecco tries protesting, tries slowing him.

The name breaks into a groan. Marc flattens his palm against his cock, eyebrows scrunched in concentration, his tongue between his teeth, sweat gathering along his forehead.

Fine.

Fucking fine.

He has to be in pain, and Pecco is—wired and nauseous and waiting for the moment when the spiral over second place will sharpen him. They are—it has been said—very good at their own types of torment.

Pecco gets to work on Marc’s pants, shoves his own down unceremoniously. He spits on his own palm and wraps it around both of them. It’s smooth, the good synth stuff over his ports and sensors—and, ha, isn’t that a win.

Marc relaxes a fraction. Lets out this tiny, breathy sound. He buries his face against the hollow of Pecco’s neck, his nose brushing against the small, closed panel there. His hips sway in odd lurches, rub them together anyway.

It’s good. Pecco would like to say he’s above liking it, but he isn’t. Can’t lie.

Christ.

His tongue is plastered to the roof of his mouth. He tightens his fist, sinks into the sensation of the head of his cock rubbing against the patch of rough hair between Marc’s legs. Into the absurdity of this, Marc quiet and wanting and greedy under him. Wide-eyed.

“Pecco,” he whispers, clumsily, and then cuts himself off. Kisses the wild flutter of his pulse on his neck rather than speaking.

“It’s fine,” Pecco shushes him, runs his thumb over the vein on Marc’s cock so he stops talking. He has no idea what else this could be.

Proof that they’re human, maybe. They act outside their code and don’t grind to a halt.

[hellothisisangle]

You came to Australia???? I hope you enjoyed your time here! Love ur art btw 💚💚💚 Cae is very pretty💚💚💚💚

Yeah (in September) it was amazing! I planned so many things, as I often do with trips, and we got to everything without being too exhausted 😅

1 week in Cairns:

Daintree and croc tour, diving at the GBF (first time, but diving was fucking incredible and we’re legitimately looking into diving other cool places now), Kuranda, Granite Gorge, drove all the way around lake Tinaroo and saw the cathedral fig tree, Tablelands, the waterfall circuit through farmland, Paronella park, Babinda boulders. This is also where we tried roo and croc meat for the first time which was super interesting

Lake Tinaroo

Granite Gorge

And 1 week in Sydney

Visited the botanical gardens and art museums, stopped at a few breweries, Taronga zoo, Reptile park, Sydney aquarium, Luna Park, Katoomba & Blue Mountains (the highlight of this week really), Bondi beach, walked around the shopping district and city sights, saw an orchestra at the opera house (which crazy coincidence, but George miller was having a dinner next to us at Bennelong), did the Sydney bridge climb, and tried a few recommended food places like Nomad (my favorite), the tower, and Quay

I’d love to go back and potentially visit Melbourne and Tasmania next time!

[woradat]

HC on Throne and fall

NOTE - this will roughly summarize the relationship between reader and the main characters who play a major role in the story (will add more)

Proteus

That wretched name you so love to loathe

Yes, the Senate is a veritable parade of imbeciles draped in protocol—but Proteus, regrettably, is not among them. He is one of the rare few with teeth behind the smile, substance behind the speech. He arrived late, but how effortlessly he outshone the veterans. And now, you’re left wondering whether the contempt you feel stems from the humiliation of being outmaneuvered—or from the grudging admiration for a plan executed with such exquisite cruelty. That infuriatingly handsome, silver-tongued bot has whittled away your power with grace and precision, pulling you into his web, convinced that your voice can be bought

And it can

If you decide to sell

Every one of his smiles is a velvet-wrapped dagger whispering “I’m superior” and you smile right back "try me"—why wouldn’t you? He’s a charming fraud, a quick study, almost too adept for his own good. Had he not drawn first blood, you might’ve called him a worthy ally but this is the Senate we are talking about, not some tragic morality play penned for the weak of will

The irony? You would’ve done the same, had the roles been reversed

You despise being underestimated

And yet.. It’s proven advantageous

Dangerously so

Half the Senate now sings in Proteus’ choir— including you, for the moment. But tides turn, and yours is already rising.

You’ve obtained the decisive piece. The one move that will flip the board, tip the king, and redraw the game. It comes with risk, of course

(I thought it would be funny. The picture shows the overall relationship)

and if both senator have they own pawn.. Proteus got Sentinel, Shockwave have Orion Pax, then you have–

Megatron

Miner, fighter, poet, dreamer – a walking contradiction dressed in grime and fury. He’s dangerous in that maddening, electric way that makes your very circuits want to twist with anticipation. You’ve written him a part in your grand production, and now it’s your job to mold him into an actor worthy of the role. He lacks polish, control, even education—his innocence borders on poetic but that only makes him more tempting to shape

To steer

To direct

You’ve given him lines to speak, actions to perform. But deep down, you know—you’d be bored if he followed your script too well

Someone like him will never trust someone like you and that, deliciously, is what makes the fruit of your deception all the sweeter

Because he will think

He will doubt

He will grow

But not fast enough to see past you

And you must ensure he never turns the game on you once the curtains fall. That is non-negotiable. You will not allow it and should your little performance collapse in ruins, you hope the grave you dig for yourself will be a masterpiece—an elegant tombstone with your name etched in graceful script

…And then there’s

Shockwave

The ever-serene, ever-sterile paragon of logic. Perhaps the highest among you all—yes, including you. He speaks not to persuade, but to proclaim, and does so with such unflinching candor one might believe he has no idea how the game is played – too pristine, untainted to sit among serpents like you and Proteus and yet, that's precisely where your silent, inconvenient admiration begins

You mock him, of course—one must

But woven in your barbs is a thread of sincerity even he likely detects but never acknowledges

He should be in a cathedral. A laboratory. Anywhere but here, in this vulgar arena of power and duplicity

You know a little secret about him—a delicate, dangerous truth about that academy he claims was founded in memory of a dead mentor. A refuge for the rejected, the “outilers” the ones deemed unfit for the Functionist ideal

He knows you know and yet, you’ve never wielded it, never bartered, never threatened. Not yet

You, of all bots, who plans every step like a chessmaster with bloodied hands…

still hesitate

Not out of mercy

But out of uncertainty

And that is unusual. Disturbingly so

you hate that — Immensely

[fedrifan78]

a little jealous, a lot in love.

masterlist requested by: @facesblurry summary: ferran accidentally spills to pedri after having a few too many at the la liga celebrations. word count: 1370 genre: fluff warnings: ferran gets drunk.

Ferran had always been sure of himself. Confident. Comfortable in his body, in his decisions, in the way he moved through the world. Whether it was scoring on the pitch or charming a crowd off it, he never had to think twice.

Until he met Pedri.

It started at the national team camp. Nothing major, nothing wild, just a few casual interactions, a handful of team drills, some shared jokes at dinner. But something about Pedri hit him sideways. It was in the way he looked. Not looked at Ferran, necessarily, just… looked. Like he was always studying the world gently. Calmly. With this focused kind of softness Ferran wasn’t used to.

Pedri didn’t rush to speak. He didn’t try to command attention. But Ferran noticed him more than anyone else. Noticed his quiet laugh, the way his hands moved when he talked, how his lashes framed his eyes when he tilted his head just right. Things Ferran shouldn’t have been clocking. Definitely not memorizing.

That first week, Ferran caught himself doing something unthinkable: blushing. Mid-conversation, Pedri had smiled at him, really smiled, and Ferran had tripped over his own words. He’d laughed it off like a joke, like he wasn’t short-circuiting inside.

He told himself it was a one-time thing. That it didn’t mean anything.

But then he joined Barcelona.

And everything went to hell.

Ferran didn’t even know what to call what he felt. It wasn’t a crush, not exactly. Crushes were schoolboy things, fleeting and simple. This was something deeper, quieter, and somehow worse. He’d catch himself watching Pedri tie his boots, or stretch before training, and feel this stupid flutter in his chest like he was fifteen again.

Worse still, Pedri didn’t do anything to cause it. He wasn’t flirty or pushy. He was just... himself. Gentle. Steady. Unbothered. Ferran would show up to training and Pedri would toss him a water bottle with a soft “buenos días,” and Ferran would spend the rest of the morning spiraling over how he said it.

He found himself hesitating before sitting down near him in the locker room. Laughing too loudly at his jokes. Smiling when Pedri walked into a room, even when he wasn’t talking to him.

It was pathetic.

But the worst part? The jealousy.

Because Pedri wasn’t just good with him. He was good with everyone. Especially Gavi.

Ferran had tried to ignore it. Gavi was young, playful, always clinging to someone. But the way he leaned on Pedri’s shoulder, whispered something, and made him laugh, it made Ferran’s jaw tighten.

It wasn’t even romantic. Probably. But Ferran hated it. The ease. The familiarity. The fact that Pedri never laughed that easily with him.

He didn’t talk about it. Not with anyone. Not even himself. He buried it beneath workouts and media duties and post-match interviews. But it built up. Day by day. Moment by moment. Until it was a quiet scream under his skin.

And then they won La Liga.

That night was chaos. The club threw them a private celebration in a venue that looked like someone had merged a nightclub with a cathedral. Lights strobed over marble floors, music pounded through the walls, and someone was always pressing a drink into Ferran’s hand.

He took them. One after another. Let the alcohol numb the burn of everything he wasn’t saying. Let the joy swallow the ache in his chest that wouldn’t go away even when he held the trophy.

Pedri didn’t drink much. He never did. Said he liked to stay sharp. Said he preferred to watch the madness.

Ferran noticed him watching, even when he pretended not to.

He was on his third or fourth beer, maybe more, he’d lost count, when he started swaying. Not quite enough to fall, but enough that the floor felt like it was trying to move under his feet.

Then Pedri appeared in front of him, his hand firm on Ferran’s arm.

“Easy,” he said, soft but steady. “You need to sit down.”

Ferran blinked at him. “You always come when I’m dizzy?”

Pedri smiled. “Just when you look like you might accidentally crowd-surf.”

Ferran giggled. Like, actually giggled. It startled both of them.

“I’m fine,” he said.

“You’re not.”

“I am,” Ferran insisted. “Just… feliz. Very dizzy. The world is doing salsa.”

Pedri raised an eyebrow. “Okay. Come on.”

He guided Ferran out of the crowd, down a hallway lined with soft lights and velvet walls, until they found a quieter lounge in the back. There was a long, low couch by the window. Pedri gently lowered him onto it, crouching in front of him with a bottle of water.

“Here. Sip.”

Ferran stared at him. “You’re so good at this.”

“At what?”

“Being kind.”

Pedri’s expression softened. “It’s not that hard.”

“It is,” Ferran said. “People are assholes.”

“You’re not.”

“I am a little.”

Pedri laughed. “Maybe a little.”

Ferran leaned back, head resting against the cushion. The alcohol was still fogging up his brain, but Pedri’s presence made everything feel slower. Quieter. Safe.

“You always smell nice,” Ferran mumbled.

“Okay. You’re drunk.”

“Seriously. Like clean laundry and summer.”

Pedri’s ears turned pink. “Drink your water.”

Ferran did. Barely.

Then he said, “I really like you.”

Pedri paused. “What?”

Ferran nodded. “You’re nice. You’re warm. You make me feel like soup.”

Pedri blinked. “Soup.”

“Like safe soup. Not scalding. Like, emotionally edible.”

Pedri bit back a smile. “That might be the weirdest compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

Ferran leaned forward, fingers brushing Pedri’s knee. “I mean it. You make me shy, and I hate it, but it’s kind of cute. You’re kind of cute.”

“Ferran-”

“You’re really pretty,” Ferran said, voice lower now. “It’s not just your face. It’s how you talk. How you look at people. You make me feel seen. And I hate how jealous I get when Gavi touches you. I want to punch a teenager. That’s bad, right?”

Pedri didn’t answer right away. He was still. Almost too still.

Ferran’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

Silence stretched. Then Pedri said, carefully, “We’re going to talk tomorrow, okay?”

“You’re not mad?”

Pedri reached up, brushing a strand of hair from Ferran’s forehead. “No. Just… don’t say anything else until you’ve slept.”

Ferran smiled dreamily. “That’s fair. But you’re really pretty.”

The next morning, Ferran woke up with a mouth like sandpaper and a pounding in his temples. His phone had 43 unread messages and a blurry selfie of him and Pedri from the night before.

Oh no.

He sat up slowly, flashes of the night returning like puzzle pieces dropping into place.

Pedri. Couch. Water. Soup metaphors. Confessions.

Oh no no no.

There was a knock at the door.

Ferran froze.

Then: “It’s me.”

He opened it. Pedri stood there, hoodie pulled up, holding two coffees.

“I figured you’d need this.”

Ferran blinked. “I... yeah. Thanks.”

Pedri stepped in, sat at the edge of the bed.

“So.”

Ferran groaned. “Please tell me I didn’t say anything completely insane.”

Pedri tilted his head. “You called me emotionally edible.”

“Okay,” Ferran said. “I’ll be walking into the sea now.”

“You also said you liked me.”

Ferran buried his face in his hands.

Pedri reached out, tugging gently at his wrist. “Was it the alcohol talking?”

Ferran hesitated. “No.”

Pedri looked at him, really looked.

“Then say it again. Not drunk this time.”

Ferran exhaled slowly. His heart was a drum in his chest. “I like you. More than I probably should. And I didn’t understand it for a long time. I thought I was just confused. But it’s you. It’s always been you.”

Pedri’s lips parted, but no sound came out. For a second, Ferran felt panic rising, until Pedri leaned in and kissed him.

It was soft. Careful. Like something being unwrapped for the first time.

When they pulled back, Pedri rested his forehead against Ferran’s.

“I like you too,” he said. “For a while now. I just didn’t want to make it weird.”

Ferran laughed, half in disbelief. “We’re professional footballers and I confessed my love while calling you soup. I think we’re already there.”

Pedri smiled. “Then we’ve got nothing to lose.”

- sofía ✎ᝰ.

[wherethefireliliesgrow]

Linear Lines (Part 2 of Clerestory Rendezvous)

Yoo Jimin x Reader

GENRE: fluff, angst

TYPE: Two Shot, Request

You can find the first part, Clerestory Rendezvous here

You, adorned with a white scarf delicately wrapped over your shoulders, swiftly pulled into the parking lot of the familiar cathedral. The soft sunlight cast a subtle warmth before yielding to the November breeze's chill, prompting a shiver as you stepped out of the car. Cursing inwardly at your tardiness, a soft jingle emanated from the blue bracelet on your wrist. You hastily brushed through your wavy hair before ascending the stony stairs that seemed to lead directly to the cause of your heart nearly leaping out of your chest.

Standing before the towering wooden doors, you took a sharp breath before gradually walking in, the echoing of your footsteps resonating abnormally loud within the hushed limestone walls. It had been a while since your last visit, and the thought of Jimin standing under the clerestory windows clouded your mind whenever you returned.

Ethereal glitters from the sunlight scattered through the clerestory windows, painting the marble floors with colorful hues. It was just as beautiful as you remembered, but the reason for your breathlessness was not the cathedral; it was the girl standing in front of the candlelight, a breathtaking smile gracing her lips as she stared at you.

Your heart lurched at the sight of Jimin, momentarily stunned by her presence. Snug in a woolen grey sweater, her hair now back to a raven black, with perfect bangs framing her face, she looked even more enchanting than through your screen. Despite countless FaceTime calls and watching all of her comeback videos, seeing her physically in front of you caused your brain to short-circuit.

"Are you just going to stare at me all day?" Jimin laughed, her nose scrunching adorably at your frozen state.

Your eyes scanned her face, your heart tingling at the sound of her heavenly voice, yet you remained rooted in place.

With another adorable giggle, Jimin took a few steps forward and reached down to tug at your hands. "Y/N-nie." She gently pulled you closer, hoping to break you out of your trance. Her long arms wrapped around your waist as she put her chin on your shoulder, burying her face into your neck.

She deeply inhaled your floral scent, tinged with the familiar faint trace of pastels. Her eyes closed in contentment to finally have you close in her arms after months of longing. The past year had been tough on the idol, with continuous comebacks and endless traveling for performances. AESPA's popularity had soared, and her company insisted on maintaining the momentum. She had barely enough time to sleep, let alone visit you.

The feeling of her hot breath on your neck finally broke you out of your trance. Your arms automatically reached up to pull her closer, eliminating any distance between you two.

 "I missed you," you muttered, your voice slightly muffled by her hair.

Jimin pulled back, grinning at you with soft eyes twinkling. She cupped your face with warm hands, gently caressing your cheeks, leaving a soft tingle in their wake.

 "I missed you more, jagi."

Unable to contain yourself, you looked into her eyes, feeling like you held the galaxies in her universe. Your eyes shifted from her soft honey hues to her full pink lips. Before you could initiate a kiss, she placed her forefinger on your lips, halting you.

 "Let's not blind God with our kisses," Jimin giggled at your pout, pulling you along as she walked out the doors.

Leading her to your car, hands intertwined and swinging between you, she was confused to see you stop in front of a sleek black vehicle. "New car?" She asked.

"Yeah, thought you might've been tired of sitting in my beat-up truck. Last time, you got paint all over your expensive dress," you laughed, turning to look at her.

"I like the truck. It had its own charm," Jimin said, reaching up to play with the hairs at the nape of your neck.

With soft sunlight cascading on her pale skin, making her light freckles barely visible, you couldn't help but bring your faces closer, brushing her nose with the tips of yours. 

"It had charm because you were there," you said, kissing her eyelids. You heard her take a sharp intake of breath, shivering slightly.

Jimin couldn't resist any longer and closed the gap between your lips. She pulled your face down, and your soft lips met hers. Sighing into the kiss, she felt your lips curve up in a smile. You allowed her tongue access without any resistance, shivering as it met yours. Gently pushing her, her back leaned on the car, ensuring there was no space between your bodies.

When air became a problem, you were the first to pull away. Jimin let out a whine in protest, her lips trailing behind yours. You laughed at her adorableness, looking at her once more. Her eyes were still closed, long lashes fluttering, and her lips were swollen, with her lipstick smudged. This messy version of Jimin was your favorite, and your heart warmed at the thought that you were the only one to see  it.

“C’mon, pabo. We have places to be.” You messed up her hair a bit more, laughing at her as she cleared her throat and glared at you, trying to conceal how much the make-out session affected her.

You unlocked the sleek black car, and she slid into the passenger seat with a satisfied grin. As you settled into the driver's seat, Jimin couldn't help but run her fingers along the dashboard, appreciating the unfamiliar but luxurious surroundings.

"Alright, where are we off to?" she asked, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.

A playful smile tugged at your lips as you started the engine. "It's a surprise," you teased, winking at her before pulling out of the cathedral's parking lot. .

.

.

.

As you drove, Jimin filled you in on all the things you missed for the past year. The drive was long, so you had stopped at the bakery she was obsessed with the last time she was there, for a few of her favorite Fougasse. It felt right, with your hands intertwined and resting on her legs, as she fed you bits of her Fougasse (more like all of the olives because she hated the taste). It felt like home, and it seemed like she never left. You wondered if you were soulmates in your past life, as she appeared to understand everything about you.

“Are you plotting to murder me in a deserted place?” Jimin teased, a playful glint in her eyes, as you maneuvered down another empty country road.

Acres of land and grass stretched endlessly, devoid of any other cars in sight.

"Hush," you laughed, bringing her hand to your lips for a kiss as your attention stayed fixed on the road.

Her heart fluttered at the gesture; she wished for nothing more than for you to pull over and resume the previous make-out session in the backseat.

“I’m taking you to meet my grandma.”

Silence hung in the air as Jimin's mind raced with concerns. She felt immense happiness at the thought of meeting your family but couldn't shake the fear of potential disapproval from your grandma.

"You mentioned last time that you wanted to go somewhere in the countryside, so I thought it would be nice if we could stay at my grandma's for a couple of days. But we can go back to my place if you're uncomfortable. I'm sorry I didn't ask you first." Mistaking her silence for anger, you slowly pulled over to the side of the road, turning around to look at her with your full attention. 

Jimin quickly shook her head.

"Don't be sorry. I'm just scared that she won't like me. I can't speak French."

"I already told her about you. The fact that you speak Korean definitely won her approval." You laughed, finding her worries endearing. "She always chastised me for my broken Korean."

Still uncertain, Jimin nodded slightly. Sighing, you cupped her face gently with warm hands, attempting to soothe her. You left a small kiss on her forehead, and she leaned in immediately for more. 

"How can I make you feel better?" 

"A kiss," she said without hesitation.

You grinned before pressing another soft kiss on her nose. "Better?"

Shaking her head, she pointed to her lips, a playful pout on her face.

Amused, you gave her a peck on her cheek. "How about now?"

She glared at you in feigned annoyance. 

“I need a couple more.” Jimin said, grinning at you mischievously before locking her lips with yours. 

Before you knew it, you were putty in Jimin’s arms, with her graceful maneuvering herself onto your lap, hands in your hair, and her teeth gently nibbling on your lower lips.

.

.

.

.

The drive to your grandma’s house took a bit longer than expected, the sun having dipped below the horizon by the time you pulled onto the pebbled road leading to the cottage.

Jimin stepped out of the car in awe, savoring the crisp, clean scent of the air and the picturesque surroundings. Your grandma's quaint two-story cottage, constructed from butter-colored bricks, stood proudly amidst a charming garden. Ivy adorned the exterior walls, lending an air of age and mystery. Jimin felt more at peace than she had ever been, far removed from the city lights and urban chaos. She was here, surrounded by the tranquility of nature, with you.

Gently holding her hand, you led her through the garden.

A thunderous bark echoed from the door, which swung open to reveal a large brown Chow Chow dog bounding towards you.

"Bear!" You laughed with excitement before getting playfully tackled to the grass as the dog showered you with affection.

"He’s been waiting for you for hours. What took you so long?" A raspy voice came from the door.

A frail old lady, with wisps of grey hair in a puff, leaned on the door sill with a cane in her hand. Her face bore the marks of time, yet her eyes gleamed with brightness. She exuded kindness and a keen elegance that you also possessed.

“Ah, that’s why.” Your grandma looked at Jimin, and then at the faint hickies covering the idol’s neck, a smile playing on her lips.

“She’s a showstopper. I don’t blame you.”

The raven-haired beauty blushed in embarrassment, her face turning a shade of red as she stumbled forward to shake your grandma’s hand.

To her surprise, your grandma pulled her into a warm hug. “You make Y/N happy, and this is all that matters to me.”

You observed the scene with adoration as Bear continued to slobber all over your face. The two most important people in your life were now together with you. There was nothing more you could ask for.

It turned out that Jimin's worries were unfounded, as she gained your grandma’s approval right from the start. Another point in her favor was when Jimin successfully brewed a traditional kimchi jjigae she had learned from her mom. Your grandma nodded in approval, giving you a wink and whispering, “You better marry her.” They conversed in Korean, at times too rapid for you to comprehend, but you didn’t mind. Seeing Jimin so happy, her face flushed from the soju, and your grandma patting her arms in adoration, this was all you needed. The night passed quickly, filled with your grandma sharing embarrassing stories of your childhood and showing off your awkward baby pictures to the idol. It was well past midnight before your grandma retreated to her room.

“I love your grandma,” Jimin said, laying on your childhood bed, dressed in an adorable fluffy pink pajama set.

"And she loves you," you grinned at her before turning off the lights and settling in bed with her.

She immediately snuggled up to you, her nose stuck to your neck, inhaling your scent deeply. You shivered as her cool breath blew across your neck, goosebumps popping out at her close proximity. 

You hesitated before saying the thing that had been on your mind for a while. You never really brought up the courage to tell the idol.

“But not as much as I love you.”

You felt Jimin still, not taking a single breath. Panic set in, worried that you scared her off. You weren’t together physically for much time, but you couldn’t help falling deeper in love with the idol.

The silence felt so long, but before you could open your mouth to change the topic, Jimin let out a small sigh of relief.

“I love you, too,” she said, giddy and her heart feeling like it was about to burst. “I wanted to say this for so long.”

You pressed your lips to hers, finding solace with her in your arms. The room was hushed as soft whispers of affection and the gentle rustle of clothes falling to the floor filled the space.

Neither of you got much sleep that night.

. 

. 

.

.

The two of you fell into an easy routine, as if you had been living together for half of your lives. You would wake up early, leave lingering kisses on her bare back as she snuggled deeper into your pillow, and start your day with your grandma’s hearty breakfast. Retreating to the study room or the backyard when the weather was nice, you'd begin your work.

After graduation, you had immediately joined one of the biggest event companies in Europe as their event illustrator, working on significant projects, particularly for the entertainment industry. As the Paris Fashion Show approached, your manager requested you to work remotely. The upside was that Jimin was scheduled to attend the show this year, allowing you to see her in all her glory, posing in front of your designs.

As you worked during the morning, Jimin would stir awake to the gentle knocks of your grandma on the bedroom door. Her frail voice followed, calling out “gang-aji” affectionately.  Jimin would then indulge in a delightful breakfast and accompany your grandma for a stroll, often driving her to the early market for groceries and errands. 

The afternoons were yours to share. You would then take Jimin on hikes with Bear, or take her to the lake nearby for a picnic and charm her with all of your random survival hacks you learned from Girl Scouts. The days passed filled with love, laughter, and soft kisses. The initially planned two-day stay was extended to another two weeks, and soon, you were to return to the real world.

You noticed Jimin becoming less affectionate as the day of your departure neared. Despite trying not to think too much about it, you couldn’t help but overthink that this might be your last trip together.

“I don’t want to leave,” Jimin sighed, seeking solace by lying on your lap, her hand idly caressing Bear's large head.

“Hmm?” You answered, concentrating on sketching the idol in your lap, biting your pencil as you stared at your art in your sketchbook.

Jimin waited patiently for you to complete that final stroke, a gentle smile gracing her lips. The days with you had only deepened her affection, and she wondered if she could return to the months of separation. She had started to intentionally distance herself, preparing herself for the impending drawbacks of leaving France, and of leaving you. Tomorrow, you were scheduled to head to Paris for final checks on the fashion show site, while she had meetings lined up with her agency and manager to prepare for the fashion show.

Setting aside your sketchbook, you gazed down at her, brushing soft strands of hair from her face. Jimin looked healthier, dark circles erased, and a few healthy pounds gained, giving radiance to her face.

“Do we have to go tomorrow?” Jimin pouted, her face contorted into a grimace. 

“Unfortunately, yes. But we can always come back whenever you want, baby.”

The idol’s eyes lit up at your comment, but immediately dampened as she thought about the upcoming schedule. Another comeback was scheduled, which meant less time to see you.

"When are you leaving France?" you finally asked, carefully inspecting your girlfriend's expression.

This had become a touchy subject, always leading to small fights whenever you brought up her schedule, so you started to avoid talking about it.

Jimin avoided your eyes and continued to stare at the sky, “Right after the event.”

You nodded in understanding, trying to push back the lump in your throat at the thought of saying goodbye.

“Do you know when your next break is? I could go visit you.”

Jimin simply sat up and harshly said, “No idea,” her eyes burning with frustration.

The conversation immediately changed moods. Jimin didn’t mean to lash out, but this has been bothering her for quite a while. She hated the idea of having to go on days without seeing your face again, she loathed the fact that she could possibly never step out of the spotlights, and most of all, she abhorred herself for thinking that you are just a dream too good to be true and something she would never be able to fully be with you.

Slightly taken aback at her reaction, you nodded, trying not to show your hurt.

“It’s okay, we can figure it out.”

You were met with silence.

.

.

.

.

After a tearful goodbye with your grandmother, Jimin and you got into the car in the early hours of dawn. The drive to Paris was a quiet one, with only the soft hum of the car engine accompanying the two of you as you navigated the familiar roads. The atmosphere inside the car was heavy with unspoken emotions, the looming thought of reality dampening Jimin’s emotions. It seemed that the closer you got to the event, the more closed off your girlfriend became.

Jimin stared out of the window, lost in her thoughts. The country roads slowly changed to the highway, and the trees and sunshine were replaced by the bustling city skyscrapers. She couldn't shake the feeling that her dreams and yours were diverging as you navigated towards reality. It seemed like the past weeks with you were just a dream after all, something Jimin could never have. She wondered if she would ever be able to see your grandma again.

As you parked the car in front of your hotel—shabby but clean, all you could afford—the silence lingered. You exchanged glances, both hesitant to address the unspoken tension that hung in the air. Jimin's eyes, once filled with love, now held a mixture of longing and apprehension.

Once inside the room, you turned to Jimin, searching for words that could hopefully bridge the growing gap between you. She met your gaze, her eyes a stormy black, exposing the internal struggle she was facing.

"I'm sorry," Jimin whispered, her voice barely audible.

You approached her, gently cupping her face in your hands. "There's nothing to be sorry for, Jimin. We'll figure this out, together."

“I just…I just don’t think I can handle being away from you for that long again.” The idol muttered, eyes slightly tearing up.

“Don’t think about it.” You leaned over to kiss her tears away. “We’ll be together in no time.”

“Will we?” Jimin’s voice raised an octave higher in frustration, “I have another two comebacks scheduled, and you’re here working. Is the next time I get to see you another year later?”

You stepped back, rubbing your forehead, trying to calm down your temper. You knew Jimin was not lashing out at you; she was just insecure about how things were.

“What do you want me to do, Jimin?” You asked, knowing full well what her answer was going to be.

She hesitated, wringing her hands in nervousness and desperation. She knew that the moment she voiced her thoughts, things will never be the same. 

“You could leave with me. Go back to Korea with me.”

You raised your voice, furious at how selfish her request was. “I can’t just leave my job. I can’t just follow you around like a lost puppy.”

“Well, I can’t just quit being an idol.” Jimin's voice cracked, her body swaying as she tried to comfort herself.

She looked so small, so defeated, consumed by her thoughts and the overwhelming sadness.

As her tears fell, a sharp ache rippled through your chest. Seeing her cry like this, witnessing her pain over you, tore at your heart. You couldn't bear it. You pulled her back into your arms, but this time, the embrace felt heavy with the weight of uncertainty. 

“Shh…I’m sorry, baby.” You stroked her hair, trying to stifle her sobs.

“It will take us some time to figure things out, but I promise I will find the time to visit you as much as possible, don’t worry.”

“You’re still here, and somehow I already miss you.” Jimin cries into your chest, shaking uncontrollably.

“The past weeks with you made me want nothing more than to be with you every second of the day, but I keep feeling that our lives are so different, like we’re just two parallel linear lines.”

Your heart crumpled at her confession; you could feel it break into a million pieces at the thought of her doubting that your lives are never meant to be intertwined. Perhaps she was right; perhaps you and her were too different, but you were adamant about making this work.

You loved her too much to give up.

“We’ll make it work.” You whispered, but even the promise sounded hollow to you.

As you dropped Jimin off at the luxurious hotel booked by her company, her words of linear lines, of being parallel, kept echoing in your ears. Jimin was a child of stardom; lights followed wherever she went, and you felt that she deserved nothing but the best. and the stark contrast between her grandeur and your shabby hotel, along with your grandma’s run-down cottage, struck you with a painful realization. The nagging thought at the back of your mind of never being enough now loomed large, wavering your confidence.

It was ridiculous how you actually believed you and Jimin were meant to be together. Your life has been parallel since the start.

“I’ll see you soon.” You said, as Jimin slowly unbuckled her seatbelt.

She nodded, trying her best not to cry. This felt more like a goodbye than a see you later, but she wasn’t ready for either.

Jimin leaned over and pressed her lips on yours, trying to convey her love to you. She hoped you understood. She hoped that this wasn't the last.

“I love you.” You muttered against her lips, tasting the salt of her tears.

“I miss you.”

As Jimin walked away, disappearing into her towering hotel, you were left sitting alone in your car. The echoes of shared laughter and whispered confessions lingered, an unforgettable imprint of a love that tried to fight against boundaries.

You didn't fail to notice how her bracelet was situated neatly on the dashboard in front of the passenger seat.

.

.

.

.

“Karina! Karina!”

“Look here, Karina!”

“Turn for us!”

Shouts could be heard from the crowd of flashing lights as Karina walked down the red carpet. She moved towards her band members with grace and confidence, poised with precision, dazzling everyone with her beauty.

A faint smile could be seen on her face as she looped her arms with Winter and posed for picture after picture. But you knew her well enough to notice her hand shake slightly in nervousness and the way her eyes tightened when her ex-lover wrapped her arms around her waist for another picture for the scandalous tabloids.

Your heart throbbed in pain, wanting nothing more than to cross the sea of people, breach the barriers, and pull your Jimin into a comforting embrace. But she was no longer your Jimin; she was Karina.

Just as you predicted, she seamlessly blended with the tone and manner of the event decorations, as you had based everything on the thought of her. Karina appeared angelic in her white gown, fitting perfectly with the theme. The soft, colorful glitters of the chandeliers, meticulously designed to replicate the clerestory windows where you first met, cascaded onto her silhouette. She looked unbelievably celestial, almost too perfect to be real. A year ago, you thought she belonged in the Musée du Louvre, and tonight she confirmed that.

As she gracefully moved towards the event, you stood quietly by the walls, dressed in black attire, attempting to blend in as an event worker, avoiding notice from the crowd. Hundreds of people separated you from her, all eager to catch a glimpse of the captivating ethereal being you had come to know so intimately, yet remained a mystery.

And then it struck you.

Karina was the art, and you were just another person in the crowd, admiring her from a distance. 

You were hers, but she could never be just yours. 

You were linear lines, just never meant to intersect.

Well...this ended differently than what I had planned 😬

For all you fluff lovers, I'm sorry 🥲 I couldn't stop myself

[hrrtshape]

does emmatopia have a pope? and if so, who👂📝

of course emmatopia has a pope. what are you talking about.

the pope in emmatopia is a 7-foot tall animatronic puppet made out of salvaged circuit boards, david lynch interviews, and ethel cain's music. he lives in a cathedral that doubles as a public library-slash-soup kitchen. his name is "pope palindromus ii" because he only speaks in palindromes and sylvia plath quotes. like "madam, in eden i'm adam" followed by "i took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart."

he has three robes: one velvet, one chainmail, one missing. no one's allowed to ask where the third went. he is not infallible, but he is very disappointed in you

his job isn't to enforce doctrine. he's there to bless literary breakthroughs and function checks. when someone finishes brothers karamazov without skipping ivan's chapters, he canonises them. if your......selves are off, he appears in your mirror at 3am and gently suggests you read some poetry. or eat a grape.

he wears velvet crocs. his papal sceptre is a vape. he has no hands. only bookmarks. the faithful leave offerings of annotated zines. during lent, he fasts from metaphors. during pride, he dj's a party in a repurposed abbey.

he is not elected. he simply... emerges. this is the only religion allowed. everything else is just trivia. and no that isnt authoritarian

[bobendsneyder64]

TT Circuit Assen: The making of... The TT Assen MotoGP Trophy 2024!

[staranon95]

Chapter 1: An Epiphany from Juniper Ranch

Travel the El Camino today! Connect with nature. Find yourself spiritually. Enjoy all the sights Spain, France, or Portugal have to offer! The top of the brochure depicts a picture of a church—or rather, a grand cathedral like he’d expect to see in Sante Fe or down south across the border. Embossed like a logo on the brochure is a white scallop shell with a red crucifix atop it. -- In which Cobb searches for meaning after an accident retired him from the rodeo circuit.

[wordsmith30]

Now that I look back at it, what if Ava didn’t fall into the lake because of Beatrice or because she lost focus, but because that was the first time the Halo gave out on her?

I know the timing of “Concentrate” was pretty funny (you tell someone not to look down, they look down), but Ava was making great headway up to that point, and this clearly wasn’t a new training exercise. She was running a clear path, keeping a good pace, and the finish line was in sight (hi, Bea!). The Halo glowed steadily through her sweater, alive and working.

And while we don’t see the Halo go out because of the camera angle, we can hear the noise it makes. It’s like a machine short-circuiting.

Ava feels it fail and that’s when she panics. That’s when she stumbles and plunges into the water.

Ava does tell Beatrice that she’s tired afterwards, but this “glitching-out” noise is consistent with all the other times the Halo fails: the Prado Museum, the church fight, training in the courtyard, the hotel where she falls from the sky, the roof of Adriel’s cathedral. And it always catches her by surprise while she’s performing tasks that she’s become very confident in (flying, phasing, etc.).

When the Halo is activated, it begins with that gentle, high-pitched ringing noise. The Halo pulses have that added “Whee!” with the burst of light.

But while it’s on and working for extended periods of time, the ringing is quite muted. It’s only when Ava draws on more of its power that it flares up again.

This is only episode one, but Adriel has already amassed a following in those two months since his release. His churches and crosses have gone up, as we see in episode two with the FBC and Kristian’s usurpation of Arq-Tech in 2×04. The stronger Adriel gets, the faultier the Halo becomes.

But I also wonder if Ava’s determination to succeed/fear of letting everyone down ever caused her to overexert the Halo on top of that.

[lesmisletters-daily]

Cravatte

Les Mis Letters reading club explores one chapter of Les Misérables every day. Join us on Discord, Substack - or share your thoughts right here on tumblr - today's tag is #lm 1.1.7

It is here that a fact falls naturally into place, which we must not omit, because it is one of the sort which show us best what sort of a man the Bishop of D—— was.

After the destruction of the band of Gaspard Bès, who had infested the gorges of Ollioules, one of his lieutenants, Cravatte, took refuge in the mountains. He concealed himself for some time with his bandits, the remnant of Gaspard Bès’s troop, in the county of Nice; then he made his way to Piédmont, and suddenly reappeared in France, in the vicinity of Barcelonette. He was first seen at Jauziers, then at Tuiles. He hid himself in the caverns of the Joug-de-l’Aigle, and thence he descended towards the hamlets and villages through the ravines of Ubaye and Ubayette.

He even pushed as far as Embrun, entered the cathedral one night, and despoiled the sacristy. His highway robberies laid waste the country-side. The gendarmes were set on his track, but in vain. He always escaped; sometimes he resisted by main force. He was a bold wretch. In the midst of all this terror the Bishop arrived. He was making his circuit to Chastelar. The mayor came to meet him, and urged him to retrace his steps. Cravatte was in possession of the mountains as far as Arche, and beyond; there was danger even with an escort; it merely exposed three or four unfortunate gendarmes to no purpose.

“Therefore,” said the Bishop, “I intend to go without escort.”

“You do not really mean that, Monseigneur!” exclaimed the mayor.

“I do mean it so thoroughly that I absolutely refuse any gendarmes, and shall set out in an hour.”

“Set out?”

“Set out.”

“Alone?”

“Alone.”

“Monseigneur, you will not do that!”

“There exists yonder in the mountains,” said the Bishop, “a tiny community no bigger than that, which I have not seen for three years. They are my good friends, those gentle and honest shepherds. They own one goat out of every thirty that they tend. They make very pretty woollen cords of various colors, and they play the mountain airs on little flutes with six holes. They need to be told of the good God now and then. What would they say to a bishop who was afraid? What would they say if I did not go?”

“But the brigands, Monseigneur?”

“Hold,” said the Bishop, “I must think of that. You are right. I may meet them. They, too, need to be told of the good God.”

“But, Monseigneur, there is a band of them! A flock of wolves!”

“Monsieur le maire, it may be that it is of this very flock of wolves that Jesus has constituted me the shepherd. Who knows the ways of Providence?”

“They will rob you, Monseigneur.”

“I have nothing.”

“They will kill you.”

“An old goodman of a priest, who passes along mumbling his prayers? Bah! To what purpose?”

“Oh, mon Dieu! what if you should meet them!”

“I should beg alms of them for my poor.”

“Do not go, Monseigneur. In the name of Heaven! You are risking your life!”

“Monsieur le maire,” said the Bishop, “is that really all? I am not in the world to guard my own life, but to guard souls.”

They had to allow him to do as he pleased. He set out, accompanied only by a child who offered to serve as a guide. His obstinacy was bruited about the country-side, and caused great consternation.

He would take neither his sister nor Madame Magloire. He traversed the mountain on mule-back, encountered no one, and arrived safe and sound at the residence of his “good friends,” the shepherds. He remained there for a fortnight, preaching, administering the sacrament, teaching, exhorting. When the time of his departure approached, he resolved to chant a <i>Te Deum</i> pontifically. He mentioned it to the curé. But what was to be done? There were no episcopal ornaments. They could only place at his disposal a wretched village sacristy, with a few ancient chasubles of threadbare damask adorned with imitation lace.

“Bah!” said the Bishop. “Let us announce our <i>Te Deum</i> from the pulpit, nevertheless, Monsieur le Curé. Things will arrange themselves.”

They instituted a search in the churches of the neighborhood. All the magnificence of these humble parishes combined would not have sufficed to clothe the chorister of a cathedral properly.

While they were thus embarrassed, a large chest was brought and deposited in the presbytery for the Bishop, by two unknown horsemen, who departed on the instant. The chest was opened; it contained a cope of cloth of gold, a mitre ornamented with diamonds, an archbishop’s cross, a magnificent crosier,—all the pontifical vestments which had been stolen a month previously from the treasury of Notre Dame d’Embrun. In the chest was a paper, on which these words were written, <i>“From Cravatte to Monseigneur Bienvenu.”</i>

“Did not I say that things would come right of themselves?” said the Bishop. Then he added, with a smile, “To him who contents himself with the surplice of a curate, God sends the cope of an archbishop.”

“Monseigneur,” murmured the curé, throwing back his head with a smile. “God—or the Devil.”

The Bishop looked steadily at the curé, and repeated with authority, “God!”

When he returned to Chastelar, the people came out to stare at him as at a curiosity, all along the road. At the priest’s house in Chastelar he rejoined Mademoiselle Baptistine and Madame Magloire, who were waiting for him, and he said to his sister: “Well! was I in the right? The poor priest went to his poor mountaineers with empty hands, and he returns from them with his hands full. I set out bearing only my faith in God; I have brought back the treasure of a cathedral.”

That evening, before he went to bed, he said again: “Let us never fear robbers nor murderers. Those are dangers from without, petty dangers. Let us fear ourselves. Prejudices are the real robbers; vices are the real murderers. The great dangers lie within ourselves. What matters it what threatens our head or our purse! Let us think only of that which threatens our soul.”

Then, turning to his sister: “Sister, never a precaution on the part of the priest, against his fellow-man. That which his fellow does, God permits. Let us confine ourselves to prayer, when we think that a danger is approaching us. Let us pray, not for ourselves, but that our brother may not fall into sin on our account.”

However, such incidents were rare in his life. We relate those of which we know; but generally he passed his life in doing the same things at the same moment. One month of his year resembled one hour of his day.

As to what became of “the treasure” of the cathedral of Embrun, we should be embarrassed by any inquiry in that direction. It consisted of very handsome things, very tempting things, and things which were very well adapted to be stolen for the benefit of the unfortunate. Stolen they had already been elsewhere. Half of the adventure was completed; it only remained to impart a new direction to the theft, and to cause it to take a short trip in the direction of the poor. However, we make no assertions on this point. Only, a rather obscure note was found among the Bishop’s papers, which may bear some relation to this matter, and which is couched in these terms, <i>“The question is, to decide whether this should be turned over to the cathedral or to the hospital.”</i>

[charlesandmartine]

Friday 16th May 2025

We were only passing through Toledo, Laurie stayed just over a week. One of his first locations was Plaza de Zocodover busking. We soon found the place, which is central to the old walled city, and just around the corner from the ubiquitous cathedral. I think it would be an obvious place to start earning a few shillings. When Laurie arrived, he was overcome with heat exhaustion, and he was dragged into the shade by the water trough, covered over, and left to revive on his own.

We absolutely loved Toledo. A smallish walled city with a labyrinth of small narrow streets, with ancient buildings rising either side, and above some, sails affixed across the tops, giving shade to walkers beneath. We had little time here, so a coffee and ham roll was first on the agenda, close to where Laurie would have been earning a crust in Zocodover Plaza. Then it was on to the Cathedral where we paid our €8 entry fee. I am amazed how much cash we have paid so far to the Catholic Church simply on entry fees! I expect the new Pope will get a pleasant surprise when he checks the books! As Cathedrals go, it was quite magnificent. In the crypt, there was a glass sided coffin with the bones of Saint Ursula who incidentally looked like she had better teeth than me. That aside, she had arrived in this place by a somewhat circuitous route, but here she is. The story goes, and this is interesting, she met up with our mate from the Opera, Attila the Hun in the year 441, and he asked her to marry him, as it would appear he asked all women. She refused, as you would, and he had her and her entourage executed! Not very nice, you say, but here she, at last, rests in peace. I'm beginning to think Attila was not very nice and well deserved the fate he received from Odabella. (See 14/05/2925) Toledo has to be up there as a place to visit.

We had a schedule to keep up with, so reclaiming our car from the free carpark, adjacent to the huge puddle, we made tracks for our next accommodation in Valdepenas, the next stop in Laurie Lee's travels in 1935.

Valdepenas is a surprising little gem of an ordinary Spanish small town. From a tourist point of view, it looks doubtful there is much to see, but there could be no more of a contrast with Madrid than this. Gone are the Americans, the Chinese, the Japanese and in their place are local people, who all come out to the bars and restaurants in the Plaza; their children playing, and the adolescents eyeing each other up and down, it being important to be seen.

We really only have tomorrow to explore this place, but I think it will be enough. Our apartment is on the second floor in the Plaza and so nice to be close to the centre of this vibrant little place.

[hymnoire]

"and you.. who are you?" ( for my boy @homelander-rp-blog for any of your muses! for apocalypse au! )

Six months ago, during the war, Gaya fell and broke. Shot in the stomach, ejected through a window that cracked open, twenty floors high. Her spine shattered, her left arm snapped like glass, and her iliac wings were pulverized. She bled out on the pavement, dead. Technology had advanced in this new chapter of the world, enough to piece her body back together, enough to merge flesh with steel and thread her nerves through circuits. Her left arm and her spine were fully replaced, bionic. Neural pathways were rerouted through a matrix of living code. Her body healed, but she was no longer just human. Half a woman, half a machine. That same technology is what tore the world apart. It began in secrecy, in government labs chasing transcendence, trying to rewrite the limits of the human condition. But the secret didn’t stay buried. Titan, a terrorist syndicate with no face and endless reach, stole the research before the government could even lie about it. By the time Titan was found, it was too late. They were out for blood, and they got it. Gaya always believed humans shouldn’t play God and she was right. Sadly, she still failed to stop what came next. The war that followed wasn’t just civil, it was apocalyptic. Titan’s stolen tech created HumanAIs, hybrids built for war, programmed to kill who inevitably start killing regular humans. What started as a silent war became a global one, spiraling out of control. Now, what's left of humanity hides. Scattered. Starving. The cities belong to the HumanAIs who operate for Titan, soulless, and ruthless. The rest of the world is a crumbling wasteland of rusted skeletons and toxic air. Humans live in exile, in otarcy, a kind of existence where survival is a full-time job and trust is extinct. Many wander the red deserts, where wind doesn’t blow and the sky forgets to rain. Gaya hasn’t awakened yet from her recovery and surgery, she still lies in a bed made of glass, intubated, in a room that’s kept hidden. A room watched over by Kaeleena.

Kaeleena stands like a ghost wrapped in ivory, a vision so pristine it feels offensive. Her dress is immaculate, the color of untouched snow, stitched from something too soft to be real, yet too perfect to be fabric. It clings and drapes with eerie fluidity, a high-collared robe that splits open like a ceremonial blade down the front, revealing thin bands of gold coiled along her ribs. Ornamental and useless, like jewelry meant for gods. Her feet are bare. Clean. Silent. She moves like she’s never touched the ground. The room she inhabits is an aberration in this post-collapse world. A sanctum of impossible luxury carved into the bones of Titan's supremacy. Glass walls rise around her like cathedral windows, refracting artificial light into dancing gold across the marbled floor. A single desk dominates the room, sleek and angular. Behind her, a massive screen displays with schematics, pulse maps, surveillance grids, and living files. One of them is labeled simply: Gayane. Cables slither from the ceiling like lazy serpents, some plugged into her desk, others drifting, whispering data and venom. The air smells of antiseptic and something older, like ozone or blood. Kaeleena leans against the edge of the desk, absurdly at ease in this sanctuary of horrors. Her eyes are pale, too pale to be fully human anymore. She was once, like all of them. When she smiles, it is with the slow satisfaction of someone who has already won. Her presence is cold. Where Gaya burned, Kaeleena freezes. She doesn’t need horns or claws. Her power is in her poise, her intelligence, and the certainty that she knows everything. Every path, every death, every betrayal. She watches John with the look of someone who already knows how the story ends. He is being escorted, not dragged or restrained, merely shadowed by the men who guard Titan’s inner sanctum. She has been expecting him. When he enters, she smiles, the curve of her lips dangerous. He asks who she is. Even if she would love to kill him, she doesn’t. Not yet. For the love of the game. “I do wonder,” she says, voice smooth as oil over glass, “if Gayane ever spoke of me, darling. I sincerely hope she did. If not... I shall be very disappointed. And I do not wear disappointment well.” They look exactly alike, Gaya and Kaeleena. Same eyes, same bone structure. But where Gaya kept the storm in her dark hair, Kaeleena bleached hers into light, so pale, almost white. Their auras, however, could not be more different. Gaya was the flame. Kaeleena, the frost.

“Who am I?” she repeats, stepping closer. Her voice is steel. “I am the villain in your precious narrative, John. Welcome to Titan. Our empire is sacred, and I…” She smiles again, this time with teeth, deranged and proud. “I am its High Priestess.” She knows exactly how far he’s come. Crossed the red deserts. Walked through cities infested with soulless machines. All for her. “Don’t tell me,” she purrs, circling him now, like the serpent in Eden, “you came all this way simply to meet your sister-in-law.” Her tone turns mocking, cruel in its sweetness. “What is it, then? Have you come to steal my beloved Gayane away from me… instead?” She leans in, eyes wide with exaggerated sorrow, a hand drifting to rest against her heart, as though to calm some violent flutter within. “I have peered into her mind, you know. I have seen the two of you, watched those fivelong years unfold like pages in a sickeningly intimate little novel. The investigations, the dates, the whispered conspiracies, the moments where death breathed down your necks and you clung to each other like lifelines. And then, of course, the sweet, sweet love-making. I love yous in Missionary aren't as cute as you think they are.” Her lips curl with disdain, like the very memory leaves a taste of ash on her tongue. Psychotic and jealous? “She loves you. More than she ever loved me. Can you fathom that?” A low, brittle laugh slips from her throat, somewhere between a sob and a knife dragged across silk. She's deranged. “It shattered me,” she says softly, with a tragic little tilt of her head. “I’m terribly sensitive.” Then, just as quickly, her gaze turns. The softness evaporates, replaced by something cold and merciless, something that cuts. “So tell me, John,” she murmurs, voice tightening. “Do you want her back… or not?” She steps back, just slightly, her hands clasping behind her back, posture impeccable, like a queen awaiting terms of surrender. “Because I am not above bargaining and I always enjoy a good negotiation. That's how we can get to know each other.”