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Reps and Races

Jannik Sinner x F1 Academy Driver!Reader Gym crushes are the best crushes, especially when it's Jannik Sinner. Reader is his, too... on the low—he keeps up with her more than she might see... And it's somehow Oscar Piastri's loss In honor of the beginning of the 2025 Formula Season!!! Tried to make this non-F1 fan friendly as well, btw, so sorry if I over explained simple stuff or skimmed over niche things!

Your new, private gym in Monaco was exclusive, it came with this particular kind of hush, a haven for elite athletes and socialites who preferred to train away from prying eyes. No blaring music, no overcrowded machines—just the quiet hum of effort, the rhythmic clatter of weights meeting the floor, the occasional murmur of conversation between clients. A state of the art facility, it was designed to accommodate those who trained at the highest level—Formula 1 drivers, footballers, tennis players, the likes, even the occasional celebrity looking for discretion. It was where you had been coming every morning for weeks now, getting ready for your first F1 Academy race after transitioning away from rallying. Your routine at the tail-end of your off-season was precise, structured, and entirely focused—an essential discipline that came from years of preparing for the rough, unpredictable nature of rally stages.

You had been training here for weeks now, preparing for your first F1 Academy race after years spent wrangling cars through unpredictable terrain. The transition demanded flexibility, precision, an entirely different kind of endurance. Your mornings were spent sharpening your reflexes, reinforcing your core, strengthening the muscles that would keep you steady through high-speed corners. It was just you and your trainer, day in day out, pushing a familiar routine, the constant burn in your muscles.

And then, one morning, he was there.

Jannik Sinner walked in with his trainer, Marco, his presence quiet but unmistakable. He was taller than you expected, lean and coiled with the kind of strength you couldn’t quite see, but could feel in that stalky way he would walk. You knew who he was immediately—of course you did—but you reminded yourself that you were too professional to stare. He wasn’t the only high-profile athlete to train here, and you weren’t about to gawk like some wide-eyed spectator.

He didn’t seem to notice you, not at first. He moved through his drills with the same focus you had seen on the court, that quiet intensity. In between his sets though, somewhere between reps and exhaustion, you’d catch a boyish smile or a carefree laugh he’d exchange with his trainer.

For a while, you existed in parallel, your sessions overlapping but never intersecting. You caught glimpses—him adjusting his grip on a resistance band, the sharp exhale as he pushed through a set, the way he raked his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair between reps. And every so often, you felt his gaze flicker over to you, just for a second, just long enough to make your skin prickle with awareness.

The first time you really felt his eyes on you came when you were braced to carry out your neck exercises—not your most flattering state. You had looped the resistance band around your head, pressing against the strain of the taut elastic held by your trainer, the familiar burn settling into your muscles. It was a critical part of your training, one that separated racing drivers from other athletes. The forces your body endured inside a car were unique, relentless. Without this work, your neck would collapse under the sheer weight of the G-forces pressing you into the seat.

Sinner, taking a quick water break, wiped sweat from his brow as he watched you from afar. He gently waved for the attention of his trainer, tipping his chin toward you. 

"È una pilota?” he murmured to Marco, keeping his voice low. A driver? 

Marco followed his gaze, nodding slightly. "Eh, direi di sì. Con quegli esercizi al collo." Must be. With those neck exercises.

Sinner hummed in thought, his attention lingering just a fraction longer before he returned to his set. The moment passed quickly, but the curiosity was left to settle.

---

The next time you saw him at the gym, it had to have been the fifth day in a row and, yet, it was the first time you actually spoke.

You were mid-set, muscles burning through the last reps of an exercise when Marco and your own trainer strayed near one another. Marco caught his eye, gave a slight nod of acknowledgment before striking up casual conversation, trainer to trainer—glady exchanging trade secrets, built on years of shared spaces and common understanding. They talked recovery plans, upcoming schedules, the way their athletes were adjusting to routine.

They conversed around you and above you as you finished up the exercise. You were still tied to your set, bound to the mat, committed to finishing the last controlled movements when Sinner, finishing his own set first, made his way over. You faltered a little as he came close. He wiped his face with his towel, slung it around his neck, and drifted closer, slipping into the conversation of your trainers with a natural ease.

“You’re training for a professional sport, yeah?” Marco asked, nodding his head toward you as he spoke to your trainer.

Your trainer nodded, casting a quick glance in your direction. “Yeah. She’s a racing driver.”

“That’s cool,” Sinner said, his voice more open now, engaged. “We had a feeling—saw you making the neck exercises.”

You exhaled through the last rep before finally sitting up to join the conversation, flexing your fingers slightly before glancing toward him. His gaze was neutral, not probing, and even a little… interested. 

“You know your stuff then,” you said, gesturing to your neck. “It’s a necessary evil... Are you a Formula fan?”

“Of course.” Marco cut in. “We are Italian.”

Jannik huffed a quiet laugh. “It’s true, I grew up watching Ferrari.” Then, a pause. “What series do you drive for?”

“F1 Academy,” you said, wiping the sweat from your palms. “Just made the switch from rallying, actually.”

That piqued his interest. “Rally?” His brows lifted slightly. “That’s a bit different, no?”

You shrugged, adjusting the wrap on your wrist. “Yeah, but racing is racing. Seemed like the right time to make a change.”

Your trainer nudged Sinner slightly. “She’s being modest,” they noted to him. “She’s had a great run in rally—Formula è dove girano i soldi.” Formula is where the money is.

Sinner’s gaze flickered back to you, you caught amusement and intrigue twinkling in his eyes. “I get that,” he said. “Still, that’s exciting for sure.”

You gave a small smile. “Yeah, I’m looking forward to it. Just have to train extra hard.” Then, getting up to stand, you extended a hand. “I’m [Your Name], by the way.”

His grip was firm, steady. “Jannik,” he said, though there was clearly no need to introduce himself.

You smirked slightly, dropping his hand. “No, I know.” Then, with a small nod, you admitted, “I don’t follow tennis so much, but I’d have to be living under a rock not to know who you are.”

Jannik smiled at that, easy and genuine. 

The conversation carried on from there, shifting naturally between topics—training schedules, travel routines, the way Monaco had an uncanny way of crossing the paths of athletes from every odd discipline and feild. Marco and your trainer chimed in now and then, but they stuck to their own bubble; leaving you and Jannik to exchange necessary small talk, breaking the ice with the customary explanation of your careers and your lifestyles. 

Then, a gym staff member approached and broke the conversation that had narrowed to just the two of you, all smiles and hopeful energy. “Hi, sorry to interrupt—would you two mind taking a quick photo for the gym’s socials? Just a quick one.”

You hesitated and glanced at Jannik, letting him call the shots. He met your gaze, before shrugging. “Sure, why not?”

The camera clicked. A blink-and-you-miss-it moment, one that would live online long after you both moved on. You nodded to him and returned to your workout after that, taking the photo as a catalyst to break you away from your extended introductions. He did the same.

But when he left a little while later, bag slung over his shoulder, he hesitated just before the door. Just enough to glance back. You think he even waited for a second so that he could catch his eyes, lifting a hand in a casual wave.

---

It didn’t take long for the photo to spread. 

Apparently, that casual snapshot posted on the gym’s official Instagram was just the beginning. It was nothing overly produced or posed, you and Jannik standing side by side, post-workout, both a little flushed from exertion, him with a towel still draped around his neck and leaning down a bit in your direction, you with your arms relaxed at your sides. There was even a significant gap between you two—nothing awkward, just an appropriate distance for two, newly acquainted people. It wasn’t anything groundbreaking, just a blip in athletes' routine.

But the internet saw anything but.

They took it and ran. 

First, it was just tennis and motorsport fans recognizing two known athletes in the same frame. Then, it came the speculation—what were you talking about? Did you know each other? Were you training together? Supporting him through his ban? Him through your off-season?

And then, somewhere along the way, the internet collectively decided something else: that you and Jannik Sinner—in this totally unassuming, nonchalant gym photo—looked incredibly good together.

It didn’t help that the lighting was oddly flattering, that your post-exercise glow read more like a happy flush than the result of hours of physical strain. Or that Jannik, with his usual mix of sharp angles and an effortlessly tousled look, had that kind of reserved presence that made the smallest of expressions—like the barely-there smirk he was wearing in the photo—feel more deliberate than they actually were.

The quote tweets were relentless:

okay but why is this kinda a sports power couple?? i don’t even care about tennis or f1 but i CARE about this Formula for the fastest kid alive: they have compatible energies. athletes in their prime, locked in, looking like they’d make an unfairly attractive athletic dynasty.

It was amusing at first. You weren’t oblivious to the way social media latched onto things, how narratives formed out of nothing but a well-timed post. You’d seen it happen with other athletes, random friendships turned into sagas, the media deciding truths before the actual people involved even had a chance to weigh in. Still, you weren’t expecting this level of fixation.

The first time you scrolled through the posts, you snorted, shaking your head as you locked your phone and tossed it onto your bed. Ridiculous. It wasn’t like the two of you had even had a proper conversation beyond the introductions and a bit of light small talk. A photo wasn’t anything more than a photo.

And yet…

You opened Instagram again later, only to find that you had now been tagged in dozens of edits. A few of them were standard—gym recaps, Mclaren social media content, highlight reels. Others, though, leaned full tilt into the narrative people were spinning.

Side-by-side comparisons of your best race shots and his championship moments. Clips of your training overlaid with his on-court movement, the parallels drawn with surgical precision. Some even went as far as to slow zoom on the way he had turned toward you in the photo, like there was some hidden meaning in it, some undeniable chemistry.

Even mainstream sports pages had picked up on it. One account with millions of followers captioned it:

“Two generational athletes, one frame. Tennis x Motorsport crossover we didn’t know we needed.”

Another read:

“Rally on Rally Crime”

You stared at your screen, exhaling slowly, fingers hovering over your phone. There was something surreal about seeing yourself plastered across social media like this, turned into a narrative you had no hand in shaping. It wasn’t overwhelming, not yet, but it was definitely… something. You were new to the attention, the fresh face of Mclaren’s F1 Academy seat—rally races had never amassed as much coverage as it deserved.

You flicked back to the original post, on the gym’s official account, scrolling through the comments again, rolling your eyes at some, laughing at others. It would pass, you told yourself. The internet was fickle. It would move on. But a part of you relished the commotion… that it was a connection to him.

So when you noticed something new, as you refreshed the post, you sat up a little straighter.

“Jannik liked!!”

Jannik had liked the post. He’d seen it. 

You locked your phone immediately, setting it face-down on your nightstand. Don’t read into it. Don’t read into it, be chill. 

You had no reason to believe he’d devolved into all the discussion and attention on the two of you like you had. He’d only interacted with the original post, and of course he had.

… Of course he had.

---

The gym felt the same as it always did—cool air humming from overhead vents, the scent of rubber mats and faint traces of sweat lingering in the quiet. No flashing cameras, no murmurs of speculation, no sign that the internet had turned one candid gym photo into an international talking point. It was just another training day.

At least, that’s what you had to tell yourself. But you couldn’t deny you had an easier time making it to the gym than usual, hopeful to have another run in…

You spotted Jannik almost immediately. He was mid-session, focused, his movements precise as he worked through a set. You caught the briefest flicker of recognition when he glanced up, a nod exchanged without hesitation before he refocused on his workout. His trainer gave you a wave as well. Completely normal. Casual. Just another morning at the gym.

Your own trainer, however, had other ideas.

As you passed by Jannik and Marco on your way to warm up, your trainer chuckled to themself before leaning in, voice just low enough for only you to hear. "Shouldn’t you kiss hello."

You shot them a glare before they could get any further. "Not a word."

They laughed but relented, though you could still feel their amusement in the way they shook their head as you both moved past. It should’ve been easy to shake off, you had media training for this. A stupid internet thing, a momentary obsession that would pass like everything else.

And yet, for the rest of your session, you couldn’t help but be even more aware of him than you had been before.

It wasn’t that you were watching him. Not exactly. But every time you caught sight of him in the mirror, your eyes lingered longer than necessary. The way his shirt clung to his back as he moved through a set, the way his fingers flexed between reps, the sharp lines of concentration in his face before the effort melted into something looser, more at ease. The way he’d lift his shirt to dab at sweat collecting on his nose, revealing the his torso for the briefest of seconds. It wasn’t just that he was attractive—you weren’t that easily distracted, you weren’t gawking—but there was something engaging about watching someone that dedicated, that in control of every motion… that’s how you rationalized it, at least.

And apparently, your "non-appraisal" wasn’t the most discreet.

“Eyes on your form. If you want to watch a tennis player, go to a match.” Your trainer quipped when you zoned out a beat too long before starting your next set.

You rolled your eyes, gripping the dumbbells tighter, determined to redirect your focus. It was nothing. Just heightened awareness. You were an athlete—you respected talent, recognized discipline when you saw it. That was all.

Jannik, on his end, wasn’t exactly faring much better. He wasn’t watching you—at least, not intentionally. But in the way athletes naturally kept tabs on their surroundings, his gaze found you more often than it should have. The way you braced before each set, the push of your muscles under strain, the quiet control in your movements. A few times, when he caught himself watching too long, he forced his focus back to his own workout, but it kept happening. And then, the mirror—

Your eyes met.

Brief, fleeting. Obvious.

You dropped your gaze first, pressing your lips together, exhaling lightly through your nose as you curled the dumbell. He played it off just as smooth, refocusing on his medicine ball. But the next time you risked a look, you thought you caught a smirk growing on his lips.

By the time Jannik finished his session, you were still deep in your workout, beads of sweat dotting your skin as you powered through another set. He and Marco passed by on their way out, both offering another easy wave goodbye.

“See you later,” Jannik said, voice light and natural, and you nodded back in response. 

But just as they passed, you caught Marco’s voice directed at Jannik, low and teasing. "Allora, quando la sposi?" So, when’s the wedding?

Jannik’s laugh was quiet, but unmistakable. As they stepped outside, just before the door swung shut behind them, he glanced back once more. Through the glass, his gaze flicked toward you before he replied, “Ah, dicono che sia già successo.” They say it's already happened.

You barely caught his remark through the muffle of the closing door, but his expression seemed to happily humor whatever offhand comment Marco had made. And you had your suspicions about what it may have been about—or you had your hopes, at least.

You turned to your trainer, who had lived in Monaco long enough to know some Italian. “Did you catch that? Please tell me you did.”

“If I tell you, you have to promise to push the next set until failure. For real, this time.”

“Last time was for real.” You threw a nearby foam roller at them. “Just tell me.”

“Something about marriage.”

“Okay… I knew it! I think I caught that—sposi.” 

“Why ask then, if you know everything.” Your trainer retorted, smirking as they turned their back on you.

“For the love of—just finish. What’d he say back?” You grab their shoulders to spin them back toward you.

“He said…”

“I’ll kill you, I will.”

With another roll of their eyes, your trainer finally indulged you. “Something about how an alleged wedding has already happened.” 

“...Meaning he must have seen the tweets?”

“And the posts and the edits… Yeah, I think it’s safe to say he knows of it.” They sent you an amused look as they handed you a kettle bell the next weight up.

“And he didn’t seem mad about it…”

“That, he did not—not at all.”

And, even while completing your final and most rigorous exercise of the day, you couldn’t stop the grin that slowly grew on your face.

---

The F1 season was on the cusp of beginning, and the next time you made your way to the gym would be the last for many months. Pre-season testing had wrapped, final preparations were being made. You were back in Monaco for a brief period before the first race of the F1 calendar would take place, just a handful of days away. Everything felt sharper, more electric—like the all things around you were bracing for competition.

Much to your luck, Jannik happened to be their during you last visit as well. He approached you during a short break in your workout, a casual but deliberate kind walk up to you. You’d caught him looking over quite a few times since you’d arrived, as if he’d thought about coming up for a while.

“Hey,” he greeted, his voice as easy as ever. “I wanted to wish good luck before you leave.”

“Oh—thanks.” You looked up, slightly surprised but not displeased. “Feels like everything’s kind of kicking off all at once.”

He nodded, resting a hand on his towel-draped shoulder. “Melbourne’s always exciting. You can feel it even here in Monaco, the first race weekend energy is always something else.”

“Yeah, it’s chaos honestly. Fans everywhere, nerves, media running at full speed.” You huffed a small laugh, stretching out your arms. “You’re pretty familiar with Melbourne, aren’t you?

“Yes, yeah,” he smiled, a knowing glint in his eye at your allusion to his win streak there. “It’s a special place—it’s also the first major of the season. So Australia is the beginning for us tennis players, too.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” You considered that, then gave a slight tilt of your head. “F1 Academy's start actually isn’t in Melbourne, though.”

It was a common misconception, many long-time F1 fans like Jannik weren’t familiar with the sporadic F1 Academy schedule that went in tandem with F1 itself, but he was quick to respond. Matter-of-fact and faultless, he quickly clarified for himself. “Aah, yes. It’s in Shanghai, no? The week after?”

“...Yes, actually.” His informed answer stopped you for a second, leaving you pleasantly surprised, your brows raising. “That’s exactly right.”

He shrugged, casual as ever. “I assume you will be traveling soon either way so I wanted to wish you luck before.”

“Well, thank you,” You hummed, smirking to yourself as you picked up your water bottle. “... Seems like someone’s been looking into the F1 Academy schedule.”

Jannik didn’t skip a beat at the teasing. If anything, his reply was entirely diplomatic, if not a little sheepish. “No, I mean—honestly, I did not know much before,” he admitted. “But I’d like to.”

You shot him a look, playful and curious. “Yeah? Big F1 Academy fan now?”

“Trying to be,” he said, smiling. “I like all racing.”

“Good answer.”

You chatted a little more—about training, about how brutal long-haul flights could be when in-season travel ramped up, about the chaos of Melbourne when the events rolled into town. The conversation was easy, no need for overthinking. Just two people talking about their respective worlds, swapping stories of airports, media days, and all the ways professional sports altered the warped any sense of time zones.

And then, as you were about to part ways, he hesitated for just a second before speaking. “Hey,” he said, shifting slightly on his feet. “Mind if I get your number?”

You blinked once, processing. Athletes exchanged numbers all the time. Networking, staying in touch, all that. It wasn’t necessarily a move. It’s not a move. 

Still, something about it caught you off guard, just for a second. You didn’t let it show. You nodded, and he was already unlocking your phone to hand to you. It’s not not a move.

You took his phone, fingers moving quickly to type in your number into the recipient part of a new message tab before hesitating for just a second over the text. Just your first? Full name? Something stupid and teasing? You settled on just his name, clean and simple—like you did this all the time, like you needed a reminder of who’s number it was this time—before passing it back. 

But when you got back home and opened your phone to the text—Jannik Sinner—you had to check yourself before you jumped up and down in your apartment. Settling on only loving the message, the message you had sent from his phone, you bit back a smile as you saved his number to your contacts.

---

The Melbourne Grand Prix weekend buzzing with energy, you could even tell through the screen—fast cars, packed grandstands, and coverage in every direction. You had the pre-race media on in the background, half paying attention as you stretched out on your hotel room couch, scrolling through your phone between interviews and team meetings.

When the interviewer made their way to Oscar Piastri, you let your attention drift back to the screen and your long-time friend.

It was a casual pre-race chat about his off-season, his expectations, and how he spent his time away from the paddock; fielding predictable questions about his off-season and the new announcement of his multi-year contract. 

“Spent a lot of time here in Australia—Watched a lot of cricket, some tennis. Just had time with my family and my girlfriend, but I’m happy to be back.” He finished the concise summary with his characteristic polite nod, lips pressed into a straight line of a smile.

"We all saw you at the Australian Open—I believe Mark Webber was also there."

"Yup,” Oscar nodded once more. “Mark was there, I was there with my girlfriend Lily. We got to watch Jannik Sinner play in the semi-finals, which was quite cool. He had a great run."

You exhaled a short laugh to yourself. It was no surprise that Oscar mentioned Jannik in his off-season recap, you were surprised he had to be prompted to at all—even you knew of his online fixation on the tennis player. Not that you could claim to be much better. 

The interviewer continued. "Speaking of Sinner—Did you see your fellow McLaren F1 Academy driver was spotted training at the same gym as him.”

You blinked, now fully alert. They were bringing that up?

Oscar smiled a little at that. “Yes, I did see this.”

Your eyes narrowed at the screen. Of course he did. 

"How do you feel about that? That she’s potentially getting more face time with one of your favorite athletes than you are." The interviewer asked playfully.

"Hm, might have to switch gyms now." He deadpanned.

“For Sinner or for [Your Name]?”

"No, I already see enough of her—I mean, we're old friends.” Oscar made a face before huffing out a little laugh. Then, he glanced straight into the camera with a grimace, as if he was addressing you directly. "No offense."

Your jaw dropped slightly, amidst your smile, before a laugh bubbled up. The broadcast had even thrown up that gym photo in the corner of the screen, the very same one that had set the internet off not even a couple of weeks ago.

Grinning, you snapped a picture of the moment on your screen. Behind, the interview carried on as you scrolled through your text inbox to hover over his name. Jannik Sinner. This could be the perfect olive branch, the most organic opportunity you’d get to break the ice and to use his number.

You glance back up at the broadcast. If Oscar mentions Jannik once more, then I have to send it.

“Well, your new contract states that you can visit any sports event or game on McLaren’s dime.” The interviewer had seamlessly segwayed to the topic of Oscar’s newest career development.

Oh, god. You knew what was coming. You asked for this.

“Yes, I’m very grateful. I can catch all the cricket matches I want now…” 

Here it comes—

Oscar continued, “Hopefully, I can catch a couple more games of Sinner's as well. Tennis tournaments overlap with race travel, but it’s definitely in my mind.”

And there it is. You should’ve known. You stared at Oscar’s face through the screen, not knowing whether to curse him or to thank him.

“Well, there’s one way you can get ahead of [Your Name].” The interviewer joked again, dropping your name once more. “Can’t have her winning Sinner over before you can.”

Great. Not only did you hang your source of encouragement to text on the actions of your biased friend on live TV hundreds of miles away, but you were also apparently in direct competition with him as well. According to the media, at least—and they were always right…

You quickly typed out a message to go with the image before you could second guess it again.

You Just so you know, you’ve officially stolen my long-time friend  You I guess Oscar chose you over me

It took less than a few minutes after sending for your phone to buzz. You jumped to read it.

Jannik Sinner Ha just saw that

So he was watching. You hoped he didn’t cringe too hard at the interviewer’s antics, or at Oscar’s. 

Another text came in.

Jannik Sinner His loss

You immediately shut the phone at that, pressing lips together as you fought back a smile. Take that Piastri.

---

Over the past week, you and Jannik had been consistently texting after your initial message. More often than you’d ever expected. It wasn’t anything too committed—just a kind of easy back-and-forth you got to when you could, and it made the monotony of travel days and training schedules feel a little lighter. Normally, you were awful at keeping up with messages. You’d leave people on read for days, sometimes even weeks, as a consequence of your busy schedule once the season picked up. But with him, you found yourself checking your phone more than usual, feeling a little thrill whenever his name popped up on the screen. It was just something new and exciting to keep your attention—that's what you reminded yourself.

As the first race weekend approached, even your text responses to him became fewer and farther between. It wasn’t intentional—you just had too much going on. Track walks, meetings, media, final car setup adjustments. 

And then, after all the commotion and against all odds, you won your first F1 Academy race—as a rookie. Any hope you did have to catch up on your unread texts was wiped as you were surely bombarded with a flux of congratulatory messages, not that you didn’t have many other things to get out of the way first.

The Shanghai International Circuit had been as unforgiving as they say—fast, technical, and full of overtaking opportunities for those who dared. The race started under a clouded sky, humid air thick with the weight of expectations. You had lined up in third, gripping the wheel tightly as you lined up at your box.

The moment the lights went out, the roar of the engines swallowed everything else. The run down to the first turn was chaos—eighteen cars funnelling into a long, tightening right-hander, each driver hunting for space but wary of disaster. You’d held your ground, forcing the car ahead to the outside while defending from the driver behind. The grip felt solid, but you could already tell the track was evolving under the afternoon heat.

By turn six—the heavy braking zone at the end of a sweeping acceleration stretch—you had spotted an opportunity. The driver ahead hesitated, their rear tires twitching just slightly under braking. You took the chance, diving up the inside and committing fully to the move. Your car hugged the apex, and as you powered out, you saw your front wing edge ahead. And then the position was yours.

But that was just when the real fight began.

Shanghai’s layout demanded patience and precision. The long straights gave just enough tow for cars behind to keep pressure on, while the complex middle sector tested every inch of a driver’s technical ability. The car beneath you was strong but jumpy on the exit of Turn 11, forcing you to manage throttle input carefully as you prepared for the long arc of Turn 13 leading into the back straight. You could feel the tires slowly losing grip, the rear stepping out just slightly under acceleration. You’d adjusted, keeping the balance in check, knowing that every micro-movement could mean the difference between holding position and losing it.

With ten laps to go, you had one car left to pass. The race leader was smooth, disciplined, placing their car exactly where they needed to, making sure you never had an easy run. But you’d studied them—watched their tendencies, how they hesitated slightly under braking into Turn 14. It took more than a few laps of preparation, testing different lines, seeing where you could unsettle them. And then, with just a handful of laps left, you’d made your move.

Late braking into Turn 14. Just a fraction later than before. The front tires locked for a millisecond, but you had already committed, already slotted your car alongside theirs. Side by side on exit, wheel to wheel, throttle pinned. You’d kept your foot in it, knowing the next few corners would decide everything. The grip held. Your car edged ahead.

The final laps were pure adrenaline—every braking zone, every corner exit, every defensive maneuver was a test of nerve. But when the checkered flag waved, it was your car that crossed the line first.

Your first race victory.

The radio erupted with cheers from your team, their voices overlapping, a mess of excitement and disbelief. You barely had time to process it as you pulled into the pitlane, hands shaking slightly as you unclipped the wheel.

Then came the podium. The rush of stepping onto the top step, trophy in hand, the national anthem playing. Champagne sprayed across your suit as you laughed, blinking through the sting. Cameras flashing, faces blurred by the lights. It all felt distant, like a dream happening to someone else.

Only when you sat in an icebath, in the quiet at the back of McLaren’s garage, did it really start to hit.

A flood of congratulations came from everywhere, wherever you went—team strategists, social media admin, engineers, chefs, mechanics, rival drivers, and that onslaught of messages pinging your phone from people back home who had been watching. You’d tried to skim them, but still didn’t have a moment reply. You’d get to them later.

You still had to head to McLaren's motorhome for a post-race debrief. As soon as you stepped in, Lando Norris was already grinning up at you. "Look, here comes the race winner. Only took you one try."

"Yeah, mate, took the both of us at least a season." Oscar reached up to firmly clasp your hand and nodded in agreement, his voice warm by his standards. “Congratulations.”

You nodded, smiling at the gesture. "Well… some of us learn faster than others."

Lando clapped you on the back as you sat down. "Seriously, though—hell of a drive. That last overtake was insane."

Oscar leaned forward. "Yeah, we were watching from the garage, and even I flinched when you went for it."

“He jumped, [Your Name], he jumped.” Lando said, comically widening his eyes when you met his gaze.

You laughed at that. "Wow, I can’t even imagine. I broke Oscar Piastri’s mask."

The banter eventually settled, and then the debrief began. The purpose was clear, there wasn’t much time until the F1 race now—you had to provide all relevant insights for Lando, Oscar, and the engineers. The track conditions, tire performance, and any major takeaways they could apply to their own races. 

The strategists pulled up detailed telemetry, analyzing how the track surface had evolved throughout the weekend. Shanghai’s long straights meant lower downforce setups were favored, and the heavy braking zones into Turn 6 and Turn 14 made front tire management crucial. You all discussed track temperature fluctuations and rubber buildup, and how the track evolution was steady but tight. 

The strategists noted that teams who pitted early had struggled with graining, while those who extended stints found better traction toward the end. 

"Your exits in Sector 2 were really strong," one of the strategists noted, highlighting how you had found better traction out of Turn 11 than most of the grid. "That’s probably what set you up so well for the final overtake."

Lando, with focus that always surprised you, leaned in. "Shanghai's such a weird track for braking. One lap it's fine, the next you're sliding through Turn 14 like it's a drift comp. Was the wind messing with you guys today?"

"Well see here? I lost a couple of tenths through Turn 9 in the earlier laps—could be setup-related, or an adjustment thing, but it felt like wind at the time."

Oscar hummed. "From the garage, it looked like a few people were getting caught out. Back straight was catching people late on the brakes—looked like one of those days where you think you’ve nailed it, and then suddenly, nope."

You nodded. "It wasn’t too bad early on, but by mid-race, it felt like the front end was getting lighter. I was imagining it at first, but it got trickier through the long corners. Something to keep in mind, for sure."

The discussion continued, touching on how the cooler temps had made the rears a bit sketchy toward the end and how some teams were struggling to keep heat in them. The strategists flagged possible drizzle in the afternoon, debating whether it would be light enough to just make the track greasy or if it might actually justify a switch to inters. And then the engineers gave final notes before wrapping up.

As everyone started filtering out, Oscar reached for the phone on the table—only to pause. He squinted at the screen, turning it over in his hand.

“This isn’t mine.”

You frowned, glancing at your own empty hands and patting at your pockers.

“Oh, it's mine,” you said, reaching for it.

Just as you did, the screen lit up with a new message.

From Jannik Sinner

Oscar raised his eyebrows, glancing between you and the phone before tilting it just out of reach. "What’s this?"

You huffed, narrowing your eyes. "Give it back."

But Oscar wasn’t done. He gave you a look after skimming the notification, and then deadpanned, "So, what kind of gym is this exactly?"

You rolled your eyes, making another grab for it, but he sidestepped easily. "Oscar—"

"Maybe I should look into it." He turned to Lando for support. "I’m seriously considering."

You finally snatched the phone from his grip, shaking your head as you unlocked it. "Sounds like someone’s jealous."

"Oh, I'm devastated," he said sarcastically, still smiling when he tried to look over your shoulder. "What’d he say?"

When you glanced down at the message, all your indignation melted into something a bit more bashful.

Jannik Sinner I’m sure you are busy Jannik Sinner But wanted to wish you a congratulations on the win Jannik Sinner First of many  

Your lips pressed together, but you couldn’t fight the way your ears warmed slightly.

"That’s a face.” Oscar watched you for about half a second, exchanging a look with Lando who still hovered nearby. “So what did he say?"

You exhaled through your nose, still smiling as you read it over again. "Just… 'Congratulations, first of many.’ That kind of thing.”

���Isn’t he in Monaco?” Lando made a thoughtful noise, then glanced at the time. "Because your race was at like… 3:30 in the morning there."

You blinked, looking up at him before looking back at Oscar. "He probably watched it later."

Oscar gave you a look, “Even if he only finished watching now… it’s still 6 AM there."

A wide grin settled on your face in realization, but you tried not to look too smug when you replied “... Well, he did say he was trying to get into it.”

Oscar folded his arms, rolling his eyes and patting your back as he walked away. "I think I might be further behind in this race for Sinner than I thought."

---

HOW did I get so carried away. You don't even want to know how much I wrote that I deleted... Sooo much unnecessary, technical stuff. Uh but here it is... Way later than I said, whoops

Also again with the texts and the tweets and the, you know. Still figuring out the best way to format that. Because it is an inevitable part of a modern romance, and so I must learn how to include it properly. And, if you think about it, the gym crush to number exchange to the fun texting arc is honestly a fucking rom com by todays standards... Most unrealistic part is that he triple texted to say congratulations after getting temporarily ghosted... So

Also I'm a rally-truther. It's objectively way more entertaining than F1, but we're not ready for that convo Also there aren't as many divas in rally, well there are but not itn the same way

Okay, anyways. It's here, it's out, it's proud. Happy, first race weekend!! Enjoy xx

[stayinlimbo]

note: happy birthday to changbin!!!! now here is a short drabble (it's august 11th where i live) ♡

“Three, two, hold it…..one!”

“Fuck!” you cry, your trembling legs buckling beneath your body weight. The resistance band wrapped around your thighs snaps them together, throwing you off balance and sending you to the padded gym floor. Your injured leg flares up in your less-than-graceful descent, a small hiss of pain escaping your lips.

Footsteps quickly draw closer, and your boyfriend hovers over your fallen, face-down form. “Are you okay?” Changbin asks. 

“I hate this,” you groan, the mat muffling your vocalized suffering.

Kneeling beside you, Changbin’s tense shoulders relax as he watches you slowly roll onto your back. “I know.” 

You glare up at him. “I want to die.” 

“I know,” Changbin echoes, fighting back the grin threatening to break through at your serious expression. “You’ve said so after every set.” 

“Why do I have to do this again?”

He quirks his brows. “Do you want me to repeat what the physical therapist said or what you told me?”

You blanch at his words. You don’t need a reminder of your naive optimism. How could you have known how much more painful exercising would be with the elastic torture around your legs restricting every movement? You don’t even know how you’ll get out of bed tomorrow. 

“Well, that was then; this is now,” you defend, waving your arms in frustration. “I didn’t think recovering from a torn muscle would create more pain than there is already.”

Changbin catches your hand and intertwines his fingers with yours, cutting off your complaints. He cups your hand and squeezes it gently. “Unless you want to keep ‘walking like you’re seventy in your twenties,’ you have to do this.”

You let out a resigned sigh at your own words echoed back at you. “I hate it when I’m right,” you pout.

He grins. “No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t,” you confess, matching your smile with his. “Do I walk like a cool seventy-year-old at least?”

Changbin laughs, letting go of your hand to stand and let you sit up properly. He extends his arm back down towards you and helps lift you off the ground, nodding. “The coolest.”

liked this work? want to let me know how i did? please like, comment, and/or reblog; they are greatly appreciated my asks are always open ♡

taglist : @linospuddin @linocz @spicyhyunn @inlovewithstraykids @stayyyyyyyyyyyy21

@hwangism143 @feelikecinderella @celebration88 @ssickmagnolia8

[beevean]

Nothing is working.

Go to my doctor, he thinks it's a strain, prescribes muscle relaxants. Nothing.

Take anti inflammatory pills. Nothing.

Avoid bench pressing. Nothing.

Avoid any sort of exercise that can cause strain to the shoulder. Nothing.

Went to another doctor. It's not strain, it's subacromial impingment. The muscle relaxants were pointless.

Take other anti inflammatory pills. Nothing.

Rehabilitation with elastic bands. They might have made things worse because I also have bursitis.

Finally went to a physiotherapist, she did her thing and gave me exercises to do because I shouldn't stay still. I am actually worse now, I can feel liquid under my armpit (she already said I have edema) and I'm now sore all over and even the other shoulder is aching now, and I don't know if it's my fault because i lifted heavy bags while buying groceries. The physiotherapist won't be here until December, too.

I'm so tired.

[gym-x-plus]

Leg day workout🔥🔥🔥

My full leg routine, which was to die for slowly😅, did a little bit of everything!

4set x15 - 20rept each exercise (45sec break - 1min)💦💦 .

.

Use 10kg dumbbells each, 3kg ankle weights, 35kg bar + discs and heavy level elastic band.

.

I am not a lover of making scissors but when they play they play 😅 and I like to include almost all of them in a single routine, in addition to being demanding they are very effective 💪🏽.

.

Credit ig: @azuboughgouhnon

.

#gymmotivation #fit #fitness #fitgirl #fitlife #fitfood #fitnessmotivation #fitnessmodel #workout #runner #running #runnersworld #runningmotivation

#runnersofinstagram #runnerslife #runchat #runhappy #instarunners #trailrunning #trailrun #trail #run #fitnessaddict #fitfam #gymtime #bodybuilder

[wolven91]

Drifting - Part 15 (Epilogue)

Casper's time in the void was shorter than usual.

Even without the evidence of passing time, there had always been a period where the young man settled into the distinctly unsettling feeling of nothingness. He'd said his goodbyes to Spectre the first, a geckin mech that had served him well, but would not follow him wherever he went now. It was geckin's property after all. After that, he powered down and had keyed for his casket to be ejected slowly, rather than be fired like an artillery shell to get him away from the current threat.

The moment he disconnected from the machine, he was plunged back into the dark, however, he didn't get a chance to 'settle' before light and sound returned. Casper was used to this now, it was always harsh to return to the real world, it hurt and was confusing as his mind reconnected with the various senses of his body once more.

There was a roaring din that deafened him immediately, even more so than normal. Before he could open his eyes, something was pressed over them. It covered the front half of his face and looped over his ears and behind his head, an elastic band holding the soft material firmly in place. The hands that manipulated him were careful, supporting his head and placing it back down, rather than letting Casper drop. The young man squinted, preparing for the pain of harsh bright light.

Instead, it was muted.

There were lights overhead and shadows and silhouettes that blocked it briefly as they moved around his casket, but the darkened, translucent material that covered his eyes prevented that stab of pain as his eyes, used to the dark, adjusted to the real world again. As he considered this, the dark figure slipped a set of earmuffs over his head and pulled a mic down, so it comfortably touched his lip. A deafening roar that Casper hadn't even begun processing yet died and he was left in a far more comfortable state.

Wherever Casper lay, rocked from side to side, the whole crew reacting and stumbling to the right, then left. However, the silhouette that was crouched over Casper reached out his hands and prevented the human's head from hitting the edge of the casket.

"We got you buddy, you,okay? You hurt?" Asked an unknown voice, the voice coming over clear and precise through the headset.

"Where's Qik?"

"She's fine buddy, let's get you sorted first, then we can see her, yeah?"

Casper nodded as he felt the casket being peeled away from his bottom half. The shadow over him turned his head and Casper caught sight of a pair of long ears, clipped back and out of the stranger's way as he spoke to someone else.

"Vitals are thready, looks like we need fluids, do we know how much these guys are supposed to weigh?" There was a pause. "Alright, just ensure we get transport when we land. Hey buddy!" The voice spoke to Casper once more. "Can you touch your fingertips for me? Like this?" The stranger made a familiar gesture, touching his thumbs to his fingertips in series. Casper knew this exercise.

Casper raised his hands, wincing as his skin once again felt sore in the open air, and tried to copy the speaker. The young human grit his teeth in frustration as he couldn't see to command his digits correctly, the thumb either not moving or seemingly not obeying.

"It's okay buddy, you looked like you hurt for a second there. Can you tell me where it hurts?"

"It's m-my skin. It's-it's fine, it'll calm down." Casper explained, trying to reassure the speaker. The shadow turned his head again, touching a hand to his own headset.

"Bird Two medical to hanger. Inbound thirty seconds, unknown species, pulse is thready, we got casket burn, subject is disorientated and likely severely malnourished. Get a bath ready." The rocking of whatever transport Casper was on board intensified before a firm judder ceased all further movement for the machines.

There was a flurry of activity as the crews that worked within the confined space of the vehicle seemingly all had jobs to do. A new lopel appeared above Casper and apparently was attempting to wheel him away.

"Can I see Qik?" Casper asked, feeling helpless as his legs merely twitched when he attempted to move them. He was utterly vulnerable in the hands of a whole new set of people and beings. The radio in his headset crackled and a familiar voice spoke to him. It was as if her lips were right next to his ear as she spoke, relieving him of his worries.

"I'm here Casper, I'm here. Just a few feet to your left. Lay back, these guys will do the work. Just relax, okay?" She asked gently. Casper tensed his whole body and sat upright, much to the surprise and mild panic of the lopel that was still half crouched, half sat on the shell of Casper's pilot casket. As the human raised his head and cleared the lip of the sarcophagus, he saw Qik was doing the same, a black headband was over her head too providing her welder's goggles and an oddly shaped headset with mic covering her ears.

She gave him a grin and a small wave that turned into a thumbs up. As always, she seemed untouched by the machine's drained aura.

"O-okay..." Casper replied, relieved to hear her voice and lay back down, much to the approval of the lopel that was being wheeled along with Casper. He was the spitting image of Qik, only instead of brown fur, he was a bright grey, with the exception of his hands, face and the lining of his ears, which had white fur.

"Are you friends with Qik buddy?" He asked with a still light tone, but with a hint of scepticism. Casper nodded his head, feeling tired, he laid his head back into the gel head rest of the casket and closed his eyes, releasing a tension he didn't realise that he'd been holding. The grey lopel touched the top of one his blunt claws to Casper's shoulder, waking him, the grey alien wore an impish grin.

"Took me four years before Qik started talking to me! You cooperate with the docs that we're about to meet and I'll trade you an embarrassing story about her at the bar, deal?" Casper couldn't help but match the creature's mischievous smile, which only broadened as the hot mic and headset was immediately bombarded with Qik's heated voice.

"You asshole! I'll cut your ears off!"

Casper couldn't help but join in with the laughter of the crew who were obviously also listening to the exchange. The grey lopel hopped down off the casket as he introduced a new set of lopels, who would then look after the human.

== 0 ==

It was nearly an hour and a half later before Casper saw Qik again.

The door hissed open, and Casper turned from the window from which he was staring out of, he couldn't stop the smile from spreading across his face seeing her.

She was dressed in a set of clothes that Casper had never seen before. Gone was her signature Nerve Suit which she had worn under her jacket at any point that she wasn't undressed completely. Now she wore grey, for lack of a better term, lounge wear. It looked comfortable and baggy, although the waistband hugged her hips pleasantly. She did, however, still have on her jacket, reassuring him more than he realised. It was a slice of 'normal' while everything was unfamiliar.

"You get your bath?" She asked casually, strutting across the comfortably warm room with the peculiar lopel gait that reminded the young man of runway models. Casper nodded; his hair was still shaved close to his skull so it had long since air dried but was still dressed in nothing but a fluffy black bathrobe. He previously had every intention of donning the perhaps oversized jogging bottoms and shirt that had been laid on 'his' bed by someone unseen while he was freshening up in the bathroom.

"Yeah, I was going to get dressed but I got distracted." He explained, gesturing at the large window that showed the pair of them outer space.

Qik merely 'hummed' in agreement as stepped up next to the shorter human. Beyond the 'glass', was a purple and red nebula, frozen in time as they swirled together creating a beautiful display that had simply awed the man.

"You didn't get bored of all this going to the Geckin worlds?" She asked, still gazing out the glass. She gestured to the amazing display before looking down at him with an easy smile. Casper couldn't help but give her a smile back, his eyes wrinkling in the corner as he turned back to the cosmic event.

"No... I just kept to myself to be honest. Didn't have a window seat. It's... I don't know I don't have words." He explained honestly, he felt breathless, almost nervous, but couldn't put his finger on why.

"Remind me to show you the observation deck tomorrow." Qik offered quietly, slipping her thumbs into her waistline, and seemingly settling into a comfortable silence. Casper joined her a moment, before a frown flashed across his face, turning to her.

"Tomorrow? Why not today?" He asked, genuinely curious.

"You really feel up to talking to a hundred different people? You're the hot topic Casper. New species, new pilot. Even a few rumours of you besting me in a fight." Qik explained, an accusatory eyebrow rose to the ceiling as she side eyed him. Their initial fight was a sore spot for Qik, this Casper knew. He'd promised almost immediately afterwards to take the event to his grave and turned to her to offer his full attention.

"I swear I didn't say anything to anyone. I know about your reputation and-" A palm clamped over his mouth, silencing him quite effectively.

"Shut it." She demanded, releasing him, and touching the tip of his nose with a single finger.

"I know you didn't say anything. But my rig had a new head. A new head is a sign of someone taking your head off. The engineering crew are rather protective of their work and notice when someone's touched a single bolt, let alone replaced the whole thing. Don't worry, Just feign ignorance. But if you're up for crowds, I don't mind taking you to see the stars."

In hindsight, that sounded like more than what Casper felt up to. He still felt drained and tired. He knew himself well enough that interacting with strangers right now was ill advised. Still... he didn't want to miss the views.

"How long is our journey? Am I likely to miss anything?"

Qik snorted and turned from the window, resting her rump against the table that sat underneath it.

"Hardly. We're on our way to the next closest station, that'll be a five- or six-day trip. We'll trade, sniff for jobs, and get some free time. Plenty of time for you to star gaze."

Casper turned back to the window and squinted as he saw something move against the black. It was small, but just big enough to make it out.

"Hey, there's a ship out there!" At Casper's alert, Qik hummed curiously and turned her head, narrowing her eyes before turning back to the human.

"Don't worry, that's one of ours. Looks like a point defence platform. We're on the carrier, holding all the mechs and a slew of hanger space with repair docks for anything and everything. Problem is, we're a sitting duck on our own." She thrust a thumb over her shoulder at the window. "That 'little guy' is a massive frigate. You can tell because of all the little nubs on its edges." Qik explained. Casper leant forwards over the table and studied the ship. It was triangular in shape, but along its smooth edges, it did indeed have bumps, breaking up its profile every few centimetres.

"Those are turrets. It can handle everything from tiny drones to fighter crafts to anything roughly the same size as the frigate. Keeps them off the carrier's back. Keep looking out that window and you'll see its brother floating around somewhere. We have between four and six frigates following the carrier, each designed to keep a different kind of enemy off us. The one's without all those nubs will have a long straight piece, either on top or below it. That's a railgun. Those frigates handle the bigger problems."

Qik paused, before reaching out a large hand to grasp his shoulder gently. Her hand dwarfed him, but she never felt heavy to him, nor did her squeeze do anything but reassure him.

"Casper, you're safer than you've ever been on board this craft." She declared truthfully.

Qik pushed off from the table and walked over to Casper's bed, stretching as she walked until her fingertips brushed the ceiling. She threw herself onto his bed and gathered a pillow beneath her head with a comfortable sigh.

"Honestly, it's adorable how you still enjoy the stars. Everyone who's in space for a living just kind of forgets they're there." She offered from her lounged position on his bed. Casper turned to her and shrugged then tried to suppress a yawn, using a thumb to rub his eye as he spoke.

"It's new to me. I lived in a city; light pollution stopped me from seeing all but the brightest. What's the station like?" He asked, curious as aside from the intake, which he really didn't remember much of, he hadn't seen other stations.

"Geckin run, but it's on a major shipping lane. Expect a whole plethora of species. Although the ssypno and the geckin portions are kept separate, for obvious reasons." Qik explained. "It's got everything a private military company could want. Work, trading, entertainment, sex, whatever scratches your itch. "

Casper blinked at the casual nature of Qik and reminded himself that despite her softness with him, she was a hardened warrior, capable of handling herself and killing people without losing sleep.

"I think I'll steer clear of that last one."  Although Casper was sincere, Qik merely snorted again as if doubting Casper's words.

"Again; adorable. You might change your tone after being stuck on this ship with no one but each other to keep you company." The lopeljack explained as she lay on Casper's bed. His eyes roamed on their own, from her wide, fluffy toes, past her almost dainty ankles, up her thick calves and knee-weakeningly thick thighs, to the curve of her hips and toned front of a fighter who kept themselves in their best possible shape.

It was all topped with a head and face that watched him carefully, her ears having fallen casually across her body. Her smile was a knowing one. Casper swallowed.

"There's worse people to spend time with." The young man offered, suddenly nervous. Qik merely grinned. The air had become charged at the first mention of sex. Whilst he wasn't fully inexperienced, Casper did not have a 'body count' he could rely on. Qik however exuded confidence and experience.

"You'd think so, but I'm the big bad Qik. Nobody wants to spend time with a cold bitch like me." She explained, grinning wickedly. Her tone was mocking, welcoming Casper into joining in and to deny her claims. He couldn't help the smirk that pulled one side of his face up.

"I wouldn't mind." Casper replied correctly with a more casual tone than he really felt, shrugging and pointedly ignoring the nervous shake in his hands.

"Well, how about you come here then, and I can welcome you to the crew properly...?" She asked, crooking a finger and reeling the young man in with zero resistance from him. As he clambered into the bed and felt the lopel's hand gently grasp the back of his head, bringing him in for a kiss, the human was struck with a thought.

If this were the spoils of battle, then maybe Casper could get very used to being a mercenary?

[r/WolvensStories]

[Ko-Fi]

[aeolianblues]

Jarvis Cocker: At the end of 1996, I had “a nervous breakdown”

Kate Mossman of The New Statesman talks to Jarvis Cocker, September 2021

The singer on nostalgia, hating David Cameron, and how crashing a Michael Jackson performance had “a toxic effect” on him.

Jarvis Cocker leans on a table in the courtyard of the House of St Barnabas, a members’ club and homeless charity, and one of the only bits of London’s Soho that does not bear the marks of the interminable Crossrail project. Cocker says he’s not one for conspiracy theories, “but there’s a lot of dark mutterings about what has happened while everybody’s been locked away. You can see it in Soho, where loads of building work’s gone on. They took an opportunity. Cement’s gone up in price because there’s none left.”

He’s not as tall as he is in your mind’s eye – a solid 6ft 1 – but he cuts a stately figure in green cords and a high-quality lilac shirt. Here, in a moccasin-style shoe, is the foot that was broken, along with his pelvis and ankle, when he fell out of a window in Sheffield pretending to be Spiderman. (He spent months as a young man gigging from a wheelchair.) Here is the rear that was waved at Michael Jackson, in a life-changing moment it still upsets him to talk about. Here are the long legs that bent like those of a freshly born foal on stage, and here are the glasses that were held on his face with an elastic band so he could execute his moves. These long, smooth fingers would frame his face, or flick his “V” signs. As sombre as he is, seating himself on a bench alongside the New Statesman, he is the only pop star that most people under 80, regardless of their artistic ability, could have a crack at drawing.

You feel wary of going straight in on “the Nineties” – it must be such a bore – yet Cocker brings them up right away, talking about a song called “Cocaine Socialism” which he wrote for his band Pulp in 1996, at their commercial and critical height. It was all about New Labour’s courtship of pop stars. The title was ironic he explains, because “cocaine will make you not give a fuck about any other member of the human race”. Cocker shelved the song because he thought it might actually stop the people of Britain voting Labour – a sign, he says, of his overweening ego at the time.

When I was 14, a friend gave me a perfectly executed cartoon of Cocker, drawn on squared paper in a maths lesson and titled “My future husband”. It is often a source of frustration for musicians when their biggest audience proves to be teenage girls, but this is to overlook the power of teenage girls – and teenagers in general – to work up an intensity of feeling that all but creates a career. Cocker should know, because he conceived of his future – conceived of Pulp, “planned my whole life out” – at the age of 14 in an economics lesson, writing it all down in exercise books which he recently unearthed in an attic. 

He had a written manifesto, “very earnest, about how we’re going to get famous, have our own record label and radio station, and help other bands, and break the tyranny of the major labels”. And he’d drawn pictures, too, of an arm, with “major record company” tattooed on it and a meat cleaver saying “Pulp Incorporated”, ready to chop off the hand.

“It was supposed to be some socialist empowerment of the people. It wasn’t just: ‘I’m going to buy a big house in Barbados and have a jet ski’.”

Cocker’s proudest moment in a 30-year career was when Martin Amis agreed with something he’d said, when they appeared together on a TV talkshow approaching the millennium. Jarvis had stated that, in the 20th century, fame had replaced heaven as our ultimate goal, our way of cheating death. His own moment of fame, when it came, was sizeable, but it took him 15 years to get there: Pulp formed in 1981 – they should have been a post-punk band rather than a Britpop one.

In 1996 Melody Maker judged Cocker the fifth most famous man in Britain – after John Major, Frank Bruno, Will Carling and Michael Barrymore. Two years later, the novelist Nick Hornby reflected, “Jarvis Cocker is an acute and amusing chronicler of our life and times… but sometimes… you wish he’d communicate via chat show or letter rather than song.” This he has done, and often. Jarvis has been Jarvis for the last 25 years, in radio, TV, the written word – and perhaps less so in music, in the popular imagination. When you have lingered so long outside fame’s door, fully formed and ready to go, you must be loath to make an exit. Only in the garden of a private members’ club can he go about peacefully; he cycles in London, without a helmet, so you suspect he is recognised often, moving at speed.

Cocker shows me photos of his new bike on an old iPhone – a Moulton small-wheeled cycle, described by Norman Foster as the greatest work of 20th century British design. There are racks back and front, “to put yer bag on”. “I have spent a lot of time on quite random, trivial things,” he tells me. When his beloved 1970 Hillman Imp car finally gave up the ghost, he had it crushed into a cube and gave it away to a fan.

Cocker was in the Paramount Hotel on West 46th Street, New York, in December 1996 when a girl called Imogen called from the New Labour office and asked for his endorsement. 

“I’d been to some event down Whitehall,” he recalls. “A kind of wooing event, and I’d felt really weird about that. It’s hard to imagine now. I was 16-17 when Thatcher got in, and a Labour government seemed like a fantasy. I felt very conflicted, because I really wanted it to happen but something just seemed wrong. Even at that time – a quarter of a century ago – I thought, ‘You should be doing politics, not trying to get some endorsements from some people in bands’. There was a desire for it to happen, and then this disease. It felt like getting chatted up.”

Imogen had tracked Cocker down during what he calls, perhaps surprisingly, a “severely traumatic part of my life”. At the end of 1996 he was having what he refers to today as a nervous breakdown. When the telephone rang in his hotel room, he assumed the suite was bugged. He’d gone to New York around Christmas time and, alone and anxious, found himself unable to face the crowds. But he also struggled to stay indoors, tormented by the aesthetics of his hotel room – “super designed, with a giant picture of a Vermeer painting, a woman pouring some milk out of a blue jug. You walked in to an art installation, and I was in a fragile state of mind.” 

Cocker’s descent – which seems to merge with the ascent of New Labour in a lurid kind of fever dream – began with his trespassing the Brit Awards stage in February 1996 during Michael Jackson’s performance of “Earth Song”. “I don’t really like talking about that particular incident,” he says, looking down at his knees. “People said at the time that it was a publicity stunt but it wasn’t really like that. It had a toxic effect on my life.”

There is a considerable mismatch between the folk memory of the moment, and the memory held by the perpetrator himself. To most, Cocker’s actions look more heroic as the years go by: the last cry of a bloated Eighties megastar defeated by British indie, or something to that effect. Jackson’s pageantry seems worse now than it did at the time: the white messiah robes and outstretched arms; the children lining up to embrace him; the rabbi bowing his head for a kiss. The pipe cleaner figure of Cocker floats on stage looking puzzled, wafts an imaginary fart at the audience (with his bottom clothed) and briefly raises his T-shirt. Hardly something to be arrested for (as he was, before being released without charge) but the 1990s are a draconian place, when you travel back in time.

[see also: Bridget Jones and the Blair years]

Cocker was represented, in his assault charge, by the comedian Bob Mortimer, a former solicitor. David Bowie’s personal film crew were able to provide tapes shot from a certain angle to prove that he had not, in fact, knocked into any children when taking the stage. But there was condemnation from Damon Albarn (“he’s got some very odd ideas about reality”) and Jackson (“sickened, saddened, shocked, upset, cheated and angry”).

The tabloids subjected him to feverish attention. Cocker had always talked about drugs – the liner notes of Pulp’s single “Sorted For E’s & Wizz” showed you how to make a drugs wrap (“Ban This Sick Stunt” said the Daily Mirror). And he’d always talked about sex – he watched a lot of porn in hotel rooms on tour. Now, there were kiss and tells, and an attempt by the Sun to engineer a meeting between Cocker and his estranged father in Australia.

What thoughts were passing through his mind when he stood up and walked towards Jackson’s stage? He won’t say. “One thing I will say is that people are still convinced that I pulled my trousers down and showed my bottom. And it’s really not true. That’s when I realised what a c*** David Cameron was.”

In November 2011, he explains, the Observer put celebrities’ questions to the new prime minister of the coalition. Cocker asked Cameron whether he really understood the phrases “futures” and “derivatives”. Cameron gave a long answer to prove that he did and added: “I was there that night, at the Brit Awards. I saw him led away. I saw his bum.”

Cocker stirs his Americano.

“I just thought, ‘OK, you are a liar. You’ve just shown yourself to be a liar and a complete twat’.”

In the New Statesman that year, Cocker wrote a reflection on hangovers, inspired by the one he had the day after Tony Blair was elected. The hangover lingered, as he criticised New Labour’s treatment of single mothers, students and the disabled. It lasted 13 years, he said. It ended when Cameron got in – not because things were better, but because that’s when he started drinking again.

There is a photograph of Cocker as a long-legged child pictured with his mother, granny, sister and aunties outside their terraced house in Intake, a suburb of Sheffield. With her red pixie haircut and large specs, his mother, an art student, looks just like an indie girl from the 1990s – or a member of Pulp – in a strange cultural collision of the original hippies and the Sixties revival decades later.

Cocker lived on the dole in the Eighties trying to get his band off the ground. During the Britpop era, Labour’s Welfare To Work scheme made such a life much trickier, inspiring a campaign by Oasis’ manager Alan McGee. The dole must have had a huge impact on people’s ability to pursue creative work?

“Probably for six months, and then you get lazy,” Cocker says. “Not wanting to sound like Norman Tebbit, but you do, and that’s what drove me away from Sheffield – people were dropping like flies, having drug overdoses or losing it, and I thought, ‘It’s only a matter of time before I end up there’. So that’s when I started hatching my escape plan.”

His ticket out – a place to study film at Central Saint Martins in London – produced “Common People”, one of the most famous songs of the 20th century. Pulp were more refined, classy, slippery and sardonic than other Britpop bands. The image of working-class life as seen through the eyes of the song’s Greek art student gets to the heart of Cocker’s use of irony: he was interested in perceptions of class difference, perceptions of the north-south divide, as much as the real thing.

Having lived in the south for 35 years, he tells me the BBC’s insistence on using regional accents for announcers is a patronising attempt to keep people in their place. His mother became a Tory parish councillor for the village of Carlton in Lindrick, Nottinghamshire. In 1998 she told the Mirror, in an embarrassing interview, that she admired Thatcher – until the third term, when the prime minister became a megalomaniac. “I raised Jarvis on Tory values that if you’ve worked hard all your life, you want to keep what you’ve earned,” she said. Her son tells me he doesn’t agree with his mother’s support of Brexit – “but you won’t find many people who are going to say that everything’s going to plan. We’re on the downhill, and everybody’s got their own theories of why that is.”

Unlike his mother, Cocker has voted Labour since he was old enough to vote. “I can’t imagine voting for any other party,” he says, but that doesn’t mean he’s excited by the current one. “Corbyn I was excited about. But having spent a lot of time moving between France and here, his inability to come to any position on Brexit finished it for me.” Keir Starmer’s Labour, he says, “feels like the politics of opposition. It’s happening to the left all over the world, isn’t it? People have started wondering what level of dictatorship would be OK.”

A few years ago he visited the Magna Science Adventure Centre in Rotherham which recreates the world of the steel mills. Watching the installation of a “big melt” – when molten steel was poured into giant electric arc furnaces – made him strangely emotional. “It must be some kind of folk memory,” he says. “It was awful work, and loads of people got f***ed by the time they were 40. But there was some result and that’s what people miss – that there isn’t anything to glue people together in that way. Imagine working in a shipyard. After six months, suddenly there’s this big, massive f***-off ship and you’ve been part of that.

“There is a nostalgia, not for vibration white finger or lung disease, but for times when people worked together and there would be a result. I’m not an authority. It’s not for me to tell the Labour Party what to do, but I think – well, I thought I stumbled on something.”

He still praises the Sheffield city council, once nicknamed the “Socialist Republic of South Yorkshire”, which allowed children to travel for 2p on buses. He once said that when things took off for Britpop, he thought he was going to be part of something that changed society, like punk did, but it just turned out to be showbusiness.

Of all the extra-curricular jobs Cocker has done, the one the public took to most, which really seemed to fit him, was his gig as a DJ on BBC Radio 6 Music, running his Sunday Service show. His voice was as much a part of his sex appeal for teenage girls as his looks had been. The show explored a mundane but deeply nostalgic aspect of British culture: that time on a Sunday afternoon when everyone felt flat because it was nearly time for the week to start again, and you hadn’t done your homework. 

He’d resisted radio for a long time because of his father. Mac Cocker walked out in 1970, when Jarvis was seven, leaving Sheffield for Sydney, where he began a 33-year career with the Australian Broadcasting Corporation. His gentle Yorkshire accent was appreciated on the airwaves. He had a show called The Night Train on Saturdays (Jarvis has a Radio 4 show for insomniacs called Wireless Nights); and a show called The Globetrotter on Sunday afternoons, and another called Vinyl Museum. High of forehead with long hair and large National Health-style specs, Mac wore a tank top not unlike those his son wore in Pulp. He sang with a band called Life On Mars.

Traditionally, Cocker doesn’t talk much about his father. As we begin to do so, a very tiny and very hairy caterpillar makes its way along the edge of the table in front of him. It is barely a centimetre long, with legs so fine they move in little ripples of dark and light. Cocker does what all humans do when faced with a caterpillar and tries to persuade it to clamber aboard the nail on his index finger. After two or three refusals, it does so.

Mac Cocker left his son with small bits of information about himself, like a copy of Harold Pinter’s The Birthday Party on the shelf. When Jarvis was 12, he came to visit, bringing records with him.

“That’s when I found out he was a DJ. He’d obviously just gone into some record label and picked up some records and gave me them. I ascribed a real meaning to them, but it was just promos. They were wank. They were just these really shit records! Anyway…”

Cocker wonders if he was propelled into music because of his father, but explains that any biological imperative, if it comes from an absent parent, remains a mysterious thing. “I know it must come from him, because my mother is so tone-deaf. But if you don’t know him, it’s like it’s come from somewhere supernatural.”

His family would say, you’re just like your father – “but usually as a negative thing. It was strange to be brought up with this cloudy non-presence.” Cocker and his father struck up a form of relationship eventually, whenever Pulp toured in Australia.

“You’re telling yourself that you sprang from the loins of this person, but if you don’t know the person, that disconnect is really uncomfortable. What used to drive me mad was having really inconsequential conversations. When you tried and go on to the deeper stuff, it was just words… I could tell he was always very uncomfortable, and I’m not exactly the world’s best person for talking about emotions, so I was always terrified that an awkward silence was going to descend.”

Did they at least share music? What kind was Mac into? “Jazz,” he says, in disbelief. His father left a record behind in the Sheffield house – an EP by the Sixties French singer Gilbert Bécaud. “You know when singles have those big centres? He’d made a centre for it by cutting a bit out of a Player’s cigarette packet. That had always been in the house. I knew it was his, because his name was written on the back of it.”

When Mac was dying, Cocker visited him in Australia and took the Bécaud EP with him.

“I just Blu-Tacked it on his wall. It was the only thing I had of his. I just thought, because he went a bit away with the fairies before he died, I thought, that’s something from his past. I just stuck it on there.”

And left it?

“Yeah.”

In October this year, Cocker will release his own album of French music – songs originally sung by Françoise Hardy, Serge Gainsbourg, Jacques Dutronc – to accompany the forthcoming Wes Anderson film The French Dispatch, which is set in the 1960s. It features a fictional pop star called Tip Top who is modelled partly on Cocker. Anderson directed his intonation, his delivery, in the studio. Cocker’s French, he says, is “something I should be ashamed and embarrassed about”, despite the fact he got to A-level standard, was married for six years to the French stylist Camille Bidault-Waddington, lived in Paris, and has a French son. He regularly travels to France to visit Albert, now 18, and stays in an apartment backing on to the Hotel Amour. Albert looks just like him. During the pandemic he got around the social distancing rules by hugging him through a bed sheet.

In 1998 Cocker told the Sydney Morning Herald “I just want to find a way of being an adult without it being boring.” Does he feel he’s achieved this? “I know I’m still slightly immature,” he says. “I mistrusted adults as a child. But there’s something really grotesque about people who refuse to grow up. When I became a father, people were always saying [he whines] ‘You’re going to change’. But actually it doesn’t change you, it just opens up a new bit of you. It was a real revelation to me, to realise I had that instinct. I found it liberating. As you move through life, these little doors open. The other ones are still open as well.”

He thinks all human beings believe they just missed a golden age. For him it was the Sixties, the decade in which he was born, “when the Beatles were still a group. They came to an end as the Seventies came, and I was six or seven. That’s the same year that me dad left. It felt like, OK, you’ve had your fun.

“When you’re a kid and you’re looking at the adult world,” he ponders, “you’re only looking at what’s current at that time. Like me wanting to be a pop star. By the time it happened, pop stars were on their way out. By the time you’re old enough to be part of it, it’s gone. So in a funny way, kids live in the past.

“I think that’s the fatal flaw in the whole Britpop thing. I don’t like to say that word, because it was an invented label – but that was the fatal flaw, and it takes us back to the fatal flaw of electing a Labour government and believing it would be the same as it used to be. Let’s make the Beatles again… Oasis really tried to do that, but you can’t make a period in history happen again.”

As a songwriter, Cocker telescoped himself into the future with “Disco 2000” and “Help The Aged”. The former felt open-hearted but the latter, intended as a kiss-off to youth-obsessed politics, sounded sour at the time.

“It always used to drive me mad, people going on about, ‘Oh, you’re so ironic’,” he says. “It would be rubbish to devote your life to doing something that was insincere. I guess I’ll often undercut what I’m singing about as I’m doing it – and that’s just because of the way my mind works. As I think one thing, I’ll think the opposite as well. Later in life, you discover that you are allowed to have two thoughts: it’s a natural function of the way your mind works.”

Some would say that, as you progress through life, you get better at trusting your instincts?

“I think if you just follow your instincts your whole life, you’ll be a monster.”

Cocker brightens, perhaps because our interview is ending. When he talks about his hobbies, he gives a big leonine flash, raising his silvery eyebrows above the frames of his glasses.

I phoned him a few weeks later, after the summer, to see what he’d been up to. He was at a secret location in Spain, making a movie he wasn’t allowed to talk about. A pandemic spent going through his loft, and noticing priceless keepsakes among the rubbish, has inspired him to write a book about pop and nostalgia – Good Pop, Bad Pop – to be published next year.

He is dying to be back on stage after two years off it. “I’m touching a wooden table now. We’ve already had to postpone this tour twice.” And he talks about Labour again – he really seems to care! You think back to his manifesto, his teenage sketch of a meat cleaver chopping off a hand. Then you look at a life lived gently, moving between projects, ponderings and “random trivial things” – and you wonder what his revolution would look like.

Jarvis Cocker’s new album “Tip Top: Chansons d’Ennui” is released on 22 October.

[linkemon]

Vivi (Baji Keisuke x Reader)

Friendly reminder that English is not my first language. You can check my Masterlists both in English and Polish here. Consider supporting me on Ko-fi. You can also check out my commissions if you’re interested.

Other oneshots can be found here.

[ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ] ᴄᴏᴍᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴄʟᴜꜱɪᴏɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ꜰᴇʟʟ ɪɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʙᴀᴊɪ ᴋᴇɪꜱᴜᴋᴇ. ꜱʜᴇ ʙᴇɢɪɴꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴘᴇɴᴅ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜɪᴍ, ᴏɴʟʏ ᴛᴏ ꜰɪɴᴀʟʟʏ ꜰɪɴᴅ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪꜱ ᴀꜱ ꜱʜᴇ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ…

ᴀᴅᴅɪᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ɪɴꜰᴏʀᴍᴀᴛɪᴏɴ: 1. ᴏɴᴇꜱʜᴏᴛ ᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ꜱᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀɪɴꜱ ꜱᴘᴏɪʟᴇʀꜱ.

[Reader] looked around the library. Dust particles danced in the bright light streaming from the huge windows. Some students fought over access to computers. The teacher on duty tried to calm them down. Most people, however, sat quietly, with their noses in books. They were cramming for exams. Two people glanced her way quickly from time to time. That's why she always hid in that corner, away from watchful eyes. The rumors about meeting Baji outside of class didn't do her any good. No one close to her approved of this. They heard various things about him, often untrue. They were afraid and rightly so.  

She looked at her notebook again that afternoon. She did all her homework. She also managed to study for all the tests. She had nothing left. She tapped her fingers impatiently on the table. She was dying of boredom. How long can you do one exercise? Keisuke has proven to her many times that there are people in the world who are not suitable for mathematics. No matter how much she tutored him, he was hopeless. Many times she wanted to give up but then she remembered his mother. Mrs. Baji fell into despair after her son had to repeat a grade. She didn't want it to happen again, so she actually begged her young neighbour to do something about his hopeless state of knowledge. She didn't have much money but she often cooked her favourite dishes and invited her to dinner. To this day, the girl still doesn't know how she managed to make up for all the gaps in the boy's education. The worst thing was that he really tried. She supervised him at every opportunity. Sometimes, late at night, she saw the lamp on in his room. And yet, he simply couldn't stick certain things in his mind forever.  

— What strategy did you use? — [Reader] asked, wanting to break the silence. She couldn't sit like this forever.  

— None — Keisuke coughed. — I don't know how to start this task.  

— Why didn't you say anything?! — The girl ran her hand over her face resignedly.  

— You seemed deep in thought — he replied calmly.  

— Take off those glasses. Right now.

She couldn't look at the pair of glasses on his nose anymore. Not only did he not look like himself but his eyesight was also ruined. The guys in the gang told him that if he put them on, he would become smarter. It didn't really work. And certainly not when it comes to school.  

— What for? — he asked.  

She reached towards him. He had more beautiful hair than herself. She admitted it reluctantly. He wore his long black locks in a ponytail. She pulled the elastic band off, letting them fall freely. He looked very handsome. If he walked like this every day, many students would surely send him love letters. Maybe it was better that only she had the privilege of seeing him like this...  

— Standard tactics don't work on you — she said. — When you're getting ready for a fight, you look like you do now. Imagine that these exercises are enemies and you're about to kick their ass.  

— How do you know what I look like when I fight? — Baji grinned. — Someone is watching me...  

— First of all, I'd be a fool not to look at you. — The boy's reaction was priceless. For a moment he was completely confused. He wasn't used to anyone responding to him like that. Certainly not apart from the people of Tokyo Manji. — And secondly, focus. — She pointed to the notebook.  

He cracked his neck and clenched his fist. For a moment, he looked like he was really about to go and kick the young students a few shelves away. Eventually, however, he began to read the text eagerly. He used two large sheets of paper. He drew and scribbled furiously. After a few minutes of scribbling, he gave girl the exercise. It's true that he calculated the delta incorrectly but it was a start. Especially compared to what was before.  

— If I do the next task, will you give me a kiss? — His low, gravelly voice sounded somewhere close to her ear.  

She knew he was teasing her but it still felt nice. He didn't joke like that with everyone. Keisuke didn't allow women near him at all. Outside of her. And she was very flattered to be the exception.  

— We both know you won't do it — She leaned towards him.  

The academic level of difficulty was clearly marked with the exercise. While she would have had a chance against it, he would almost certainly have failed at the very start.  

— I was hoping you'd care enough to help me. — He laughed. — It's time for me — he announced, getting up from the table.  

Toman was probably going to the meeting again. He'll put on a black jacket, get on his bike and go give someone a good beating. It never really scared her. Yes, he could be brutal but he never attacked people who didn't know what they were getting into. She had seen him deal with guys who harassed girls at school more than once. He often saved his younger colleagues from being attacked by nasty bullies. He didn't brag about it at all. He did it after class. Usually, no one recognized him afterward anyway because he looked very different at school and outside of it.  

It was no exaggeration to say that she had fallen in love with Baji. He showed her his other, softer side. Like when he held her hair to keep it from falling into the bowl of ramen. Or when he helped her get to class on time because she overslept. And he once even said that if he had to choose one girl and go on a date, it would be [Reader]. The latter was an overheard conversation between him and Chifuyu. Somehow it turned out that she was just returning to her apartment. The boys sometimes liked to sit on the playground near the estate. It was then that the truth dawned on her. It wasn't flirting anymore, it was something else. Some kind of bond that they will probably develop into something more soon. She enjoyed it.  

She didn't even notice how much time she spent in the library.  

— [Reader]-chan, have you been sitting here all afternoon? — Her friend touched her arm gently.  

— Almost — the girl nodded.  

Sashimi had been very worried about her lately. She insisted on walking her home. She also often asked them to go out together. She didn't mind, although the frequency with which they did it was starting to tire her a little. In the end, though, [Reader] let her be dragged and they had a good time.  

— I thought you were just talking to someone... — Her friend looked worried.  

She probably guessed she spent time with Baji. She didn't want to upset her because Sashimi never liked the boy. She had formed an opinion about him a long time ago. Gangs were bad, dangerous and that's it. She would go even crazier knowing that this famous legend goes to the same school.  

— You must've misheard. — [Reader] waved her hand carelessly and put her things into her bag. — Let's go.  

***  

Something banged hard on the window. [Reader] took off her headphones, trying to figure out if she had misheard. The autumn wind sometimes blew a lot of garbage towards her house. Especially on days like this, where the sky looked like it was going to rain any moment.  

And yet the sound repeated itself. So she went to the window. She didn't expect to see Keisuke on the other side of the glass at all. A fat black tomcat trotted next to him. He wagged his tail impatiently and mewed loudly. He certainly didn't like this weather.  

— How did you get here, Baji-kun? — The girl glanced at him and then down.  

She let him inside, feeling the cool breeze of the approaching storm.  

— I climbed the tree. — He dusted the small brown leaves off his jacket.  

— Where did you leave the motorbike? — She glanced out the window again. There was no sign of his beloved vehicle anywhere.  

— One street away. Don't worry, I'm not that stupid. I know your folks don't like me.  

She breathed a sigh of relief. Her parents didn't like the boy. They certainly wouldn't be happy to see him. Recently, they clearly reminded their daughter that it was not a good idea to associate with such people. She protested for a long time and eventually they reached a compromise. However, she decided to stay out of their sight for now when the two of them are together. A sudden meeting certainly wouldn't improve the situation now.  

— You mentioned you weren't feeling well, so I came. — Keisuke sat down on the soft, plush carpet. He lazily stretched his legs and turned his head towards the ceiling.  

[Reader] widened her eyes. She had indeed written him a message but the last time she checked, he had not read it or replied. She thought he wouldn't really care. After all, everyone can have a bad day sometimes. Meanwhile, he escaped from the meeting with the gang. In addition, he made this strange but impressive entrance. She felt stupid. She was wearing unsophisticated, crumpled clothes and funny, old-fashioned slippers. She furtively brushed her hair as he admired the photos in her room, just to look a little more put together.  

— Cool slippies. Do you feel like a grandma already? — Her friend grinned.  

He seemed genuinely amused by the concept of stuffed cats on her feet.  

— Says the guy who wore glasses and thought they would make him smarter... — [Reader] showed him the middle finger.  

She felt embarrassed. Not that she didn't like wearing those slippers but now her neighbour certainly wouldn't let her live. He definitely won't miss the opportunity to remind her about it during some tutoring.  

— I thought if I brought him back it would make you feel better — Baji nodded at the animal hanging out in the middle of the room.  

The fat cat put his head under the girl's hand. She took him onto her lap. She stroked the fluffy ball steadily. The black fur was extremely soft. Baji certainly brushed it. She knew that the boy dealt with stray cats. He devoted what little time he had left from the day to taking care of them. His mother complained about how much fur they left in his room. And also what part of the monthly budget they consume. But she could always be placated. All it took was the pleading looks of a few animals and the promise that her son would start studying. Everything had been going on this way for several years. There were no signs of change.  

There was something nice about sitting here with Keisuke in the warmth when it was starting to rain outside. Talking about trivial matters brought peace of mind. Even if they didn't cover any specific topics. His mere presence helped cheer her up.  

— Why exactly did you feel bad today? — Baji asked at one point. — Do I need to beat someone up?  

She saw in his eyes that he was asking seriously. If someone actually hurt her, he would be ready to go and hit whoever she pointed out. He probably wouldn't even ask what, how or why.  

— You don't have to hit anyone. She laughed. After a while, however, she sighed heavily. — I've just had a terrible headache lately and I'm not in a good mood. There is no specific reason.  

The boy looked at her carefully, then put his hand to her forehead and immediately took it away.  

— What are you doing? — [Reader] looked at him, amused.

— I'm checking for a fever — he said.

She put her hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. Still, she snorted quietly. She couldn't help herself.  

— You wouldn't be able to check anything by swatting your hand like that! Have you watched some kind of romantic movies?

His face confirmed that yes, he had watched the them. As silly as it was, it was also a bit romantic. Therefore, she spared him further suffering and changed the topic of conversation.  

A black kitten was circling the room. At first he acted normal but then he became a bit uncomfortable. He walked around in circles, unable to find a place.  

— What is it about? — The girl scratched him behind the ears.  

— He probably misses me — Keisuke said.  

As if on cue, the animal began to meow. A long wail echoed through the room.  

— [Reader], is that a cat? I thought you were talking to someone. — Her mother's voice came from the living room.  

She was probably watching TV and the sound only now reached her ears.  

— It's just a new ringtone on your phone! — the daughter shouted. — I talked to Sashimi!  

She looked pointedly at her guest. They should have been in bed long ago. Tomorrow was another day at school.  

— I think it's time for me to go — Baji said, straightening his jacket.  

She opened the window. The cat jumped out first, even though it was already starting to rain outside. He meowed goodbye and jumped straight into the tree. Keisuke followed him.  

***  

[Reader] was walking along a quiet street with Baji. The area was desolate. Few people were out this late in the evening. And certainly not in November. However, the starry sky encouraged them to continue walking. So she pulled her jacket tighter around her, trailing after the boy.  

At one point, she saw a familiar, blond hair. It stood out in the grey-brown landscape. The light from the lamps reflected from it from a distance.  

— Matsuno-kouhai! — she exclaimed.  

The younger colleague turned towards her. Keiji gave her a scolding look. It was supposed to be just the two of them. And now they will have company.  

— Good evening, [Reader]-san… — Chifuyu's face showed concern. He stood still for a moment, as if he didn't know what to say. — How do you feel?  

He had always been formal with her but probably not that formal. She suspected that he had a crush on her some time ago. However, he felt respect for Baji and that was probably why he tried to suppress his feelings. Since she realized this, she saw him less often. She didn't want to break his heart even more.

— All right. Thanks for asking, although it's a rather strange question. — The older friend smiled slightly.  

— You took it the worst of all of us and it seemed to me that… — The unfinished sentence hung in the air.  

She noticed with horror that tears were dancing in the corners of kouhai's eyes. He lowered his head and quickly wiped them away.  

— What are you talking about? — asked the girl. She felt like she was missing something. As if it was something she should know.  

She looked at Keiji. However, he shrugged. Apparently he had no idea what was going on either.  

— I don't think we understand what you're talking about.  

— We don't? — The boy looked at her with surprise. He seemed genuinely shocked.  

— Something's wrong? We have no idea. We were here all evening. — She gave him a worried look.  

— [Reader]-senpai, what what kind of we are you talking about? — he asked with a serious expression.  

— Me and Baji-kun. Who else do you see here?  

Chifuyu's eyes widened for a moment. Like he really couldn't believe something. She didn't understand at all why he had this reaction. He grabbed her shoulders tightly and shook her.  

— [Reader]-senpai, Baji-san is dead…  

She felt as if someone had hit her. She grabbed her head. Excruciating pain ripped through her skull. As if something was trying to come to the surface. Everything inside her was turning over. She felt like vomiting.  

— But... he's here...  

She wanted to say that he was still here but when she looked back, she saw no one. Only an empty sidewalk and a few rustling leaves.  

— He was here just a moment ago! — she shouted desperately, looking around.  

She looked fat the boy in disbelief, feeling something bursting in her head. Some fragments of memories seemed to deform and blur. Was he in the library with her? Did he come to her room? Was she walking with him just now? 

— He committed suicide. Less than a week ago. On Bloody Halloween — Chifuyu said in a quiet, pained voice. — You were with me at his funeral. You are standing in front of a cemetery. — Matsuno hugged her tightly.  

She looked uncertainly to her right. He was right. Her legs brought her here. There was a gate in front of her. And beyond, there were rows of tombstones, decorated with flowers and incense sticks. Slowly everything came back to her. The sight of his cold, lifeless body. A gentle smile on his face as she said her final goodbyes to the corpse. His mother's despair as he was cremated. These senseless condolences from all my loved ones. As if they were going to bring him back to life.  

— It's not true! — she protested.  

She sobbed. His black jacket was darkened by the tears that dripped profusely down her face. She felt snotty. She sniffled again and again. The lights of the lamps were blurring more and more. The boy pulled her towards him. He held her very tightly and she knew he was crying too, although more quietly. She howled with shock and anger. To the world for being so damn unfair. At herself for not noticing anything. At Baji for leaving and not thinking about how she and his mother would feel. At Hanemiya because he was the one who pushed him to do this. And also on Tokyo Manji because they were shitty friends. Everyone was guilty. And now there was nothing that could be done about it because there was no way to turn back time.  

She blinked hard. She thought she saw Keiji for a brief moment. With his cheeky smile, on a motorbike and a black cat next to him.  

— Don't go — she sobbed.

***  

[Reader] took out Peyoung Yakisoba from the bag and handed Chifuyu the chopsticks. They ate in silence. This became their ritual. Ever since their friend left, they kept their promise. They left him his favourite dish according to his last wish. They emptied the package halfway and then placed it on the monument. They hoped he would like it. 

The woman extended her hand towards Matsuno. He grabbed her and squeezed it tightly. They didn't give up. Even though everyone around seemed to have come to terms with Baji's death. They were still working. With each passing day they were getting closer to getting rid of Kisaki. Revenge became, as it were, their driving force. And yet, somewhere in these negative feelings, there was also room for love. 

For a long time, they wondered what Keiji would say if he saw their relationship. He would probably laugh and say he was jealous. But then he would wish them luck. She knew it. If it weren't for this feeling, they certainly wouldn't have decided to do all this.  

She had support in the man walking by her side. He understood her better than anyone else.  

— So where are we going for dinner today? — [Reader] asked.  

— I have no idea. There will probably be a lot of food at the board meeting but I wouldn't want to eat at the same table with them. We'll figure something out when I get back. — Matsuno wrapped his arms around her waist and they moved towards the tall building towering over the entire city.  

[beauclary]

who gray gardner ( @insainted ) where the gym in the basement / early afternoon when april 16

in theory, he could take the elevator ― and the truth of the matter is that he very well might, at least once he moves onto the heavier equipment ― but there's something almost therapeutic about going up and down eleven flights of stairs, again and again ; the way it ignites a familiar burn in his chest, in his legs. it's an excellent distraction, beau decides, a comfortable one. and anyway, he's been meaning to bring down all the gym equipment from his loft for a while now, but he's got even more reason to do it as of late. things aren't great at the wexley ― beau is an optimist, sure, but he's not ignorant to how rapidly the quality of life has declined for some of his closest friends in recent days ― and beau would be the first to advocate for exercise as a means of mental and physical self-care. it's not much, but it's what he's got to give.

he's only on his third trip down ― and really starting to feel it, goodness gracious, he thought he was keeping in better shape! ― with arms full of resistance bands and dumbbells when he collides with another body. it's his own fault ― he's not expecting to find anyone else down here, and he's so caught up in a breathless half-lip sync of the song playing through the earbuds of the mp3 player he borrowed from ziggy that he's not paying a lick of attention. he doesn't fall or anything ( he's much too sturdy for that ) but the size of the silhouette he's run into does have him stumbling back a step or two, and he loses a couple of dumbbells in the process. they echo when they clatter to the basement floor.

beau has the decency to look sheepish as he quickly scoops down to pick them up before glancing up at the other man, tugging the headphones from his ears by the wire as he does. ❝ that's my bad, brother, ❞ he apologizes quickly, ❝ i should'a been lookin' where i was goin' but then dolly parton came on, and i got a little ... ❞ he trails off, shaking his head before nodding down at the bundle of equipment in his arms, weights tangled up in the bungee cords and elastic bands that are slipping precariously from his grasp. ❝ hey, would you mind givin' me a hand real quick? ❞

[eiirisworkshop]

The Measure of a Tit

A Sailor Moon ficlet Available to read on Ao3 here.

~

It was nice to get all the senshi together for a vacation—at least, once the usual “we can't go anywhere without having to save the world” had been dealt with. That whole mess was days ago now, though, and they were enjoying the chance to unwind a little. This evening, Chibiusa and Hoturo and the cats had passed out a while ago, all cuddled up in a heap on a bed in one of their hotel rooms, and the rest had wound up sprawled on in a loose circle across the sofa and floor in the font room of Michiru and Haruka's suite, eating increasingly cold pizza, bickering and giggling their way through a wandering array of subjects.

“It wasn't my fault!” Usagi insisted while Rei hummed doubtfully.

“Here's the thing, here's the thing though,” Makoto said, leaning forward on one elbow and pointing at Haruka. “I swear—and there is no way to say this that isn't a little weird but—I swear you have different amounts of tit at different times.”

For an impressive fraction of a second, both Haruka and Michiru kept their expressions schooled, then they caught each other's gaze and burst out laughing. Haruka slid sideways down the TV stand she was leaning against to rest her forehead on Michiru's shoulder while she collected herself enough to answer.

“I do though!” Haruka said, sitting up and tossing a hand in the air. “Okay, look. I'm not wearing anything under this.” She stood, deftly undoing one more button on her shirt as she did to show a significant amount of sideboob.

“Oh jeez,” Usagi mumbled, half shielding her eyes with her fingers.

Haruka continued over Usagi, “So this is my tits in their natural state, but—”

She halfway hopped over Ami to retreat into the next room. To the sound of a zipper and a fair amount of rustling, the other senshi exchanged bemused looks while Michiru grinned knowingly. Then Haruka returned, doing up her buttons to show only a tasteful amount of cleavage and looking markedly bustier. “This is me in a padded bra.”

“You did not pack any,” Michiru half-accused.

“No, of course, not—this is yours,” Haruka dismissed breezily. “And it's a good thing I'm only planning on wearing it for a minute; the band is too tight. But the point is,” she preened a little, turning side to side, and grabbed at her own chest, “extra volume, extra bounce. But!”

She ducked to the next room again, reaching up the back of her shirt to unhook the bra before she was even through the door. This time, when she returned, it was with her buttons done most of the way up and her chest looking distinctly flat. “I never said I was a boy,” she said with a bit of a shrug, dropping easily into a more masculine speech pattern. “Then again, I didn't have to.”

Minako took a breath and made several false starts at forming a question, then settled on, “How?”

“It's called a chest binder,” Michiru answered, draping an arm around her partner's shoulders as Haruka sat back down.

“So, like a sports bra, but more?” Makoto ventured.

“Pretty much, yeah,” Haruka said. “Though, not actually recommend for wearing during exercise.”

“Most of the bras you own are sports bras, though,” Michiru noted.

“Yeah. Bunch of sports bras, couple binders, that green one I should really just let die because the elastic has given up, the nice one, and that blue one you got me with the matching shorts, which is padded to hell and back.”

Michiru giggled, Usagi hid in her hands, Makoto nodded impressedly, Ami looked thoughtful, and Minako and Rei both pretended they weren't blushing.

“Anyway,” Haruka said, undoing a couple buttons to show just a little of what looked like a tanktop underneath the shirt, “the moral of the story is, yes, you are not imagining things, how much tit I have varies wildly depending on what I'm wearing. I don't usually bother with a binder under a blazer, because the jacket is structured enough that a sports bra is plenty, but I think the day we met at the arcade may have been one of the few times I did wear a binder with my uniform, so Usagi—it really wasn't your fault.”

“Thank you! Eep!” Usagi scrambled to catch the pizza box she had knocked off the table with her gesture of vindication.

“I was under the impression,” Ami began softly, “that binders were usually worn by transgender men and drag artists.”

“Most often, sure,” Haruka agreed, “but really they're for anybody who wants their tits out of the way for a while. And,” Haruka smirked, continuing in a more feminine register, “I never said I was a girl, did I?”

Usagi frowned around a bite of pizza from the rescued pizza box. “I thought you were a lesbian?”

Haruka laughed. “That one I definitely am!”

[sierrasocks0]

How to Choose the Right Size and Fit for Diabetic Socks

Choosing the right socks is essential for everyone, but it becomes even more critical for those living with diabetes. Proper footwear and sock choices can help prevent complications like foot ulcers and infections. This guide will help you understand how to select the right size and fit for diabetic socks.

Why Diabetic Socks Matter

Diabetic socks are specially designed to provide comfort, support, and protection for sensitive feet. They often feature:

Non-binding tops: To avoid restricting circulation.

Seamless construction: To reduce the risk of friction and blisters.

Moisture-wicking materials: To keep feet dry and reduce the risk of fungal infections.

Cushioning: For added protection against impacts.

Key Considerations for Size and Fit

1. Measure Your Feet

To find the right size, start by measuring your feet. Here’s how:

Length: Stand barefoot on a piece of paper. Trace your foot, then measure from the heel to the longest toe.

Width: Measure the widest part of your foot.

Use these measurements to refer to the sizing chart provided by the sock manufacturer, as sizes can vary between brands.

2. Consider Sock Length

Diabetic socks come in various lengths, including:

Ankle: Good for everyday wear and activities.

Crew: Offers additional coverage, ideal for colder weather.

Knee-high: Provides extra warmth and support for those who require it.

Choose the length that suits your lifestyle and needs.

3. Choose the Right Fit

Fit is critical for comfort and protection. Here’s what to look for:

Snug but not tight: The sock should fit snugly without pinching. Check the top band; it shouldn’t leave marks on your skin.

No bunching: Ensure there is no excess fabric that can cause friction or discomfort.

Seamless design: Look for socks that are designed without seams or with flat seams to minimize irritation.

4. Look for Special Features

Consider socks with additional features beneficial for diabetics:

Compression: Some diabetic socks offer mild compression to improve circulation. Consult your healthcare provider before choosing these.

Temperature control: Socks made from breathable materials can help regulate foot temperature.

Antimicrobial properties: These can help prevent odor and fungal infections.

Additional Tips

Try Before You Buy: If possible, try the socks on before purchasing. Walk around to ensure they feel comfortable and secure.

Check for Quality: Invest in high-quality socks that can withstand regular wear without losing their shape or elasticity.

Consider Multiple Pairs: It’s beneficial to have a few pairs for different activities, such as exercise, work, or lounging at home.

Conclusion

Selecting the right size and fit for diabetic socks is vital for maintaining foot health. By measuring your feet accurately, considering sock length and fit, and looking for special features, you can find the perfect pair that provides comfort and protection. Always consult with your healthcare provider for personalized recommendations based on your specific needs. Taking these steps can help prevent complications and ensure your feet stay healthy and comfortable.

[bending-sickle]

just at the bus stop and this lady commented on my teeny tiny water bottle and i told her it was for the gym and she told me how she has painful hands and shoulders and i told her about elastic band exercises that helped my mom recover a lot and all of this with us barely understanding each other’s language. when i had to leave for my bus she blew me a kiss and said shukran* so :>

small talk with strangers is one of the most beautiful things you can do in your day

* thank you in arabic

[koifishart]

I want to be Your Koi Fish - Nine Tails

Warning: +18 content, criminal underworld, intercourse, strong language - and so on

Fanfiction based on: "Baki" by Itagaki Keisuke

>8<

~ TAIL NO. 4 - Brother

The first thing she saw, as soon as the Host opened his eyes, was the snow-white ceiling. She already thought that somehow it was THE CEILING she cared so much, the one in an apartment building in Japan, but she was quickly brought down to earth. Perhaps it was an apartment building, judging by the luxurious furnishings, but not THE APARTMENT. They got up surprisingly efficiently, vigorously, stretching enormously, then the Host immediately jumped to the ground floor and did a few deep push-ups. The blood began to circulate even faster in the already well-exercised body. She sensed a warm, swiftly flowing energy, while, as it turned out, after a brief glance in the mirror, the man was hurriedly preparing a simple but surprisingly nutritious breakfast. A very nice change from the last Bearer. They quickly dressed in sports outfits consisting of a tightly tucked tank top and loose shorts on a wide elastic band, tucked appropriate footwear on their feet and ran to a charming park in the vicinity of the building. An enviable condition! He ran the entire route without any problems, barely getting out of breath at the end, and he also took some difficulties, such as a bit of jumping over obstacles or ascents with a fairly high degree of inclination. Soon after, she watched him get into a luxury car to go to work downtown. The big glass building, among the other glass buildings ... Judging by the street names that flew over her again and again on the navigation of quite a large Host's phone, she was somewhere in the United States. She sighed disapprovingly, rolling her spiritual eyes. She did not think that she would make such a great trip around the world. The day in the office passed quite quickly, it was full of ringing phones, incoming e-mails, coaxing secretaries, business meetings ... In the meantime, there was a moment for lunch, as nutritious as breakfast, which made her heart living with macronutrients grow with every moment. Although it might seem otherwise, the man was able to find a golden mean in this, after all, stressful life. She sensed it, amazing inner peace, the ideal of functioning. It aroused her vigilance - why this man?

- Mr. Stewart, your brother is on the second line. - young woman said a moment before he was about to get up from the chair and take the briefcase.

- Thank you, Susan. - he replied calmly, and when she closed the door, he reached for the receiver sluggishly. - Peter?

- Marc, I'm at the hospital. - brother said bluntly, with obvious difficulty.

- What happened? - the Bearer asked, but she sensed he didn't really care about the answer.

- My kidney fell out, they put me on dialysis. - he heard in the receiver. - I am sorry to ask you to do this, but you are the only possible donor.

- I have to give you my precious, healthy organ after you did not heed my warnings?- Marc snorted mockingly. - Don't be ridiculous, you doomed yourself to it.

- We're twins...

- And what? Someone else will be there for sure. - Stewart interrupted him. - You lost the first one in an accident, ok, it happens. But I warned you that if you don't change your lifestyle, the other one will get off before you know it. You didn't listen to me. Goodbye.

The host slammed the receiver, picked up his briefcase, and left the office as if nothing had happened. Even the slightest inequality in the flow of energy, the slightest movement of conscience or human feelings. She was shocked - the man she possessed was condemning his brother to death by following his own conscience! She thought. Would she be able to make such sacrifices for her siblings? Stupid question - of course I would. She was just like that. Anyway, she had done something similar for Kaoru. She almost died during the transfusion, but made the choice to stay alive. Was Marc doing the right thing? He had every right to refuse, of course. The problem is, was it a good choice? Did he have any right to punish his brother in this way? She reached back to his memories a bit. They weren't pink. Peter was the more entertaining twin. He was partying, he was outgoing, but also more willing to take risks. In fact, she found scenes related to the previous kidney. They were talking about it in the hospital when Peter woke up from surgery. Marc warned sternly, even demanded that his brother take care of himself ... without offering the slightest help. Oh, it was about to change and that's it. He was like that. Stiff, committed, cold, calculating. It was the effect that mattered, not the feelings. He believed that if he can, then others too, they just don't feel like it, they are lazy, lazy, they prefer to play for a short time rather than live longer. He entered an empty apartment. She only noticed that he might have been almost 40, and she found no sign of any affection in his house. No sign of a wife, children, close family ... not even pictures of a mysterious beautiful woman who could keep him awake at night! Nothing !!! Neat, clean and quiet. Alone. She felt a headache, she absolutely did not want to participate in it. In fact, what else was she going to learn here, after all, she had already done what this man couldn't! Marc clicked a shiny button on the expensive coffee machine, and after a while he sat back in the armchair with a cup of thick espresso, smelling of nuts, chocolate and earth. He thought for the first time. Has she caught a moment worth taking advantage of? There was no time to waste.

She caught the first childhood memory of her brother. It looked like ... they were inseparable. In fact, it's no wonder - twins often stuck to each other. She remembered Yui showing her a picture of Yuki and Yoshi. They huddled together, not wanting to turn around for a moment. They still supported each other, as well as Razu and Ren or Hyo and Arashi. They were annoying, especially when Hanabi's mother stuffed her children with sugar to make them even more unstoppable than usual, but she loved each one of them and saw that, despite their young age, they would be ready to cut themselves off for the other. She smiled at that warm memory of her nephews, letting Marc sink into more memories of saving Peter when he got stuck in a pit that their uncle had started digging for a well in the garden; how, while playing in the playground, he was always defended by his brother and dragged into the games; he also remembered the day Peter came running crying because the girl had punched him in the face and Marc was cooling the red trail with an ice pack. There were even more of them, she continued, if only he could make a decision as soon as possible.

- "Are you sure you want to lose this man?" - she whispered in his ear. - "Can you afford to disappear from your life?"

A salty drop trickled down her pale, manicured cheek with light, fashionable stubble. Moments later, he jumped up from the couch and rushed to his luxury car, to get to the hospital as soon as possible. Fortunately, the traffic jams slowly died down, it arrived without any major problems, and soon after that, the necessary documentation was signed. She closed her eyes with him, as he did, fearing that she might not open them this time. She didn't have time to get a look, but he didn't seem to have such a memory. She had. The last time she had it all deeply up her nose, Kaoru was going to get up, not her. She was secondary. This time she was going to get up with this strange man, for his brother and her beloved husband. She was afraid that despite the great lifestyle, healthy eating ... Marc simply won't wake up after the surgery. And with him, she. If her astral body had a heart, it would most likely punch a huge hole in her ribs. Instead, she stared through the eyes of an athletic 40-year-old in the face of a masked medical anesthesiologist who spoke in a professional tone to count out loud from 10 down. At the same time, he put on a silicone mask from which she felt a fresh breath of oxygen. Her mind was confused, she felt a sense of fear, irrational terror. Or maybe quite rational? She didn't want it, but she had to. Otherwise she will not come back to him. She closed her eyes, trying to summon his smiling face, cut like a map of the world. If she was going to die, she wanted to see him last.

She woke up as if from a horrible nightmare, leaping to a sitting position and gasping for air. She felt a burning pain in her esophagus and cleared her throat solidly. A vessel filled with a steaming green drink hung in front of her nose.

- You woke up, Byakko! - she heard the gleeful voice as she swallowed hastily, sip after sip. - I already thought Marc would change their mind at the last minute.

- They survived? - she croaked. - Both?

- There were complications, it turned out your Host had a heart problem ... - he sighed, stroking her head as he saw her increasingly terrified expression. - You did it again. Nevertheless, it was close.

- Heart problem? - she whispered.

- He would have had a severe heart attack at home if you hadn't taken him to the hospital. - Inari summed up. - The drink he had drunk before leaving the house, not the first of the day, by the way, was far too strong for the level of emotion you had served him with your memories. Doctors have mastered the situation, both brothers are recovering.

- So that ...

- Yes, you almost killed him trying to help another.

[chunibyo-x-sorcerer]

Kisho is exploring the tunnels and aesthetics of the jungle gym. Hearing the nature sounds soothes his soul and makes him relax for a moment after participating in the Rodan Raceway and Zilla's Laser Tag. Kang's attraction is wellness and exercise, being silly and just exploring. He sees a toucan still in the center of the mini-maze and graphics of cartoon Kang swinging through the jungle with vines, playing with other animatronics like Mothra and Rodan.

He looks out to see Yuji push Megumi into the ball pit. He snickers.

"Hey, Miko! Let's try out the elastic bands!" Kisho gestures to her with a wave, asking her to come up.

Everyone else was still shocked but when seeing this, Miko sees everyone going to have some fun. She blinks seeing Kisho climbing, taz scaling, even hana playing in the ball pit with Yuria. Yuji was going to try the ball pit that he even playfully pushes Megumi who falls in the ball pit.

"Hey!"

"Got ya!" he laughed seeing Megumi shaking his head with Nobara laughing even Miko giggled a little.