#Exercises for Ski Trips

[fishyfishyfishtimes]

I never really thought of myself as a person that likes to exercise or do sports, that is, before I discovered the joys of cycling. Holy shit. Oh my dace. Cycling is fucking amazing. It’s such a versatile activity!!! I can choose to cycle around the city to explore all the sights much faster and easier, just meandering around, I can choose to cycle long distance to someplace new or old, I can choose to cycle a certain route as fast as I can! Not only do I get the benefit of moving fast from point A to point B but I also get to savour all the sights around me, hear the birds, feel the wind on me, smell the flowers, take it all in. And if all that wasn’t just the best thing in the world already good cod does it just feel good to cycle. Really straining to reach a certain speed or going uphill makes me feel so alive. It makes my blood flow! And the feeling in my legs right after I’ve finished my route, AUGHHHH I live for that feeling, I really do. All my life I’ve felt like a wimp who could never reach the expected level of fitness if my life depended on it but when I cycle I feel so strong! I feel so capable! It’s amazing! I found My Sport and on cod I hope everybody finds theirs

[gjphotographs97]

Out & about

[amaranthineghost]

| DARLING, OUR STARS ARE DYING, BUT WE'VE STILL YEARS LEFT TO BURN ( lando norris. ) |

ꕥ pairing: lando x reader

ꕥ parts: 2

ꕥ summary: their relationship is dying while their love burns strong, yet they're unsure if they can save themselves.

ꕥ authors note: I have an idea for a part two, so if anyone wants a continuation of what happens, let me know :3

ꕥ warnings: it's just sad. minor implications of sex, but mostly angst and heartbreak.

SOMETHING WAS WRONG. they hadn't known what, but something was off in their relationship. for years, they'd loved each other, and no doubt they still did. they'd spent every waking moment they could with each other, but they hadn't realized their relationship had grown stale, unchanging for years.

it puzzled them because the love they had for each other still burned strong, but their relationship is dying.

they'd find themselves spending less time with their lover, more time with their friends in separate nightclubs across monaco. though their relationship lacked excitement, they would never seek it out in other people. because at the end of the day, they'd find their way home, drunkenly stumbling through the door of their apartment and back into each other's arms.

they found themselves depending less on the other for entertainment and companionship. their love wasn't dead, but their relationship felt like it.

when sitting right next to each other at the dinner table changed to sitting at opposite ends. when they'd make a mess in the kitchen to cook a dinner to share between them changed to making separate meals at different times.

though they were still young, it felt like life had finally caught them as they got entangled in their careers. he traveled the world, she stayed in the comfort of their apartment. maybe it was lacking. lacking the naivety of their youth that created the spark of their relationship.

because when he was home for odd weeks during the year, he was always out. from the crack of dawn till the sun set on the other side of the sky, he'd be out exercising with his trainer, having dinners with his team, or just clubbing.

and she'd barely attend his races now, her presence unseen in the paddock, causing numerous rumors to surface and plague the internet. because when they'd be seen in public together, which was a rare occurrence now, they wouldn't have a single touch to connect them.

the internet had realized their status before they had. nobody knew why they'd changed, not even the couple that had been through thick and thin. they couldn't imagine being apart, but it was like they were bored.

they didn't know what to do. they'd been through countless struggles together, finding solutions in the dark. but they had no flame to light their path this time.

it killed them. they wanted so badly to revive their love, but they didn't know how. they knew they needed to talk, but they were never around anymore. they didn't even sleep in the same bed as one another.

it was often they could find themselves with eyes wandering their wall with pictures framed, a few crooked that she would pester and nag him to no end to fix. he never would. the imperfect perfectness every time he looked between their faces, eyes crinkled with smiles caused a sad one to take it's form on his face.

he missed the memories between them because they were that, memories. they'd never do anything like that now. no ski trips where he'd spray her with snow with every stop, with her cursing him out all in good fun. because she'd do it right back.

no more lying on beach towels next to each other in the sun, getting tan, though she told lando he never needed to. and every time without fail, he'd take her sunscreen, squirting odd shapes onto her back that'd be displayed for weeks. she'd always slap him for it.

they didn't go out anymore. any attempts to relive what they once experienced were futile. they tried fancy restaurants, but silence with high tension plagued the air around them as they ate awkwardly.

because now it felt like they were back to square one. when he claimed to know her like the back of his hand, he wouldn't be so sure now. it was like they didn't know who they were anymore. they stopped talking to each other because they'd given up. there wasn't anything they could do.

she'd been on their couch, aimlessly flicking through countless tv channels. her eyes weren't even on the screen, and her hand was on autopilot while she channel-surfed. she'd let out another sigh, her eyes rolling over to his office door.

it was ajar, she could see movement from inside the room. she looked longing at it. she remembered when she'd distract him from his work, placing herself in different spots around the room, but ultimately ending up on his desk.

her eyes adjusted back to the tv, shutting it off and tossing the remote somewhere on the couch. she sat in silence for a while, listening to the sounds of him living in another world just ten steps away. because their relationship had gotten to the point where it felt like they were living in different time periods that crossed each other's lives.

they'd barely focus on each other because they didn't have the time. they were never alone together anymore, always in separate rooms, or surrounded by friends.

it pained her, guilt building in her body with every step. her stomach churning with every creak in the floorboards. she walked on the tips of her toes to his office. she hovered over the door handle, despite the door being slit open.

part of her hesitated because she didn't want to do this. she didn't want to leave him, to lose him, but it felt as if she didn't have a choice. remaining a couple benefit neither of them, it only hurt what remained and what remained was merely nothing.

but he was her first love, and first everything. it felt like betrayal to turn her back now, but she's afraid their backs have been turned for months because she can't recall the last time she thought of him as her soulmate. she loved him, but was love simply enough to save them?

when she pushed open that door, she knew she'd never be the same. they wouldn't be the same and part of her was okay with that because nothing's changed. she couldn't keep living like this, she was still young. young enough to meet another person to settle with, which seemed crazy to her to think about. she'd never thought about anyone but him.

"lando, can we talk?"

the hair on the back of his neck rose, dread filling his heart. he'd been waiting to hear those words for months, every conversation, they loomed in the back of his mind. though he hated how much he expected to hear it, he knew it had to happen.

he'd turn in his swivel chair, pen nervously pushed between his lips. he looked at her sadly, already feeling the words yet to leave her lips.

"I think we should break up," her voice broke, caused by the tears that streaked down her face. she hated herself for breaking down, being vulnerable when they both knew it was coming to an end. it still hurt because despite her words, she loved him. she knew he did too.

he didn't know what to say, a simple 'okay' felt too harsh, but the tears in his eyes would've spilled if he spoke any more.

so he simply nodded, muttering something completely inaudible to her, and himself.

she shook her head, gazing at him through her hazy, tear-stained vision, her voice high in a struggled whisper, "what's wrong with us?"

"i wish i knew, darling," he slowly stood, his feet dragging across the carpet on the wooded floors. he stopped in front of her, a sad look across his face as he stared down at her. he noticed how she no longer wore his hoodies, or any of his clothes.

hesitantly, his arms wrapped around her, pulling her into his chest, he knew for the final time. he bit his tongue in hopes of not showing weakness because he didn't want to make her feel worse than she already did.

"i know i promised us we would fix this, but I don't know what to do." he muttered into her hair as he shook against her, " 'm sorry i broke my promise, love."

" 'ts okay."

"but it's not."

"i know." she pulled away, wiping her tears on her hoodie. she sniffled, her nose and eyes red while she gazed up at him, "i'll pack my things, 'ts your apartment after all."

he was quick to shut her down, shaking his head, nearly breaking down as he spoke, "no, I couldn't kick you out." because what boyfriend—ex-boyfriend would he be if he kicked her out onto the blazing streets of monaco? he couldn't do that to the girl he loved so deeply, but he knew he couldn't stay. he had to let her go and he despised it because he knew it was for the best.

"I'll stay with max," he said simply, looking at her desperately with sad eyes, "please, let me just take care of you, financially at least."

"it feels wrong to depend on you."

"i know, but 'ts the one thing I can do for us."

so he left, packed his bags and drove his mclaren far from their apartment, now hers. he looked in the rearview mirror sadly, seeing her standing in the only hoodie he'd left for her. he couldn't see the tears in her eyes, but he knew they were there like they were in his.

he nearly turned around. he wanted to fix this because he didn't want to leave her. she was all he knew and it was like starting over. it felt like betrayal to leave her and find himself in a random club across the city.

but he'd been doing that for months with no issue. it only hurt now that he didn't have an apartment to go back to with her presence residing in it.

he punched the glass of his rearview mirror because it felt like the past staring him in the face. because she should've been in his future.

[geothewriter]

Vermillion Seas Cardinal Skies: Chapter 26 - Save the Date

What do a group of teens do when they've just arrived on an island paradise and are stressed to hell and back? A double date! Antics are sure to arise as the couples unwind at dinner.

--

Wow. Okay so. Yeah. Turns out Covid hangs on for a while. Still coughing, but it's almost gone. Thank goodness. Unfortunately, today's update time is SO out of wack. But I made it here!!!

Right. WELCOME BACK Y'ALL! Got a fun one today. :) We're continuing the trend of relatively short chapters compared to my norm, but this is another sweet one. So be ready. Be prepared. We've done it! Oh, and Happy (early) Valentine's Day!

As always, a MASSIVE thank you and a huge shout-out goes to @achillmango for her awesome editing. This wouldn't be as good as it is without you, friend. <3

Now, please enjoy Chapter 26 - Save the Date

Distant calls of a tropical bird, which he’s sure Uncle would recognize by its plumage alone, continuously filter through the nearby open window. A gentle breeze accompanies the natural sound, carrying with it the smell of ripening fruits ready to be plucked from the garden trees he once climbed as a boy. It is peaceful. Despite the sun shining on the opposite side of the house, Zuko has never felt more in touch with his inner fire. He isn't sure what’s causing the deeper connection, but perhaps it is his relief that the girl across the hall is recovering. Maybe it's because he helped. Maybe because she kissed him goodnight. Maybe it’s the quiet. He shakes his head. The early morning meditations are something he’s taken for granted in the past. He hasn’t been able to wake with the sun and truly relish in his routine for several days, maybe even weeks now. He sighs contentedly and continues his deep breathing exercises, thankful for a full night’s sleep. It’s poetic really, that the first time he’s had both the opportunity to do so, and the rested body to act on meditating, that Sokka unceremoniously flings the door to his room open to interrupt him. The other boy’s voice immediately exudes incredulity when he speaks. “Whaat? Not fair!” “What isn’t fair, Sokka?” He doesn’t change his form, and doesn’t open his eyes; this is likely a conversation that could wait for later. “I swear! I got up extra early just to talk to you.” “I’ve been up for two hours already, Sokka. The sun’s been up for three. I slept in.”  “There’s something deeply wrong with you firebenders.” The other boy deadpan grumbles. “Whatever.” When Sokka closes the door but very evidently stays in the room, Zuko sighs and turns himself around so that he’s still seated, but now facing the other boy. “I’m busy meditating, can’t this wait?”  Sokka immediately says, “No. I talked to Katara last night. I need to know. Is it true?”  “Is what true?”  “Gah! It’s like pulling teeth from a moose lion! Did my sister spare Yon Rah, and the people on the ship, and did the thing with the captain happen the way she said it did?” “Do you trust my word over hers? Whatever she’s told you, I’m sure it's true.” “Zuko.” He pauses and glares at him before kneeling on the floor to meet his eyes directly, speaking with conviction. “I just want to know that my sister is okay. I don’t care if she killed someone. I don’t care if she did a bad thing on your trip. I care if she’s okay. And I know you care about her, so tell me. Is. She. Okay.” His promise to Katara doesn’t apply anymore, right? Sokka already talked to her and it sounds like she shared everything with him. It wouldn’t be breaking the promise he made to her. Sokka’s form is locked in a sort of tenuous strain that is almost concerning when he speaks again, breaking Zuko’s concentration. “Look, I know you promised not to tell anyone, but…listen. Just tell me if you think she’s going to be okay? You talked to me at the temple before even going on that adventure. It’s only fair.” Zuko nods his head in defeat. “It’ll probably take some time, but it seems like the nightmares are gone, at least I didn’t hear any screams last night. I think she’ll be okay.” The other boy deflates in what Zuko can only assume is relief at his words. “Thank Tui and La. I didn’t want to have to fight you if she ended up hurting more.” “I wouldn't forgive myself if she did.” A beat, “You can’t believe you'd win that fight, right Sokka?” he adds with a small smile. “I know I wouldn't. But you know what would happen next?” “Suki?” “Yes. Suki.”

“She’d laugh at you, Sokka.” “Well…yeah, but afterward? She would take you down,” Sokka adds with a grin. “How–” He remembers watching her fighting techniques and knows that Sokka is right. “I need to watch her fight, learn some of–” “Now now, best buddy, you leave watching her to me.” He gives an uncomfortable grin, stands, and motions toward the door. “Come on, let's go downstairs and make breakfast for everyone! I have plans to explain!” “Sokka I–”  He knows there’s no food in the house, right? However; Zuko is pretty sure there are some root vegetables and maybe some good fruits in the trees out back in the overgrown garden. They can probably make a decent enough breakfast out of that before going into town for supplies. “Fine. I’m coming.”

Continue Reading on AO3.

[desognthinking]

recruitment drive. 5.3k. (or, the haunted house designers au.)

Suzanne sends the pre-meeting email just one and a half hours before the onboarding call is scheduled to begin. Beatrice knows this because her watch buzzes just as she emerges from the bathroom, wringing her hair dry after her post-run shower.

It’s still the middle of the night back in America. Beatrice thinks Suzanne just doesn’t sleep. 

She makes herself a pot of tea and carefully sets her mug down onto its cork coaster at the dining table. Her phone, face-down on the table, vibrates thrice as she boots up the laptop.

She flips it over: three texts from Lilith. That’s two too many. 

A curious sense of anticipation, and perhaps the shallowest hints of doubt, settles over the skin of her neck as she loads up her unread mail. It’s uncharacteristic of Suzanne to forward basic administrative material at such late notice. Especially since it concerns mere formalities like the Zoom link for later, and the confirmation of the meeting participants – an email that should take less than two minutes to formulate. After all, everyone already knows the team heading the expansion project.

Beatrice had mentioned this to Camila once, recently, during their weekly lunch call. Week six or six thousand into their strictly enforced remote work sojourn (the only way, Suzanne said, she could ensure that no Extra Responsibilities would be surreptitiously taken on) and she was already pacing the room from boredom and overthinking.

Camila had reminded her that, in her defense, Suzanne had just been out on that scouting trip in Peru without reliable internet. Whatever spare bandwidth she did have was probably best served hurdling over the mountains of administrative obstacles these new pop-up Houses inevitably would create. Not fretting over Zoom links.

Camila, as always, is sensible; probably the most sensible of them all. So Beatrice very seriously, and very conscientiously, takes a deep breath and runs through that one breathing exercise she’d found very helpful from her therapist.

Suzanne is a stickler. She holds her cards carefully close to her chest, arranged back and forth in some pattern nobody but she can see, and Beatrice trusts her fully. And that’s all that should matter – as Suzanne had made glaringly clear, even before she’d sat the three of them down one by one in her office, and then emailed them the remuneration clauses – that she’d wanted Beatrice for the job, had worked to convince her for it.

For an industry chest-deep in the currency of terror, Beatrice had – has never been lured by the screams. 

It is tradition for a House’s creative team to prowl the exit on opening night.  Maybe grab a drink and share a toast to the accompaniment of desperate footsteps sprinting out, or breathless, choked sobs at the gates. 

Beatrice doesn’t like that. Ever since she got personally banned by Mary from coldly going through the whole maze (yet again) with a clipboard on Night One while bona fide, ticket-purchasing customers were busy hollering their heads off, she’s preferred to go home right after the ceremony to a mug of hot chamomile and a dogeared autobiography. 

She plans to keep it that way, too. There is nothing more distasteful than cheap gore, or cultish fantasy, or whichever half-baked nightmare slough some over-excited writer could dredge up from the hallucinatory afterburn of a weekend bender.

She carefully takes a sip of her tea, gazing out into brightening but still charred-gray skies. She’d had an interview in Tales of Terror last year, and hadn’t known whether to be flattered or dismayed at the opening paragraph. 

‘You wouldn’t guess this is the home of the woman responsible for some of the most blood-curdling, spine-chilling effects, traps and rooms of the last half-decade. Nothing in her fourth-floor unit screams Creative Psycho. Every pale beige curtain in her flat is drawn wide, light flooding in. There are no letterboxd-worthy poster displays from the indie foreign films she watches religiously for research – only a framed print collection of early twentieth century European urban landscape paintings. There are no carpets, it’s almost unsettlingly clean, and there’s not a single ounce of bedragglement. Beatrice tells us, mild mannered and polite almost to a fault, that this is how she likes it.’

(Are you sure you want me?)

“Precisely,” Suzanne had said, careful and stern, “we need precisely that.” She’d been rolling a brass knuckle tightly over the surface of her desk as she spoke. Beatrice thought it produced a gorgeous, rich sound. 

“We need reinvention. Reinterpretation. Things should not be left to stagnate, for their own sake,” she’d stared at Beatrice meaningfully. “This applies to people too.” 

Beatrice had simply stared back, uncertain.

“Besides,” Suzanne turned away, the edge of her mouth twisting up like she knew something Beatrice didn’t, “As I’m sure you know by now, the workload will be shared.”

It made sense then that Suzanne had last year taken them aside to allocate them as leads to three of the flagship site’s Houses that season. Upon their successes she had allocated them, despite protests, those purely consultancy and remote assistance roles for this year’s season. 

Two years ago Beatrice and Lilith were section heads in their respective maze portions. Camila, then freshly poached by the firm, was primary set designer of the same House. That year they huddled together night after night and sixteen-hour days to cobble together something out of the most dysfunctional House of that year’s stable of nine.

The lead for said House was a man called Vincent. He was woefully incompetent to the point of unintentional sabotage. He had, of course, slunk away quietly upon the season’s conclusion, but until then the three of them had had to spend wee hours crawling up and clawing at walls and reinforcements and contractors that had been given contradictory instructions.

They built an easy partnership, eventually – disciplined and stone-smooth efficient to the extent that Beatrice reluctantly allowed herself to catch a few agonizing hours of unguilty sleep each night.

And through necessity she had come to know them as well, as only a truly nightmarish haunted house build will have you know a person.

After that wretched time they had been wrenched apart. The OCS had multiple Houses to churn out at full steam and speed every season, and a brutal reputation to maintain. The cruel prize of a job well done involved getting split up, even if for bigger, better things.

But the point is, they’re tried and tested. Beatrice likes that. She isn’t sure she would have agreed to taking on this challenge otherwise, and she knows Suzanne knows that, too. 

It is a weight on her shoulders, irregular and uncomfortably shifting across her shoulder blades; a worry that any success she has in executing such an endeavor would be largely circumstantial.

Last summer, long before everything had been set in stone, Shannon sent her a link to an Instagram post. It detailed some theories and speculations over an unnamed upcoming OCS expansion. A strategic leak, perhaps, although Beatrice worked far too distantly from the marketing team to be certain.

They were lying next to each other on the mud-streaked safety mats they put over the wooden boards beside the building site. Her building site. The one with the credits board, hooked up at the exit, that would bear her name first at the top. 

It had been the muggiest, most intolerable time of the day when Shannon, overseeing production on this half of the Houses, had come round, somehow hoisting a bulky IKEA carrier over her neck and under her left arm. She pulled out a variety of chips and buns that she’d gone down to the shops to buy, and handed them out far too cheerfully for someone who must have already half-melted in the heat. When Beatrice raised her eyebrows, glancing over behind the barriers where Mary’s motorcycle very conspicuously was parked, Shannon merely winked – poorly – and pretended to be very innocent. 

She stayed to help, afterwards, peering over the storyboards pinned up on the board like it wasn’t the thousandth time she’d gone over them. That year she’d also had her own House to take care of, in addition to the small matter of co-running the entire season’s program. So Beatrice tried to weakly bat her away, but she pulled out a banana from some back pocket, peeled it, took a large bite with a moan so obnoxiously loud Beatrice turned red, and shushed her.    

At this point construction was going ahead in full force, and Beatrice would frequently navigate every step of the maze and inspect every bolt and hidden door with a pocket-sized Moleskine in her hand and three gel pens in her pocket. Yasmine, her head writer, preferred to make notes directly onto her phone, stopwatch dangling from her wrist and an earbud in her ear as she ran over the preliminary audio cues for each section. Ambling behind them, Shannon found a nail and tried to spin it as long as she could on her fingertip. When the nail rolled off into a groove, irretrievable, she dusted off her hands very innocently on her cargo pants and off the back of her greasy tank top. Then she folded her hands behind her back and looked up very seriously to examine overhead mechanisms that Beatrice ‘might be too short to see clearly’. 

With the work lights strung up, the innards of the House did not look particularly scary. 

To Beatrice it was a purely cerebral challenge, despite the very physical layer of sweat, powder, and grime that pressed itself under one’s skin. A puzzle to fit and form and reverse-engineer under cool light; door mechanisms and false ceilings and spring-loaded foam sprays, optimized and timed within fractions of a second. Clean, clockwork.

And as if to prevent her from getting hauled fully into the vortex of her mind, Shannon accompanied the little pilgrimage around the set, pressing a water bottle firmly into Beatrice’s hands every half-hour. It made Beatrice feel like a moody little child, but she accepted it grudgingly every time. 

At the end of the day Beatrice sent everyone home twenty minutes early, and ordered dinner for her and Shannon to eat out on the boards. Fast food, Shannon insisted, and she would be paying for it, because “do you know what day it is tomorrow?”

“It’s not my birthday.”

“It’s better than your birthday.”

And to Beatrice, that was true, so she kept quiet.

After that, they lay down for a while, two cans of soda cracked open and resting on the square of wood beside them that hadn’t been covered by the mats. Shannon sent her the post, then, and when Beatrice complained limply that she couldn’t read the comments because she didn’t have an account, Shannon rolled her eyes and handed over her own phone. 

She made a peculiar dialect of eye contact with Beatrice as she did so; weighty, certainly, and telling. 

The post itself featured garish word art splattered over a mangled, heavily-filtered edited image of one of the previous seasons’ Houses – a fan favorite, actually, from the year Beatrice had first joined. Back then she was still working shifts on the engineering team, not even yet being assigned a maze section to look after its technical execution. 

There was a rumor, the post said, that the OCS was considering broadening its operations to seasonal pop-ups in different cities. All-new sets, all-new storylines, all-new takes on the haunted house experience. What do you think? The caption asked, Do you want more of the OCS brand of sleek, seriously messed-up and sickeningly chilling?

Below that a disclaimer: Not appropriate for young children! Please remember that this is not your typical carnival house of mirrors.

A staggering amount of likes and comments. Beatrice clicked to expand the latter, saw the word ‘legacy’ in the topmost one, and then quickly swiped to close the app entirely. 

Mary and Shannon grinned up at her from the home screen, half-buried in sand somewhere on their Greek island-hopping honeymoon. 

Shannon raised her eyebrows as she received her phone back, and Beatrice suddenly understood the meaningful look she’d been given. Are you ready? 

She reached out blindly for her soda can and finished the rest of the drink in one long, shuddering gulp.

At lunch the next day, Beatrice’s fifth year OCS anniversary was celebrated with some fanfare in the makeup and fittings trailer, where Beatrice had spent the whole morning hunched over fabric textures she could barely distinguish from each other.

Everyone came down from their sets, even Mary and Shannon. Beatrice thought they must have been exhausted; they had stayed late the previous night, after Beatrice had left, to thread their way softly through the OCS’ gaping campus of half-built sets. Simply looking over their modest kingdom. It had a certain wistful luster; in this summer twilight it was a garden of greenhouses, transparent and skeletal. A complex slowly unfurled over the years. Ghostly-quiet, too, in a way it could never be in the throes of peak season. 

Mary waited for Shannon at the gates of the House, silhouette sharp against the work lights, as Beatrice had gotten up to pack for the night. Up by the lockers she glanced over, but looked away when their hands fell gently together. They walked slowly away, murmuring things she couldn’t hear. 

When Beatrice bolted the gate to leave, it clacked too loudly, and they’d called over to say goodbye, dark intertwined shadows stretched grotesquely and longingly over sawdust towards her.

Nevertheless they had made it to the celebration the following day, Mary holding aloft a large creamy cake. Unlike the customary employee milestone cakes, dark and billowing and elaborately stylized with elements of houses previously worked on, Beatrice’s was plain white, with light blue frosting.

The celebration moved outside to the large, white refreshments tent, industrial fans blowing hot, coarse air. Beatrice marveled at how everyone seemed to be able to fit under its canvas. The team working on her House had all come, of course, pooling money for a hamper, and so did a surprising number of others across the other sets.

Lilith and Camila arrived together, squeezing through the throngs to the unsteady plastic table at the center. “We were not bringing your gift into this slaughterhouse,” Lilith huffed, “you’ll have to go back to the office to get it.”

“What is it?”

Lilith scoffed. “Why would we ruin the surprise?”

Camila put her hand on Beatrice’s shoulder. “What we’re really here to say is that we’re proud we’ve been able to work with you during these five years, and we hope we’ll get a chance to do it again.” Beatrice looked at Lilith, who shrugged, stabbing her paper plate.

Mary, still slicing up the cake and handing them out, stopped to meet Beatrice’s eyes. She grinned.

It was many months later, deep into November, that Suzanne had made the formal pitch in her office. By then social media was awash with rumors of possible locations where the OCS could plant their pop-ups. Names, too – there were spreadsheets and Clue-esque checklists on Reddit lining up members of every significant OCS creative team in its past iterations in vertical rows. There even were columns of ‘evidence’ For and Against each individual’s involvement in the as-good-as-guaranteed pop-ups project.

Beatrice couldn’t tear her eyes away as the online crowd reached a consensus, drawing red circles in damning permanent marker ink again and again and again around the names that everything pointed towards. She closed the browser before getting to the point where the discussions dissolved and devolved into bitter catfights over creators’ artistic styles, as they always did.

Suzanne’s office, for as long as Beatrice had worked at OCS, felt like something out of a natural history museum. It was all burnished wood, walls fully doused in dark, rich green, and glass display cases of her collection of Southern European invertebrate fossils. Symmetrical tiles underfoot and over them, a thick carpet that swallowed the clap of footsteps. In Beatrice’s early days here it had been a terrifying place; severe and gloomy even when the heavy curtains were fully peeled open to let light in. The exacting botanical sketches on the walls, too, did not help in the least. Even now she thought it would make for a wonderful basis for a section in a House – a museum, of course, or perhaps a town hall.

Some might think her an unlikely horror creator – easily spooked by many things and a fervent hater of surprises, but Beatrice thought it was a good thing, for a designer, to be able to find something genuinely terrifying in everything.

She took a seat gingerly at Suzanne’s beautiful oak desk, angled so as to always make her seem taller and larger. So that the light would fall in a certain slanted way across her face, carving a cavern of contrasts down the thin scar through her eye.

“Suzanne.”

“Beatrice.” Suzanne inclined her head, expressionless. From a drawer she took out a stapled set of papers, and flicked through the corners thoughtfully. Her leather chair let out a sigh as she leaned back and appraised Beatrice silently for a minute.

“It’s time” she said, “for a new challenge.” She placed the papers down in front and to the left of Beatrice, next to the handmade tin man figurine gifted from her son. 

For Beatrice it had never really been about the horror; the thrill of smelling blood in the water, and Suzanne knew that.

“Some details have not been hammered out yet, but you have a role here should you accept it,” she said, at the end, sliding the papers into a manila folder. “You all are ready for it.”

Beatrice bit her lip. It was hard to argue otherwise, if not for her, then for the others, at least.

Camila, who she traveled with halfway across the world on a budget airplane that rattled and croaked just to take hundreds of terrible reference pictures in poor lighting with their bad phone cameras. 

One evening, Beatrice had eaten something foul, and she’d found herself slung across Camila’s lap, cringing in the back seat of an overpriced taxi without a working AC. Groaning with each bump of the road and helplessly dipping her head further into the crook of Camila’s arm. Throughout the ride she had gently brushed her fingers through Beatrice’s damp, clumped hair, whispering things Beatrice could no longer remember, and dabbing her clammy, chattering cheeks dry every two minutes with her own sleep shirt. 

Beatrice insisted she get back to the hostel to get some rest while she was kept overnight for monitoring and IV rehydration. It had been a rocky trip, and a break would do them some good. Instead Camila had spent the next one and a half days finishing up three days worth of location scouting, and then had it all packaged into a neatly organized folder by the time Beatrice was ready to go again. 

There was nothing imaginable, Beatrice thought, that could truly faze her.

And Lilith. The most capable person Beatrice knew to spearhead the overall production and creative direction of something like this. 

Not just because Beatrice knew she would genuinely do a marvelous job masterminding and knitting together a house of horrors. Beatrice also considered it important that, if she were to join the team, a satellite unit stationed thousands of miles away from the safety of the Cat’s Cradle headquarters, the team would be led by people she trusted.

Or the equivalent of ‘trusted’. Whatever you call the thing between two people who fly desperately over to each other’s homes with some regularity to scream and claw at particularly unyielding scenes and transitions and then fall exhausted into sleep in each others’ beds.

“Take some time to think about it,” Suzanne had said, afternoon light shining harshly so that the whole room was a prism of contrast. “Let me know what you think.”

So here they are.

“Subj: OCS Halloween Pop-ups - Onboarding”. Beatrice puts down her mug, takes a deep breath, and clicks the email from Suzanne. 

Her phone rings.

“What is it?” Beatrice copies the zoom link at the top of the message and pastes it into the top of a new tab. With her other hand she holds her phone to the shell of her ear. 

“Have you seen the email?” Lilith is terse and tight, even through the phone. Her voice is faraway; Lilith has her phone on Speaker and on a table or drawer somewhere while she looks at something else. Unusual. Her calls are usually curt, succinct, and fully focused. It makes Beatrice’s ears go hot and buzz with static.

“I’m reading it now,” she says, scrolling and scanning the words. 

It’s a short email, in Suzanne’s usual clipped style. No attachments if she can help it. Below the zoom link there is a brief four-point meeting agenda, a reminder to be punctual, and finally a brisk thank you.

In-between these lines Suzanne has appointed lead and three accompanying names of the members of the steering team of the OCS’ first expansion project. 

Lilith’s name is listed second. She's not the Creative Director.

Silence.

“You’ve read it.” The statement is biting; almost a sneer. Beatrice smells the bitterness licking under the corners of its thin, cool veneer. Sticky.

Beatrice rereads the four lines. She rereads it again. She opens her mouth, then closes it.

Ava Silva.

“Who is she?” she exhales, finally. Weakly.

There is a scoff on the end of the line. Echoes of slippers marching down parquet, a door slamming, and then, quietly, an uncontrolled squeak of leather. A furious stream of mechanical clicks, as Lilith’s hands race over the keys of her expensive desktop setup. Beatrice can picture her in her room as if mirrored before her: Lilith still in her terribly fancy robe, sprawled ungainly before the expanse of her monitors in her glassy, austere, home office.

Her voice is suddenly much closer over the call, and Beatrice pictures the phone wedged to her ear by her shoulder.

“Ava Silva,” Lilith spits, in a dry, desiccated whisper.  “Is a Disney rat.”

Beatrice raises her eyebrows, pulling up the matching LinkedIn profile. The most recent post was uploaded a week ago – it seems to be an incredibly effusive Farewell-slash-Thank You post for, indeed, the Disneyland Anaheim Imagineering team and the Creative Development department. She scans the prose: candid and emoji-laden, bordering on unprofessional. 

Beatrice counts seven Disney Princess puns, and one awful Star Wars quote to cap it off. There are eight – yes, eight – images attached to the post, all full-sized so that the page runs on like a travelog blog post. 

The last image appears to be a mountain of goodbye swag. These include, Beatrice notes: a Moana beach ball, a matching Buzz Lightyear set of wheelchair spoke guards and cane covers, and a Sven the Reindeer onesie. The rest of them are all pictures of the woman who must be Ava, with her now ex-coworkers. All adorned with Mickey ears and pin-studded lanyards, in front of various rides and experiences she probably had a hand in creating. 

No, Beatrice scrolls back up to information messily hidden in the overlong farewell paragraph: Specifically, two of these are rides for which she’s been part of the main creative team. Three more that she’s played some role in creating, whether at the design phase or in later consultancy during implementation. 

One picture is a solo snapshot of Ava in a bright yellow baseball cap and remarkably tiny denim shorts, in front of a Disneyland hotdog stand. She’s holding an extra large hotdog, absolutely drenched in ketchup and mustard, high over her head like a trophy. Her smile, Beatrice thinks, is dazzling. 

She swipes down on her trackpad too quickly.

The last picture is of Ava and two others standing on a boulder in front of a massive Zootopia indoor roller coaster, while crowds in the background swarm the attraction in a snaking queue. ‘My pride and joy / baby / first full lead’, Ava has captioned it, ‘aka Great Zootopian Escape 🫡 . Just opened !!! I will be back 2 visit :’)) ’

Beatrice sighs. 

“What the hell is Suzanne thinking,” Lilith mutters, teeth gritted; tone cold. She’s shaken, and Beatrice knows it.

She herself can barely stop herself from scrolling, and scrolling, and scrolling. That’s enough, she snaps at herself, and her hand leaves the touchpad with a short jerk. There’s no point. 

//

“Good morning,” Suzanne says flatly, the moment the call holds five participants. “Thank you all for joining the call punctually.” Her face is crisp and too-sharp against the blurred-black virtual background.

Like they wouldn’t have come anyway, even if thoroughly rocked. Three stern, stiff and silent faces look straight ahead. Suzanne probably prefers them this way. 

Beatrice looks quickly through the five rectangles on the screen and finds the label that she seeks. 

🗿Ava Silva’s iPad 🗿.

“I would like to welcome a new member to the OCS.” Suzanne begins. She nods: “Ava Silva.”

There is a light smattering of the hand wave emoji reaction floating up from the toolbar from 🗿Ava Silva’s iPad 🗿. The device itself seems to be held up very close to her face so that all Beatrice can see is patchy pixelated bits of nose and cheek, shaking about as Ava presumably works to send the emojis.

Beatrice clenches a stress ball in her fist. It had been gifted to her for April Fools’ Day by Mary and Shannon. Something about clenching and unclenching, although Shannon had been laughing too hard to deliver the line in full.

“Ava has been a Creative Development Director at Disneyland and worked on numerous attractions both there and at Universal.” Suzanne pauses. “So, to put it crudely, this is something of a coup. We are very happy to have her with us to lead this creative expansion of the OCS brand.”

Beatrice’s phone, which has been relentlessly buzzing, skates across the table. She turns it over, a stormy headache already gathering steam: dozens of unread messages from Camila and Lilith, and more still on their way. Sighing, she shoots off a quick ‘Later, please.’ and then puts it on a tea towel on the kitchen island, out of reach.

“As you may imagine, it was not easy. She was… highly sought after by various studios and companies. Miss Silva,” Suzanne deadpans, “you are a difficult woman to track down and convince.”

The image of Ava’s face, very close to the camera already, wobbles further. It jostles like she’s jabbing at her screen fiercely. A good while later, after Suzanne had moved on entirely, her delayed message would finally deliver through the Zoom chat: 

🗿Ava Silva’s iPad 🗿: thats only bc i don’t read my emails lol! Glad 2 be here too 🥰

“You will all be working very closely together. In case anyone has forgotten…” Suzanne begins summarizing the contents of that fateful paper packet that she’d handed over in her office last November. The words, the clauses, are identical, but Beatrice can’t help but see it all in a different light. It sinks in more completely. 

Close collaboration to envision and map out the overall direction and themes for the pop-ups. Planning and writing for each house. Liaising with and consulting Admin back at the Cradle, yes, but otherwise almost entirely shouldering production independently. All of that now with Ava Silva thrown into the works.

For Ava’s sake, Suzanne briefly recaps the typical in-house workflow of the production of a Haunted House. Steering team meetings to establish expectations and aims; brainstorming and ideation and finalization of directions; traditionally an in-person bootcamp-esque intensive where the engine of development truly shifts into gear; followed by an ever-accelerating process of recruitment, research, sourcing, production, and testing. A process that should be second nature suddenly feels daunting.

“Now, this meeting is taking place so late because we have only just secured the venue permits for the pop-ups. I have briefed Ava already, and she will be able to explain this separately.”

Beatrice doesn’t have to turn around to hear her phone begin to rattle furiously behind her again.

“Finally, Ava,” Suzanne says, “let me introduce the rest of the team.”

First there is Camila, who Suzanne praises modestly for her extensive set design and art experience. Beatrice knows she’s always had a soft spot for her – resilient and optimistic and ready to put her teeth into anything. 

But in sharp contrast Camila’s face now is neutral and unreadable. The usually bright, tasteful splashes of color in her room are muted against the only two lamps she’s chosen to keep on, shades down and twisted away so her face sits in half-shadow. 

Lilith, then, in her icy postmodern tech den. Her arms are folded and her eyes are cast somewhere. Distant and acidic. 

Beatrice snaps back to attention when Suzanne mentions her name. She keeps it short and sweet: Beatrice’s original training was in engineering, and so, beyond her job scope, she’s best equipped to provide the team with technical and mechanical expertise. 

Ava nods. From what Beatrice can surmise from her patchy rectangle, she is not in a room at all.

No. She is, it seems, on some kind of wicker chair on a sun-dappled porch or veranda, lined by orange and beige walls and pillars veined with vines and hanging pots. A pair of sunglasses, perched on the crown of her head, keeps slipping down, and every few minutes Beatrice sees her lift a finger to nudge it back into place.

Her iPad seems to be on her lap, because it’s shuffling precariously at a strange angle focused on Ava’s chin as she flits about, constantly in blurry motion. 

When Ava holds up the iPad, there seems to be an inscrutable wall of something behind her, simultaneously metallic yet moving in dashes of color. For a moment, her video lags and freezes, and Beatrice gets a better look.

They’re birds. Dramatic plumages and muted tones of all kinds of domestic birds. In cages of every shape and size and color, decked from floor to awning, hanging off bars and resting on customized stands. The whole place is full of them. The iPad tilts as Ava adjusts herself and Beatrice finds that there’s more to the side, off-camera, too. 

Suzanne does not comment on it. “Ava, any thoughts?” 

Ava unmutes herself, grinning.

Beatrice’s earbuds erupt in utter, screaming, avian cacophony, and everybody winces at the exact same time.

Ava – muffled by bird screeching – yelps, mutes herself, and switches off her video.

The call melts into thirty seconds of stunned silence. 

“Oops sorry”,  types 🗿Ava Silva’s iPad 🗿 in the chat.

Beatrice can see Lilith physically take a deep breath and count one to fifteen out loud. Camila is in disbelief; shocked and a little delighted. Beatrice reflects on the strange, confusing mess of large feelings, and decides that she possibly wants to throw up.

Suzanne bites a lip and frowns.

Deep breath, Beatrice reminds herself. Exhale. Inhale. 

Ava’s camera switches back on eventually, and this time, she has, in each ear, one bud of a pair of half-untangled earphones. The wires are frayed and taped over with red duct tape, and the sounds of the surrounding aviary are now blessedly punched out.

This time, too, her iPad appears to be propped up on something. The earphone cord stretches dangerously taut when Ava scrambles to sit back into her chair. 

“Sorry,” her voice careens back into the call. “I’m crashing at a friend’s home at the moment. It’s also kind of a bird shop.”

“Anyway,” she takes a deep breath, grinning, “I’m so happy to join the team. I love horror, and haunted houses, so much. And like, the OCS is– wow. It’s such a dream.” 

She lifts her arms to either side excitedly to gesticulate, and Beatrice watches Lilith balk at the unabashedly kitschy Universal Monsters tie dye oversized t-shirt. Ava leans in just enough that Beatrice can see the crudely cartoonish red-and-white design on her black flask, swirling about.

Bite me I’m scared scrawled over a crude cartoonish vampire.

“So,” Ava goes on excitedly, “I have a lot of ideas, and I can’t wait to get started.”

[sleepyconfusedpotato]

Good morning sleepy!!! How are you doing? I hope you are well these days <3 What would the Rileys' family vacations or outings be like? Would they go to a resort, beach or another country or would they stay at home, visiting some places in England? (If I remember the third campaign of the Modern Warfare reboot, Ghost and Soap would be talking about beaches and snow skiing in the mission that would invade Milena's house. Then I was curious, since it seems that Ghost loves beaches, but Jade always prefers longer clothes to hide her scars, would I imagine her going to a beach or not?)

Hello anon! Interesting question 👁️👄👁️

Okay so, Jade herself would definitely prefer mountains, hikings, and waterfalls rather than beaches.

However, for the family, she can actually go to anywhere. Say Andrew wants to go to the beach, Ghost and Jade would rent a private beach house for themselves (They got BAGS of money, don't worry) and enjoy the beach. When playing in the waters, Jade can always wear a sleeved swimsuit to hide her scars from people who might be looking.

Jay would prefer to be at home and play music, Orion would also prefer to just read at home. But they do need the exercise, so Jade would take them to the mountains.

if it's up to GhostJade, they'd much rather go to a trip to the city and find good restaurants, cafes, and a stroll around the town.

Thank you for asking!

[dcggersedge]

[ LAZY ]

“You know, I didn't think we'd walked quite so far as to be so exhausting,” Lukas hummed, the rueful smile on his face hopefully coming through in his voice.

It had been a beautiful day – warm, blue skies and birds gliding along the breeze to sing their songs of delight. Finding himself with time on his hands, Lukas had figured he shouldn't waste such a fine day. He was by no means a cook, but one didn't have to be to put together some sandwiches (especially when those sandwiches were just fruit and sweet, whipped cream between soft bread). He'd intended to take a little hike and then rest with a picnic and a book.

He'd not intended on company when he set out, but running into Yunaka along the way, he'd asked if she wished to join him. 

Who could say no to a little exercise and the follow up of a sweet treat afterward? Besides, Lukas was quite fond of her banter, and he'd yet to find it dull to speak with her.

It had, indeed, been a beautiful day. But, as with all things, it eventually had to come to an end and they would need to pack up and walk back. Having only brought enough for a light meal – an easy to clean up one, at that – it hadn't taken very long to repack the little picnic. However, it was in heading back down the trail from the little hill and shady tree they'd lingered under that they arrived in their current situation.

Which was a bit of a ridiculous backpack on backpack situation.

Yunaka hadn't wanted to walk back – whether from actual weariness or simple cheek – but Lukas could hardly carry her piggyback as well as his pack. So, with a bit of adjustment, Yunaka had his pack, and in turn, he had her. They were fairly close in height, so she was hardly too heavy for him, but he did find it a little amusing in an endearing way.

“I hope you don't mind a slower pace. I rather think you walk faster than I do.”

(sending this on mobile and a prayer)

let me carry you | accepting!

Yunaka giggles quietly. There's just enough space that she can swing her legs a little without kicking him, and she does so. Not too hard, but just enough for that little bit of whimsy to be properly expressed as they continue their much slower walk back to the monastery. "That's the thing about trips, I think. They never quite shake out exactly the way you plan for them to go."

She hadn't planned any part of this and had only mooched off of his ideas, so she hadn't had any expectations at all for how long this trip would take or how tired they'd be afterwards. She'd been joking around when she complained about the walk back, so comfortable and full of those strange sandwiches (seriously, who thought of putting fruit in sandwiches!?) that she'd whined playfully about the march back.

She hadn't expected him to offer to carry her. She had expected even less for her to agree to it.

The bag on her back thankfully wasn't too heavy, and he didn't seem to mind the combined weight of it and her too much. She keeps her arms wrapped carefully around his neck with her chin resting on her biceps so she can do her best to look at his face while they walk. She's sure they look silly. It definitely feels silly.

She can't remember the last time someone carried her like this.

Bursting into another quiet fit of laughter, she buries her face against her arms to hide her wide grin. "I don't mind the wait. Shockingly, I'm quite comfortable." Who knows how long it would be before she ever got to have a moment like this again?

Yunaka closes her eyes. "Treat it like training, Lukie. We can get you moving faster in no time, let's see some hustle!"

[kpopsexstories]

Hi fellow kpop smut readers! I need to ask your help: to come up with Winwin's sex story!

Today I reached a milestone: I just finished the first full draft of Taeil's story, which means that I now only have two NCT smut stories left to write.

If you've been following along with my Most Memorable Sexual Experiences of NCT smut series, you know that there are six members left: XiaoJun, Taeil, Jeno, Jaemin, Lucas and Winwin.

How far along am I?

I've been working on all six of these simultaneously for a few months. Jaemin's story was the first to be finished, followed by XiaoJun.

Jeno's story was completed yesterday, and today I had a fit of inspiration and finished Taeil's story, which I'm very happy with.

Those four stories are now done – the first draft that is, I still need to edit, improve and finally proofread all of them. But the hard part is over.

For Lucas, I have an idea that is too tailored and perfect for him not to write it. But no matter how many times I try, I only manage to get part way, before I feel like the whole thing is shit. Still, because the idea fits him so well, I am determined to keep trying and eventually get it right.

That leaves only one member: Winwin

In Winwin's case, I have written maybe 5 different stories over the course of the last six months. I've trashed every single one of them, except in once case where I ended up using it as the story for a completely different member. I thought it was a better fit, and that story has already been published.

In my current draft – and I don't mind sharing this since I likely won't end up using it – Winwin meets a girl during a ski trip in the Northeast mountains of Korea, and ends up having sex with her in the snow in a forest. But because they're clothed and in ski gear, it's just not sexy enough.

I simply cannot seem to come up with a story that I feel fits Winwin's personality and real life experiences. Maybe it's because it's not someone I find particularly interesting or sexy (apart from his adorable wide ears 😍). He's simply not a member that stands out enough to me to feel like I'm doing him justice.

So, I thought it would be okay if I asked for a little help. Maybe you have an idea that will make it click for me?

If you think you might – and only if you don't mind sharing it – send me an Ask. I'll go through any suggestions I might receive, in an attempt to get inspired.

If this little exercise fails, I might end up using the ski trip story after all, and spice it up with more sex in a warmer place. But at the moment, I feel completely stuck on this one.

Would you help shape the final "season" of this series? 😊 Thanks in advance if you do!

[ihrespideysonstorm]

Ihre Spidey, Son Storm - Chapter 3: Winter Break (Part 2 of 2)

Summary: After a devastating crash at the WSK Euro Series at La Conca in May 2011 ended her karting career and left her blind in one eye, Saarbrücken racer Annika “Ani” Kramer has reinvented herself as a freelance video game concept artist, inspired by a childhood love of comic books. Now she balances her art work with the high-stakes world of Formula 1 as she supports her husband Esteban Ocon through the twists and turns of his own racing career. The Alpine era has ended with the sting of betrayal, a race undriven and a special helmet (designed together) unworn, but the Haas era has just begun. She just had not expected for the 2025 season to bring Esteban a rookie teammate in Ollie Bearman and her a grid little brother to befriend and nurture with snacks and a bear scarf knitted with love.

Notes: Many thanks to my beta reader World Atlas on Discord. They have been an invaluable help. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65758543/chapters/170601661

The weeks after the Jerez test flew by. Ani had her brief trip to London for the Pocket Gamer Connects conference, which concluded with a very enjoyable evening out with Lance for delicious Indian food at Gymkhana in Mayfair, an upscale restaurant but not the type of place that would risk them giving the-wife-and-the-best-friend vibes to the haters on social media. (No matter what, after growing up in Saarbrucken as the daughter of a factory worker, she thought she would never totally get used to eating at fancy two-Michelin-star restaurants with price tags that still made her wince and getting driven around in an Aston Martin, a car that had drawn more than a few stares as the conference let out when Lance and his driver had picked her up.)

Esteban had almost no sooner gotten home from his trip to Maranello to use the sim there than he was off again for his training camp in Annecy, France, an hour’s drive south of Geneva, which meant he was home some evenings. Apart from the usual physical and mental training geared towards the new season, there was also team building with his new family at Haas—his mechanics, Laura, and all the others. Ani was all for team-building exercises when necessary, but even she was momentarily flabbergasted when Esteban told her on a phone call one morning about his and the team’s plan for the day—going caving.[1]

“Caving?!” Ani had retorted, her voice rising an octave in sheer surprise, and she pulled the phone away from her ear to stare at it for a split second. “Ich liebe dich, Este, but have you gone insane? Why? Just … why??”

Esteban chortled with laughter in her ear. “No, chérie, I haven’t, I promise! Team-building, yes? See how we all react in tricky spots and help each other through it!”

“Your contracts won’t allow you to go skiing, but they do allow you to go caving?” Her voice was still full of disbelief and sheer puzzlement.

(Whenever she thought of skiing, she couldn’t help but think of Mick’s poor father…)

He made a noise of assent, and she could hear him moving about his room, gathering his stuff for the day. “I thought I told you about this.”

“No, no, no, no, I would have remembered if you’d told me you were going caving.” The thought of small spaces did not bother Ani—she wasn’t claustrophobic—but the thought of how dark it would be there made her shudder in terror. “You know I prefer when you’re calling to complain about whatever new concoction Tom dreamed up to make you drink. Este …”—her voice went quiet—“are you sure this is safe?”

“Oh, the one yesterday afternoon was—” Well, the fake gagging noise told her clearly what Esteban’s feelings about it were. “And yes, it’s safe. Don’t worry. It’s a well-mapped cave, and we have an experienced guide. It’s quite safe.”

That assurance made Ani feel a little better, but her stomach was still tight with worry. “And you’ll call or text me once you’re done?”

“I will, I promise,” said Esteban. “Je t’aime.”

“Ich liebe dich.”

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

Este 🕷️ Sun, Jan 26

Este: The reception is terrible or I would call. 15:32

Este: But we are done. All safe and sound except for a few cuts and bruises. 15:34

Ani: On you or the others??? 15:35

Este: Just a few bruises for me. I feel your pain, chérie, the way you whack your elbow and knee all the time. 15:37

Ani: How was it? Useful? I’ve been sketching and watching Spider-Man all day. I’ve been all 😬🫣. 15:40

Este: Very useful. Stressful and claustrophobic but very useful. Let’s just say, I much prefer driving to climbing through a 40cm hole. 15:45

Este: We’re in the car heading back to Annecy. 15:46

Ani: 40?! No, just no. NO. NO. NO. GIF: a man shuddering 15:47

Ani: Will you be home tonight? 15:49

Este: Yes! Can’t wait to see you! 16:00

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

Amid his training activities and before his trip to Banbury for his seat-fitting at Haas’ factory in England, Esteban detoured through Paris for an NBA game there and a photo-op.[2] Ani didn’t go with him, but she enjoyed the photos posted online afterwards.

At 188 cm, Esteban was the tallest of everyone on the current F1 grid, and there was nothing Ani found more utterly hilarious than seeing pictures of him next to people who made him look short. Which certainly doesn’t happen often. And next to Victor Wembanyama, who at 221 cm was about as much taller than Esteban as he was taller than Ani herself, everyone looked short.

Everyone.

That photo, when she first saw it, had Ani spraying a mouthful of hot chocolate across the kitchen counter, she laughed so hard. Once she had cleaned up the mess, she texted him a quick “You look tiny, mon araignée! 🤣🤣” and quickly received back a laughing emoji, his way of telling her he had seen her message even when he didn’t have time to chat right then.

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

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

Late on the morning of Monday, February 10, Ani kissed Esteban goodbye before he left for the airport. Pre-season Testing was in just over two weeks, and Haas had a busy slate of filming for him and Ollie to do before then. His schedule for the next week-and-a-half was going to be frantic: a lightning-fast trip to New York City, back to England for two days of fun content capture with Ollie at the end of the week, a filming day with the VF-25 at Silverstone on Sunday, and then the F175 event at the O2 Arena next Tuesday, and then finally he would be home again to relax for a couple of days before the two of them flew to Bahrain for Pre-Season Testing.

Next on his agenda is sitting on a plane for 9 hours.

And here I am getting exhausted just thinking about his schedule.

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

Este 🕷️ Mon, Feb 10

Este: Safely in New York. On the way to the hotel with my luggage. I hope you are sound asleep by now. Ollie should land in about an hour. 22:25

Este: We are going to play tourists tomorrow along with filming, so lots of pictures! 22:31

Ani:👍💤 23:58

Tues, Feb 11

Ani: It is 8 degrees today and raining, and I’m freezing. At least you are supposed to have some sun, even if it’s 1. 🥶 12:00

Ani: Also I hate when you’re in a time zone west of me. One third of my day is gone, and you’re still asleep. 12:27

Este: Ollie is not a morning person. He is nearly asleep in his cereal. 13:31

Ani: That answers my question of whether he arrived safely. And neither are you, so he is in good company, mon araignée! 13:42

Este: 😆Have you had lunch? 13:43

Ani: Not yet. I was just about to go make it when I saw your message. 13:44

Ani: Magda called me. She had an idea about work she wanted to brainstorm. She wasn’t sure whether it was genius or the product of too little sleep. 13:45

Este: Which was it? Ollie says “Guten Morgen.” 13:46

Ani: With some tweaks, it will be genius. Tell him I said “Hallo”! 13:48

Este: Be careful with the rain if you go out. Don’t slip. 13:49

Ani: I have leftovers in the fridge, and I already got the mail from Henri. I am going nowhere. It’s too cold with this rain. I have my coffee and my tablet. 14:08

Este: IMAGE: Esteban standing in Times Square, flashing the peace sign with both hands.

IMAGE: A selfie of Esteban and Ollie, their heads close together, standing on a balcony, with New York City far below them in the background. Ollie’s new scarf, bear’s head on prominent display, is wrapped around his neck.

IMAGE: A picture of New York City, the same as before, just without the balcony railings in the foreground.[3] 20:27

Este: Ollie has been wearing your scarf all day. He says it’s one of his lucky charms now. 20:32

Este: They made us take our jackets off for some pictures on the observation desk of the Empire State Building.[4] Ollie and I nearly froze, but we did get to see King Kong![5] Maybe we should watch that movie soon. 22:00

Este: We are done filming for today. A little more in the morning, and then we are free to play tourists again until our flights tomorrow night. 23:37

Wed, Feb 12

Este: Are you alright, Ani? You haven’t read any messages for five hours. 01:27

Ani: I could have sworn I’d replied to the one about Ollie and his scarf. Maybe I just thought about replying. 🤦‍♀️ 02:31

Ani: It was also 8:30pm … a few minutes ago. Your pictures were just what I needed to finish two of my Night City landscapes. 02:33

Ani: Here’s one:

IMAGE: A futuristic, cyberpunk-esque cityscape at night. A sleek sports car with glowing neon lights on its rear bumper and wheels is parked on a wet street. The street is lined with tall buildings adorned with numerous neon signs that cast a colorful glow over the scene and reflect off puddles in the road. Skyscrapers rise knife-like into the dark, misty sky.

I hope it’s not so big it crashes your phone. 02:35

Este: There you are! 02:47

Este: Your work amazes me as always, ma muse! But you should be in bed! 02:48

Ani: I’m going to bed. As soon as I take something for my headache and get a snack so I don’t wake up feeling sick with hunger in the morning. Later this morning… 02:50

Ani: Scheiße! Who scheduled a meeting for 9? Sometimes I hate my brain. 03:11

Este: Get up for your meeting in time to look presentable and eat something and then go back to bed afterwards. 03:14

Ani: Depends on when the meeting finishes… Good night. Ich liebe dich. 03:16

Este: Sleep well. Je t’aime. 03:17

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

Friday, February 14, 2025

The clock next to the bed read 07:52 in large red numerals, eight minutes before her alarm would ring, and Ani allowed herself to just lie there, the blankets pulled up snuggly to her shoulders, and sulk for a few minutes. It was a childish feeling she rarely indulged in, but now and then she would allow herself a few minutes to feel sorry for herself and then she would get on with life.

Of all the days to wake up to a cold and empty bed, Valentine’s Day was an especially unfortunate one. Esteban was not any happier than she was about having to be away today—he had been grumbling about the prospect to her on Sunday night as they brushed their teeth—but such were the sacrifices they both had made and Esteban was still making for the sake of their shared passion for racing. She knew those sacrifices intimately. He knew them. She knew what the cost would be at times to their personal lives when he had proposed in 2019 during his year sidelined as a reserve driver, when they had gotten married after the 2020 season had ended, both of them sick and tired of being separated by COVID restrictions. That didn’t mean some days it still didn’t sting more than others.

I miss you, mon araignée.

A few more days, and then you’ll be home.

And once he was home, he would be all hers for a few days, and then it would be time to fly down to Bahrain for testing, as the season started to kick into high gear.

Rain drummed on the windowpanes, and the light filtering in through the curtains was even dimmer than usual, with sunrise still so late in the morning. There was a chill to the air in the bedroom, a sign that Ani definitely needed to adjust the heat, not that the cold particularly made her want to get up to do so. Alone in bed, she had ended up more toward the middle overnight, and she rolled over onto her side until her head was on Esteban’s pillow. He had been gone since Monday, but she could still just faintly smell the lingering scent of his shampoo.

I’d really, really like a hug right now.

Her eye stung with tears.

Ani was quite used to Esteban’s absences after all these years, was quite capable of being a functional human-being without her best friend and husband always there, but today was one of those days when she just really missed him. Not having gone to bed before two am in days, too caught up with her own Night City pieces and with assisting Magda, wasn’t helping either. Exhaustion always made her more emotional.

The shrill noise of her alarm broke the silence of the room.

Ani jumped, startling rather violently.

She had known it would ring soon and yet, somehow, was still surprised.

Rolling back over again, Ani turned off the alarm on her phone, hands trembling slightly, and sat up. Shoving her feet into her slippers and grumbling under her breath about the temperature, she padded into the bathroom and quickly ran through her morning routine—using the bathroom, washing her face, and putting in her eye. Then, after retrieving her phone from her bedside table and one of Esteban’s hoodies from his side of the closet, she made her way into the kitchen, flipping on lights as she went.

Coffee.

As half asleep as she felt at the moment, there was no way she was making it through today without coffee. It didn’t make up for lack of sleep, but it sure did help. The artist community, Ani included, probably wouldn’t survive without coffee. Students either.

While it was brewing, her phone buzzed.

Ani rubbed her eye, yawning almost wide enough to break her face in two, and then clicked her phone screen on. There was a text from Henri, the day-shift concierge.

A package has just arrived for you, Madame. Shall I bring it up? The text read.

Most parcels Ani could and did retrieve herself when Esteban was gone, but Henri was very good about helping her with the oddly shaped and bulky ones that she had the strength to lift but would have trouble seeing around.

Oui. Merci! Ani texted back.

A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door.

Instead of a large or oddly shaped box, Henri was carrying a large vase of flowers: sunny yellow daffodils nestled among red tulips, their petals soft and vibrant. With how gray the weather was outside, the flowers seemed all the more warm, the contrasting colors popping.

Her eyes went wide. “Oh!”

Tears filled her eye. Even off in England, distracted by whatever exactly Haas had him doing with Ollie, Esteban was still thinking about her.

“A gift from Monsieur Esteban, I presume,” said Henri, half hidden by the bouquet. “Shall I set it inside for you, or do you wish to take it?”

“I think it will be safer if you bring it in,” Ani replied, stepping back and holding the door wide open. “Thank you.”

Henri carefully set the vase down on the kitchen island and then, with another kindly smile, disappeared as quickly as he had come back to his desk downstairs.

Ani just stared at the flowers for a minute, a soft smile on her face, before the beeping of the coffee pot told her it was ready. She poured herself a quick cup and then, sipping the hot beverage, turned her attention back to her Valentine’s Day gift. A ribbon had been elaborately tied around the vase in a beautiful bow, and there was a small card, delicately nestled amid the blossoms.

Her eye stung with fresh tears as she read the note: Red for my love, yellow for my hope—thinking of you always. Este.

“Oh, you sweet, sweet man,” she murmured.

Tough as nails on track but one of the kindest men she knew once the helmet came off—that was her Este.

As she stood looking at the flowers, a lingering smile on her face, an image began to bloom in Ani’s mind. The nature of Cyberpunk 2077 and Project Orion meant her artwork was often dark and gritty, but now she could almost see a new landscape in her mind—the rainy streets, the neon signs, the knife-like skyscrapers and … front and center … flowers springing up through a crack in the pavement, a burst of humanity and color and softness amidst the violence of Night City’s underbed.

A good shake dispelled the blooming image before her head could totally get lost in the clouds, and Ani reached for her phone again and quickly typed out the broad strokes of the new concept so she wouldn’t forget.

Fix breakfast.

Then text Este while you eat.

Then you can draw.

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

Este 🕷️ Fri, Feb 14

Ani: Thank you for the flowers, mon araignée! They are absolutely lovely. I love them. It’s cold and rainy today, so they are especially bright and cheery. 08:37

Este: Not as lovely as you, chérie! 09:00

Este: I’m sorry I have to be away today. But I have something special planned once I get home next week. 09:02

Ani: Flatterer! 👀 09:03

Ani: You won’t be home until Wednesday! Do you want me to die of curiosity? 09:05

Ani: And shouldn’t you be filming? Or did you sneak away when I texted? 09:06

Este: 🤣 We have not started yet. Ollie is running late. 09:10

Ani: Where are you filming today? The factory? 09:11

Este: Red Baboon Studios. It’s about ten minutes away. 09:12

Ani: Baboon?? As in monkeys??? What a peculiar name! 09:13

Este: Oui, it is a bit strange. 09:13

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

Michel [6] Fri, Feb 14

Michel: VIDEO: Esteban rubbing balloons in Ollie’s hair, which is crackling with static electricity and standing on end. Ollie is grinning as he reaches out to shock a laughing Esteban.[7] 11:31

Ani: 🤣❤️ They are absolutely ridiculous! I’m going to tease Esteban about this!! 11:39

Michel: VIDEO: A bemused-looking Esteban being asked whether a sandwich, cut in half, is now one sandwich or two. 12:42

Ani: Does Haas know you’re doing this? You’re not going to get in trouble, are you? 12:45

Michel: I have permission. Don’t worry. 12:47

Michel: IMAGES: Multiple shots of Esteban posing in his Haas fireproofs. 16:00

Michel: I didn’t manage to get a photograph, but you should have seen Esteban’s face when Ollie said he has not seen Spider-Man or any of the Marvel movies.[8] 16:03

Ani: 🤣🤣 Oh, I can imagine. He must have been horrified. How did this come up?? 16:11

Michel: Filming for a getting acquainted video. Ollie was asking what movie he should watch on the flight to Melbourne. 16:17

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

Maman Sabrina Sun, Feb 16

Maman Sabrina: You aren’t going to the event at the O2 on Tuesday, are you? 11:00

Ani: No. I am going to watch it and cheer for Este and Ollie from the comfort and quiet of the couch. 11:07

Maman Sabrina: I thought so. I just couldn’t remember and wanted to check. 11:09

Maman Sabrina: Are you doing alright? It must have been a long week with Esteban gone. 11:11

Ani: Quiet. Too quiet, really. But productive. Este has been sending me many pictures of New York. 11:18

Ani: And they have been helping me with some of my Night City landscapes. 11:19

Ani: Este sent me flowers for Valentine’s Day. They’re helping me, too. 11:23

Ani: And I have been helping Magda with one of her projects. Two heads are better than one. 11:25

Maman Sabrina: Very good. Take care of yourself, petite. 11:30

Ani: I’m trying! 11:32

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

Tuesday, February 18, 2025

After a busy weekend, with Esteban’s first video dropping on his new YouTube channel and then his filming day with Haas at Silverstone, where there was a noticeable hiccup when a sidepod cover was blown off during a run after being bolted on incorrectly,[9] Tuesday dawned, and with it, the F175 event at the O2 arena in London.

Just before 9pm, Ani settled down on the sofa with a cup of tea—it was too late in the day for coffee—and her laptop on the coffee table next her, a livestream of the event pulled up on her screen from a German broadcaster so she could have the translated captions. In her lap was her knitting, a bear’s-head blanket intended for Ollie on his birthday later in the year, which she had just begun the other day.

She had already admired the pictures of Esteban in his leather jacket on the red carpet, while simultaneously wincing at the sheer amount of hair gel that seemed to have been used to style his hair into submission. The pictures of Ollie and Esteban on either side of Ayao, which only emphasized the extreme height differential between the two drivers and their team principal, she had laughed at, while agreeing privately with a few fan comments on social media that they did indeed look like his hulking bodyguards.[10] What few pictures of Esteban and Ollie that Haas had released of them playing tourist in London also had her smiling, especially a selfie of the two of them with their heads bent together, grinning at the camera.[11]

(How well the two of them were getting along and how well the pictures, videos, and interviews on social media showed it was like the perfect comeback in Ani’s view to all the idiots and haters who had been running their mouths last season that Ollie was going to be screwed, having to partner Esteban.)

And now it was time for the main event.

The entire event was two-hours long, but Ani was interested only in the reveals of Haas’ car and Aston Martin’s, given Lance, which would drastically limit how much of the stream she actually paid attention to.

And from the moment the stream began, Ani was immediately glad that she had not gone with Esteban, that she had stayed home in Geneva where it was quiet and calm. The darkness, the flashing strobe lights, the raucous (as she would consider it) music on stage—all of it looked perfectly designed to mess with what vision she had left and give her a pounding headache.

44 minutes into the broadcast, it was finally time for Haas. The description of the team as a “symbol of grit and determination” seemed right on point, but the inclusion of the clip of Grosjean’s Bahrain crash as an illustration of the challenges the team had faced made her flinch. Seeing the fireball on live TV then had been utterly terrifying, the only time in her life where she had been certain she had just seen a man die, and she was quite happy never to see repeat clips of his crash again. When it came to the car itself, Ani, who had already seen pictures of it from the filming day at Silverstone on Sunday, concluded that she did indeed somewhat prefer the Haas race suits over the Haas car in terms of colors.

To cheers from the crowd, Esteban and Ollie appeared on stage, joined quickly by Ayao, and Ani grinned, setting aside her knitting to focus on the screen. There was another loud rolling cheer as Lawrence Barretto introduced the team.

Ani was especially grateful for the German captions when Ayao was speaking. Even if her English hadn’t been basically nonexistent, she probably would have struggled to understand him, his accent was that thick. Not that mine when I try to speak English is any better.

“We are one big family, so really enjoying this journey,” Ayao concluded.

Ani bit her lip. Haas was slowly growing on her more and more, but she was still wary after how everything with Alpine had ended. “I hope that’s the truth,” she murmured.

And it was very good to see Este in Haas colors. She strongly agreed with Barretto on that point.

Ollie was especially looking forward to Silverstone, his home race, which was quite understandable. Ani knew how much it had meant to Esteban to race in France in 2018, 2021, and 2022, especially in that last race where he had finally finished in the points at home.

A few minutes later, as the three men filed off stage, a single moment starkly stood out to her: Esteban was almost skipping.[12] Literally. After everything Alpine had done last season, here with Haas, there was a literal bounce in his step. It was almost enough to make her cry.

12 minutes after that finished, enough time to use the bathroom and make some more tea, it was time for Aston Martin’s car reveal. The James Bond theme was clever and made Ani laugh, especially with the boats having DRS flaps, although seeing Lance and Fernando appear in the crowds with their helmets on but wearing suits was visually strange. The comic-style graphics and transitions in the racing sequences made the artist side of her brain very happy.

Fernando’s quip, “Now we've seen the best-looking car of the night, please enjoy the rest of the evening,” also made Ani laugh.

At that point, all Ani did was keep knitting, a shred of her attention still on the broadcast, until the very end of the show when all the cars and all the teams were back on the stage, and then she had eyes only for Haas and Aston Martin, which were conveniently one behind the other. Lance, who loved racing but loathed the spotlight and media attention, looked to her eyes quite ready to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. In the background of the shot as the camera panned toward the rear of the stage, Ani caught Este gesturing to Ollie, showing him where he was supposed to be standing,[13] and she smiled again.

It was a little past 11pm when the stream concluded, and her eyes were growing surprisingly heavy for what was for her a comparatively early hour, but it was that succession of late nights recently that was making her tired. Esteban had said that he would be heading home as soon as the event was finished and his responsibilities were concluded, and Ani was intent on waiting up for him. One more late night, and then she’d drag herself to bed at more reasonable hours again.

Well, I’ll try to.

Her attempt was entirely unsuccessful as, next thing she knew, there was a gentle hand cupping her cheek and a familiar voice saying, “Chérie.”

Groggy, her mind heavy with sleep and half feeling like it was caught in the tendrils of a pleasant dream, Ani’s eye slitted open. Esteban was right there, kneeling next to the couch, his face tired but smiling, a dark jacket on, signaling he must have just arrived from the airport.

“Este?” she mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

(Once years ago, she had once dreamed about him coming home and woken to an empty bed and bitter disappointment.)

His hand left her cheek and smoothed across her hair. “Oui, I’m home.”

“What time is it?”

“Past 2.” Esteban carefully removed her knitting from her lap, setting it next to her tablet on the coffee table and then slid his arm underneath her shoulders. “You need to go to bed.”

It took three tries to get her feet into her slippers, and Ani’s eye felt like it was weighted. She leaned heavily into his side as he led them down the hall to their bedroom, his arm a guiding presence around her waist. Still more asleep than awake, Ani sank into bed after Este pulled back the covers for her. They were carefully tucked around her, and a kiss was pressed to her forehead. Her eye slid shut, and the mattress shifted as Este rose.

Don ’t leave!

“Where are you going?” she mumbled, catching his hand.

He laughed softly. “I need to change—I’m not going to sleep in airport clothes—and brush my teeth. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

The lights were low, save for the night-lights and the warm glow from the bathroom, and Ani tracked Esteban as he padded around the room and in and out of the bathroom, getting ready for bed. Sleep’s pull was heavy but not heavy enough to soothe her back under, not when Este was here but not yet here beside her.

Eventually, though, the bed dipped again, and Esteban joined her in bed. Ani rolled over onto her side, reaching for him in the darkness. Her hand found his sleeve. Then, after he shifted closer and rolled to face her, their hands met.

“Missed you,” she whispered.

Esteban squeezed her hand. “I missed you, too, ma tempête. Now go to sleep. I’ll be right here in the morning.”

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

Everything was still and quiet in the bedroom as Ani drifted towards wakefulness. The covers were pulled up over her shoulder; she was curled up on her left side, warm and comfortable; but—she realized after a few seconds, her mind still foggy with fading sleep—she was alone in bed. Her heart sank down to her toes. Had it all been a dream again, Este getting home last night? It had all seemed so real, but so had that other dream years ago. Tears of disappointment began to trickle down her cheek.

Then, almost simultaneously, her searching hand, creeping across the divide between her side of the bed and his, met fading warmth, and there was the sudden sound of soft footfalls.

Ani opened her eye. There was dim light in the room—more than just from the night-lights and her LED strips—enough for her to know the sun has risen, meaning it wasn’t still the wee hours of the morning. And Esteban was there, crossing the room back to bed from the direction of the bathroom. His hair was sticking up in all directions; his black t-shirt was rumpled like it had never met an iron a day in its life; and there was the fading imprint of a pillow crease on his cheek.

Concern and confusion instantly crossed his features as their eyes met, and some of the grogginess faded from his face.

“Ani? What’s wrong?”

The bed dipped as he pulled back the covers and slid into bed beside her, and Esteban reached out to her, his warm hand cupping her cheek, thumb sweeping away the drops of wetness trickling across her skin.

“I thought you’d be happy to see me?” Alongside the concerned confusion, there was a mischievous glint in Esteban’s eyes, in the quirk of his lips. He was teasing her. He liked to tease her, and she usually teased back, returning as good as she got.

Today, the question just made her cry harder. Tiredness still clung heavily to her limbs, leaving a dull headache behind her eyes, the product of too many late nights while her araignée was gone, and when Ani got too exhausted, everything (it always felt like) made her want to cry. It was infuriating. Always had been.

Ani pinched her eye shut, as if that could hold back the wave of stinging tears. “I am happy to see you,” she replied, voice a little rough. “I’m always happy to see you, even when I’m mad at you.”[14]

His thumb swept back and forth over her cheekbone. “Are you mad—“

She shook her head instantly before he could even finish the question. “Of course, not!” she protested.

“Then tell me what’s wrong, please, chérie.”

Ani opened her eye again. Esteban was stretched out on his side beside her, leaning on his other elbow so that he was looking down at her. His face was concerned but not alarmed. Yet, at least.

“It’s silly,” she murmured.

“So? If it upsets you, it’s still important to me.”

Her heart went warm and fuzzy. (How people could hate her husband so much, she would never understand. He was so kind, such a good man. How could they not see that?) “I woke up … and for a moment … I thought I’d only dreamed it, you coming home last night.”

“Oh, Ani. I’m sorry.” He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. “Roll over?”

Ani did so, and Esteban tucked himself around her, spooning her, tucking one leg over her ankles and wrapping an arm firmly around her waist until she was comfortably cocooned in warmth and safety. She shifted slightly until she wasn’t lying on the end of her braid and then closed her eyes, relishing the feeling of being held. It was good to have him home.

After a few minutes, she said, voice more normal, “You promised me a surprise when you got home?”

Esteban laughed softly, the rush of air tickling the fine hairs at the back of her neck. “It won’t be a surprise if I tell you.”

“Este!” she half-whined in a fake, put-upon tone. “I’ve been waiting for days!”

He laughed again and kissed the back of her head. “Tomorrow, chérie. You can wait one more day.”

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

[1] https://www.autohebdof1.com/actualites/f1/un-team-building-a-la-dure-pour-esteban-ocon-et-son-equipe.html.

[2] https://www.instagram.com/haasf1team/p/DFZ3mixtjZE/?img_index=3

[3] https://x.com/OconEsteban/status/1889423868458086850/photo/3

[4] https://www.instagram.com/p/DF-IGf4tnXK/?img_index=1; https://www.tumblr.com/estebanbicon/775358448937451520

[5] https://www.instagram.com/p/DGBRO5gOUJ0

[6] Esteban’s manager

[7] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yiYscDmwoT8

[8] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XLga9onFxtA

[9] https://x.com/CRASH_NET_F1/status/1891145484967825486; https://www.si.com/fannation/racing/f1briefings/news/esteban-ocon-s-haas-f1-car-damaged-in-silverstone-shakedown-01jm7rz2n41s

[10] https://www.instagram.com/haasf1team/p/DGOcIaxttw9/

[11] https://www.instagram.com/p/DGOWINkNViP/?img_index=1; https://www.tumblr.com/bastet55/776258901614215168; https://www.tumblr.com/bastet55/776480899709730816.

[12] https://www.tumblr.com/bastet55/775919814476742656

[13] https://www.tumblr.com/bastet55/775897575599570944

[14] Qatar 2023 throwback

[slippinmickeys]

Old Chem, pt 5

TW: school lockdown

Lockdown. A shooter on campus. Things he never used to have to think about. 

He was in class and the kids were quiet, everyone with their nose glued to their phones. The doors were barred. They all looked scared.

“Can anyone tell me what part of the brain takes over in fight or flight?” he asked quietly. 

Most of them look up from their phones, confused. Classes were canceled, was this guy really trying to teach? This was a smaller, 200-level class, though, these kids knew this stuff.

One, in the front row, half raised her hand. Mulder nodded at her.

“The amygdala?” 

“That’s right,” he said. He was sitting on top of one of the desks in the front of the room, trying to appear as casual and calm as he could so that his students might feed off of his vibe. 

“When the alert came through our phones, the amygdala took over. Anyone remember the first step?”

“Perceiving the threat,” said a kid in the back. 

“Yep,” Mulder said, holding up two fingers. “Step two: flight or flight, triggered by adrenaline and cortisol. These happen quickly. We can stay in step two for a bit. Prolonged stress response. Who feels like they’re in it now?”

Most of the hands in the class went up.

“The goal is to get the prefrontal cortex back in control,” he said. 

“How do we do that?” said a sophomore from the front. He seemed a little angry, was nervously chewing his gum, fidgeting. 

“Deep breathing can help,” Mulder said, and noticed a few students take deep breaths.

“Exercise too, believe it or not,” Mulder went on. 

“We’re shit out of luck there,” said the sophomore. “We’re locked in this room.” 

There were sirens blaring distantly from the other end of campus.

“True,” said Mulder. “But there are other ways.”

“Like?” said a quiet girl from the front. He thought her name might be Courtney. 

“Talking to other people,” Mulder said. “Getting creative. And,” he went on, “Cognitive activities. Putting your brain to work. I want everyone to write or type out–right now–the title of the paper you turned in last week for this class. On paper, on your laptop, on your phone, doesn’t matter.”

He gave them all a minute. “Okay,” he said. “Now write down roughly what your thesis statement was.”

Another moment. “Okay. Now who’s still in Fight or Flight?”

Less hands went up and Mulder smiled. “See? It's already working.” 

A few students smiled back, looking more calm. 

Then, one of the girls that was on the ski trip with them raised her hand, her face pale. 

“Professor Mulder?” she said. 

Mulder nodded at her. 

She swallowed. “They’re saying hostages were taken. In the Miller Lab.”

All the kids swung their phones back up and Mulder felt a sharp dart of primal fear pierce through his chest. The Miller Lab was the one Scully ran. And she was there right now. 

***

What he was doing was idiotic and breaking pages worth of school protocol and policy, but he didn’t think about any of those things as he ran over the footbridge and toward the lab where Scully spent a majority of her time on campus. 

The whole of the building was cordoned off with yellow police tape and there was a ring of police cruisers parked at haphazard angles surrounding it. Clumps of students stood in the trees beyond the emergency vehicles, some hugging each other, some nervously watching. About twenty yards away, Mulder spotted Rudy, one of Scully’s graduate lab assistants nervously chewing his black painted nails. 

“Rudy!” Mulder called and ran over to him. “Where is she?” he asked without preamble.

“I don’t know,” Rudy said urgently. “I was in a different part of the building. There was shouting and then kind of chaos and then a gunshot. Someone pulled the fire alarm and we all tore ass out. I haven’t seen her.” 

Next to Rudy stood another lab assistant. She was teary, wide-eyed.

“He said his name was Duane Barry,” she hiccuped. “He said…he said some crazy shit.”

Just then a large armored-like vehicle pulled onto the scene and parked. A moment later the back door opened and a large man in a blue slicker jacket hopped down. He was bald, with glasses, and when he turned to talk to one of the cops on the scene, Mulder saw the big yellow letters across the back of the man’s jacket: “FBI.”

“Fuuuuck,” swore Rudy softly. 

Mulder was in a blind panic, but trying not to show it. Stairs were being attached to the big vehicle, and several other agents emerged from it, walkie-talkies in their hands, all of them looking serious, all of them wearing guns. He was on the verge of marching over and offering help or demanding answers–he wasn’t sure which–when he heard someone shout his name from behind him. 

He whirled around and there was Scully coming at him at a full run, her white lab coat flapping in the air behind her. He tore away from Rudy and flew to meet her, sweeping her up into his arms and into a grip so fierce she grunted. Her arms swung around his neck and she pressed her mouth to his collar. 

“I’m okay,” she whispered several inches below his ear. “I’m okay.” 

***

Charlie and his wife Sandra sat across from them holding hands, Sandra’s dress the same pale pink as the linen tablecloth on Margaret Scully’s dining room table. The leaves of the table had been pulled out and put on and it was set up in festive Easter decor; elegant candlesticks, a light brown water pitcher shaped like a rabbit, round enamel eggs in pastels dotted amongst the platters heaped with honey-baked ham, salad, sweet rolls. 

“God, that must have been terrifying,” Sandra said, looking at Scully with a sympathetic look. 

“It was,” Scully said simply. She pulled her napkin out of its ring and draped it over her lap.

“I’m just glad they got the guy,” said Melissa, who lowered herself down to sit on Scully’s other side. Across from her, and next to Sandra, sat Bill and Tara, whose belly was softly rounded with pregnancy. 

“What motivated him, did they say?” Charlie asked. 

From the head of the table, Scully’s mother sat silent and uncomfortable, watching her children talk with her hand resting along the top of her wine glass. 

“He claimed to have been abducted by aliens and experimented on,” Mulder said. “He thought the labs at the university were somehow involved in whatever he thinks happened to him.”

“Delusional,” Bill spit.

“Likely, yes,” Mulder said, the only person at the table qualified to make that diagnosis. He felt sorry for the man.

“Did you talk to him?” Bill asked, looking at his youngest sister. 

Scully shook her head. “I saw him in the hallway with the gun. Threw the lock on my lab, pulled the fire alarm and jumped out my window.”

Mulder reached over and squeezed her hand. Her quick thinking had probably saved numerous lives. 

The incident had shaken him profoundly. Made him rethink all of his priorities.

“I hope the man gets the help he needs,” Mrs. Scully finally spoke.

Mulder remembered watching the guy get perp-walked into the back of an unmarked sedan by the tall, bald FBI agent. He remembered the wild, desperate look in Barry’s eyes. Mulder hoped he’d get the help he needed, too. 

“Let’s move on to happier discussions,” Mrs. Scully went on, giving her head a little shake and reaching her hands out on either side of her to grip hands with Charlie, with Mulder. “Who’d like to say grace?” 

Mulder held her hand warmly, reached out to take Scully’s as well. Before he ducked his head, he looked briefly at Margaret Scully’s hand, at her thin, paper-like skin, her knobbly arthritic knuckles, the wedding ring on her hand sitting in its own worn groove, nicked and shining, a perfect circle of aurum. 

Bless this food to our use

He’d like to put a ring on Scully’s finger, he thought suddenly. He’d like to bind her to him forever.

and us to thy service

[rom-e-o]

Worthy (Constance/Ebenezer)

Trigger warning for mentions of s*xual abuse and physical abuse perpetrated by a third party (AKA Orin).

How does almost 20 years of marriage break? It shatters like bone.

Before Ebenezer came into her life with the speed and majesty of a summer storm, Constance DoGoode (specifically, Constance Spiegler) hadn't thought herself to be particularly ... affectionate.

She liked to flirt; a wink here, a flash of the ankle there. The best men got a swish of the skirt.

It was recreational for her; an exercise is the perfecting the persona of a stunning socialite. It was part of her job to maintain the image as a model and a soon-to be businessman's wife.

People noticed Constance, and they also noticed how others (especially men) treated her.

All the doormen at New York's ritziest apartments took turns on Friday evenings while gathered around shots of rye whiskey to brag about if she'd touched their shoulder or tossed her hair at them to throw the cent of her lily perfume. Bellhops would fight over who got the opportunity to handle her luggage or, heaven forbid, the opportunity to walk her to her room or bring room service. The jewelers at Tiffany's frequently invited her to their 259 Broadway storefront to solicit her opinion on the latest diamonds and jewelry styles.

When eager friends told Constance stories of her not-so-secret fanclubs, she'd laugh coyly, her smile bright as the stars. The unsuspecting onlooker might think the news overjoyed her.

Truthfully, she was indifferent. She liked attention in the way a horse liked sugar. It was a delightful treat, but it wasn't by any means necessary for survival or daily well-being. She felt the same way about the birds and bees.

While she'd had her first kiss at age 14 with a giggly classmate from her French lessons, she'd been a sterling little virgin on her wedding night. As for why she'd waited, it hadn't been an intentional decision. She'd simply never had the desire to go to bed with anyone before meeting her first husband. Others had definitely tried to persuade her, but the woman was nothing if not resolute, even when it came to her disinterest.

Her wedding night with Orin had been...nice. Delightful, even. Then, the next day, he'd 'shared' her with a group of other businessmen he'd met that morning in the Swiss ski lodge they'd opted to honeymoon in. She woke up bruised, bloodied, groggy from alcohol she didn't remember drinking, and most of all ... broken-hearted.

As the years passed, kisses were nonexistent and hugs were only initiated in the company of others to keep up the couple's images. Sex was more awkward than painful, thanks to Orin's below average endowment (which she became beyond thankful for). When he did want to hurt her, he used his fists, broken bottles, or the steel-toed tips of his boots if she was especially prone.

She tried to rekindle their romance if for no other reason than to save her life. It failed, and she turned to a razor blade and scalding bath tub for salvation. She was denied. Orin found her and delivered her from ethereal release to the painful confinement of a hospital. Even while in a half-sleep, her body reeking of copper from the blood coagulating in the lace trim of her nightgown, she swore he mother's screams shook the city.

That night was the only night Orin held her hand, stroking her wedding band. It seemed to be a means to comfort himself more than her.

Doctors gave her pain meds - morphine, codeine, and heroin. Opium as well, of course. It lessened her libido further, something Orin would stomp his foot about like a child whenever she tried to shove him away after a long day.

After he shoved her down the stairs, snapping both her femurs like toothpicks, the pain medication and grain alcohol cocktail she sloshed down daily numbed her to almost everything. Everything except the desire to escape.

The 30-day boat trip to London has been a miserable, rat-infested, shivering detox. Yet, as far as she was concerned, death would have been another form of release. Whether she reached the shore or not, she was free.

When she did reach the shore, what she lacked in money or prospects, she made up for in hope. The city was grimy, freezing cold and dark, but it was without him. For that reason, it was heaven.

Then, she met Ebenezer Scrooge.

He and Orin were physically similar, in many ways. Handsome. Tall. Dark-haired (well, past-tense for Ebenezer). Broad-shouldered. Their voices were even similar, striking her as a blend between velvety and smoky that she had never heard before. Orin's accent was distinctly Bronx, while Ebenezer's leaned more Welsh than the traditional London accent or cockney flair she'd heard so far.

Ebenezer rolled his 'rrr's easily, which separated him distinctly from the pronunciations of largely Dutch-settled populations of New York. Orin's family had hailed from the Netherlands and Germany, and he spoke fluent Dutch as a result. Constance spoke the language recreationally, and the two would often converse in Dutch at parties if they needed to speak privately.

"Tenzij je wilt dat je arm vanavond gebroken wordt, rond je gesprek af en laten we vertrekken," he growled. "Dat zal ik nu doen," she whispered, frantically waving to the acquatance she's started chatting with moments before. They stared back in confusion, but she kept smiling as to not alarm them. "Het spijt me." "Zorg dat je dat doet, slet!"

Both men were financial bigwigs, but Ebenezer's talent was sincere and founded on skill (skills that had come at a hefty price). Orin was ... well, a master of illusion. He talked an enthusiastic deal, cut shrewd deals, and adored parties and festivities. Yet, the management of money often fell to Constance because the man lacked any sense of self-restraint.

Where they widely differed, of course, was in personality.

"How would you pronounce your name in Dutch?" he asked, using his elbow to pop is head up. The angle allowed him to look down upon her lovingly while simultaneously providing space for their nude bodies to slot together easily. They laid side by side in bed, his blunt fingertips tracing hearts idly over the skin of her bare hip.

"Konstanz."

He hummed, testing the pronunciation on his tongue. "Beautiful, of course."

She smiled modestly. "I've always liked my name, I'll confess. My mother chose it for me, after all."

He paused. "So, Theresea gave you your name, not ..."

"No. If I had a name before they left me, I don't remember it."

"I can't imagine a more fitting name for you," he said softly, flattened his palm to give her hip an affectionate squeeze. "Steadiness. Resoluteness. Persistence. How fitting for a woman of such strength."

"My schoolmates teased me for it, though," she commented. "They said it was too prim and proper for a redhead with freckles."

"Too prim?" he repeated, genuinely confused.

"I like the way your name sounds much better," she said, rolling over in the bed to have a better angle at which to toy with his hair. "Even H'azer. Similar to Hebrew."

He chuckled, capturing her hand to kiss her knuckles. "It sounds pretty when you say it."

"You don't like your name?"

"I'm indifferent," he explained. "It's certainly a name that sets a high standard. One I'm uncertain a can stand up to."

"I adore your name," she said sincerely, twining their fingers. Her thumb stroked his palm, and she took great joy in watching a deep blush color his cheeks (and not for the first time that day). "It's a worthy name for a worthy man."

"W-Well, thank you," he chuckled, stuttering a bit in the process. She adored why boyish embarrassment came over him in small glimpses. It was rewarding to see him accept compliments.

"I mean it," she repeated. "If anyone deserves a name of such esteem, it's you."

His facial features, already soft with affection, became borderline mercurial. "You're serious?"

"You are one of two men I hold in the highest esteem possible," she said. She pressed a kiss to the tip of his owlish nose. "Sorry, but I'm afraid my father takes the tippy-top spot."

He laughed at this, not in mockery, but in joy.

"I'd expect nothing less," he beamed.

Her heart swelled at his response.

"Oh, he would have loved you..." she said softly. "He never liked Orin. My father rarely lost his temper, but the first time I ran home with a black eye, he grabbed a pistol and tried to march out the door. He said, 'I'll kill the bastard.'"

Agreed, Ebenezer thought secretly.

"He sounds like an amazing man," he said, "And he raised an amazing, wonderful, strong, and beautiful daughter. One I promise I'll fight every day to be worthy of. For the rest of my days."

It was her turn to blush as she lifted her arms to wrap them about his narrow waist. Her cheek fell against his furred chest, finding the steady thud of his heart without issue.

"I think you'll find that your fight is over," she said with a smile. "Both of ours are."

@quill-pen when writing a character's past hurts so much that you HAVE to throw in SOME fluff at the end to stay sane.

[pretordh]

Treason is a deliberate humiliation of Ukraine from the stage in Jurmala. Treason is a deliberate comparison of the Armed Forces of Ukraine with rams, and the crew of the Zaporizhzhia submarine with an iguana farting in the water. Treason is to see "peace in Putin's eyes" in the sixth year of the war. Treason is a deliberate appointment to the post of Head of the SBU of your own kent, who is a complete profane person in the work of the special services. What Ukraine will ultimately pay for this, only God knows. And that is not a fact. Treason is a trip to Oman, and then almost a day of absence from all radars at the moment when Patrushev's plane was there. Yeah, it just happened that way. Treason is the curtailment of the missile program and a bunch of other programs to rearm the army. What Ukraine paid for this, we will probably never know. Treason is the actual shutdown of the Pavlohrad Chemical Plant (PCZ). Treason is total disregard for the allies' warnings about the imminent full-scale invasion by Russia. Treason is skiing and drinking in Bukovel at a time when there was a month and a half left until the big day and the Supreme Commander-in-Chief, instead of drinking vodka, should have read his duties… "exercises direct military leadership of the Armed Forces of Ukraine, controls the state of providing the army with military equipment, weapons and other resources." Treason is exactly the same disregard for everything that the Head of the CIA said before the Russian invasion. Did anyone assure that "everything was agreed upon"? Treason is not providing the military leadership of Ukraine with any information about the exact date and time of the start of the full-scale invasion. (Read the interview with General Serhiy Nayev). How many Ukrainians paid for this with their lives? Or maybe they didn’t give it because everything was already “agreed”? Treason is the assurance of millions of citizens a couple of days before February 24 that everything will be fine and I guarantee you… and then in particular the Zhytomyr highway was littered with shot cars with those people who were guaranteed something there. Treason is empty warehouses on the eve of a full-scale invasion. How many soldiers paid for this with their own lives?

[sexybritishllama]

when i got out of surgery to remove my gallbladder they were like here :) graham crackers :) and i fucking devoured those and then IMMEDIATELY passed out for four hours. best meal ever

those simple carbs when you're starving are just EUPHORIC

my other best meal i ever had was just a plain butter and sugar crepe when i was like 15. not because it was particularly high quality in literally any way. but it was winter and i was on a school ski trip so it was freezing, i was doing a LOT more exercise than i used to (i had never before and have never since gone skiing), and the meals they were serving us at our accommodation were tiny and just bad. so when we had free time in the evening one night i got my little crepe and basically unhinged my jaw and swallowed it in one. soooooo good

[doodle-boy]

Here it is! My guide to how the weather and how the weather factory works all in a cute little powerpoint!! Finally over a week of obsessive research, script writing and powerpoint panel creation has lead to this masterpiece!

Obviously I am just a fan making up some stuff so if any of you guys disagree with how I head-cannoned the weather please feel free to ignore this. If you wanna take this and use it for your own little ponysona's feel free to do so! Literally the reason why I made this, so that at least we as fans can have one piece of information to point too if ever we need to explain how the weather works in MLP.

Also I did cut some stuff from this, mostly fake seasonal transitional holidays that I made up to help fill in the gap for like spring to summer and summer to fall. since all we ever see in the show is winter wrap up and the running of the leaves. So I'm gonna put that info on the bottom of this cut so you can read that if you want. It is optional!

Anyways I hope you all like it. I'm going to go take a nap I am so tired.

Seasonal Transitional Holidays!

Winter Wrap Up

The Holiday that kicks off the start of a new year! This is one most ponies enjoy because it comes after a long cold season. It is also one where ponies exercise teamwork with one another as ponies split off into teams to help clear away the snow and get things ready for spring. While the teams and methods of clearing the snow are different depending on the city and the pony population. Generally, the teams are split into three categories. Weather Team, Animal Team and the Plant Team.

Weather Team: The Weather Team are the ones who are mainly in control of clearing away the snow and helping the ice melt, as well as clearing the clouds to get the sunlight to warm the earth.

Animal Team: They help with waking up any hibernating animal as well as help guide in birds from the south and building them new nests to use.

Plat Team: Are also responsible for clearing the snow as well as planting new crops to help rejuvenate the landscape.

Celestial Summer Celebration

This Holiday celebration marks the beginning of the summer season! This holiday does not require much preparation on the average pony’s part as it is mostly a celebration to share with friends and family.

Celestia’s Longest Day: Our Princess Celestia brings the sun out earlier in the morning than normal and the ponies in Equestria celebrate the longest day of the year. Ponies spend most of this day outside, swimming, grilling foods, having picnics, and enjoying the sun as it warms up the earth.

Releasing of the Fireflies: This part of the celebration is done as the sun finally sets. That is when ponies release the fireflies, who had been previously sleeping through the cooler spring air, out into the warm summer skies. This is a event celebrated with family and friends as well, though someponies think of it as an unofficial romantic celebration as couples go off to watch the fireflies in private.

Rainbow Leaves Festival

            The most colorful of holidays celebrates the beginning of fall as we encourage the leaves to change colors through song and dance as ponies often host colorful costume contests. This is also a time for feasts and other fun activities as ponies come together to share in the bounty that summer gave us. As well as helping our animal friends prepare for winter.

Animal Migrations: This is the time of year most birds start to go back to the south for the winter. Most ponies assist with this by setting up bird feeders in trees, meant to supply birds with all the food they’ll need to make the long trip over. We also leave out feeders for our animal friends who are starting to get ready for hibernation.

Changing of the Leaves: This is the main event of the festival; ponies will gather together wearing colorful dresses and suits in the appropriate fall colors and they will dance and sing songs. From formal fall balls to country square dances there is no wrong way to celebrate this festival. This is a time to come together and dance and sing and make merry. The harmonic energy from the celebrations helps to turn the leaves from green to their colorful oranges, red, browns, yellow and purples. The festival will end with a big feast as ponies enjoy the last summer crops left from the previous season, everypony making colorful dishes with the available ingredients.

Running of the Leaves

            The Running of the Leaves is a smaller celebration but one that ponies still enjoy as ponies love to race one another through the forests of Equestria. The combined force of all the ponies racing allows for the leaves to fall from the trees and allows for the transition of winter to begin. This celebration also ends in a large community feast.

Races and other Competitions: Every community and city have their own local races so as the cover as much land as they can. Races usually start earlier in the day when it’s cooler. Not only are there races, but other competitions like to be hosted on this day as well. Like Pie eating contests, tug of war, bobbing for apples, potato sack races, and scarecrow making contests. It’s a time for fun and games and face painting as ponies celebrate the end of fall.

Harvest Feast: Much like the Rainbow Leaves Festival there is also a feast at the end of the day. But this one is usually much larger than the previous celebration. Ponies go all out as they make mash potatoes and pies and other delectable treats as everyone gives thanks to the harvests they produced during the fall. It’s also a time for family and friends to catch up and share their plans for the coming winter season.

[umichenginabroad]

Madrid Week 7: Viva Italia (not america..?)

Hola a todxs :). Niko back here again with week 7’s blog of my study abroad experience in Madrid! Like I mentioned in last week’s blog, this last weekend I traveled to Italy, and this past weekend I was in Sevilla, Spain. My trip to Italy was particularly transformative and jam packed with personal reflection. Read on for the reflection, stay for the photos (and Italian food p*rn). This blogpost probably took the longest for me to write, and was honestly pretty difficult for me to put in words. I hope I captured my thoughts well, and I always welcome feedback and discussion to any and all readers (at any point in time!).

Argentina (but aren’t we talking about Italy?)

As I’ve mentioned before, the summer after freshman year, I studied for 6 weeks in Buenos Aires, Argentina. One particular weekend, I took a trip to Iguazu Falls — the largest waterfall in the Americas by volume, and one of the 7 natural wonders of the world.

Long story short, I got onto a tour bus with a bunch of strangers from around the world, drove 15 hours across Argentina to get to the falls, randomly selected hostel room groups based on who was sitting nearby on the bus, and ended up in a group with 4 girls from Mexico, my travel buddy from the USA, and 1 girl from Italy.

We spent a wonderful weekend together seeing the waterfalls (barring a short-lived but intense spout of food poisoning after eating something funky at a Brazilian buffet), and formed the foundation of what could turn into lasting friendships. But, come Monday, we parted ways, not sure whether we would ever see each other again. 

This trip was the first time I went into a travel situation without a true support system, and an important exercise in “trusting in the process” — and It helped me realize that I was capable of forming meaningful connections across language barriers, cultures, and in un-traditional social situations.

If it wasn’t obvious already, you might be able to see where this little backstory fits into my recent trip to Northern Italy. Before I departed for Spain in January, I sent a text to Gaia — the Italian friend I met in Iguazu — that I would be in Europe for the semester, and would love to see her at some point if the logistics work out.

Now we actually talk about Italy

Flash forward a few months, and well, the logistics worked out. Although our original plan was to go skiing in a small village in the Alps, we ended up being unable to due to weather issues. Instead, Gaia, her friend Camilla, and I took a tour of Northern Italy, visiting Turine, Asti, Moncalvo, and Milan. 

In a way, this trip was an even bigger exercise in trust — although this time, it was my gut I was trusting, not the process. I hadn’t seen Gaia in nearly 2 years, and the only other time we had met lasted just 3 short days. I was about to spend another 3 days with her — but this time, nearly every waking moment would be spent together.

For some reason, the thoughts of “what if we didn’t get along?”, “what if it was awkward?”, “what if we got on each other’s nerves?” — normal things to think in this situation — never crossed my mind. I trusted my gut: that Gaia was someone that I got on with in the past, and I had a feeling that the people we grew into over the past two years would mesh just as well.

So, I didn’t worry. And I was right not to. After a short period of hesitancy, we clicked. We spent the weekend learning about each other — both from a personal and cultural point of view.

And by the end of this trip, I felt culturally enriched. There’s a level of cultural intimacy (is that a term? Well now it is, I just coined it) that can only be experienced by being someone who has lived and breathed that culture for their whole life — something that I feel like I’ve never had the pleasure of experiencing in my own heritage, first or second-hand.

A short aside on heritage in the USA

Ethnically, I am half Italian, half Greek. My great grandparents immigrated to the USA from the south of Italy through Ellis island, raising my grandmother, who gave birth to my mom. 4 generations later, I feel more comfortable calling myself Italian-American than Italian. 

My mom’s side of the family was raised in northern New Jersey. I was raised Roman catholic, and I have 11 first cousins. Family gatherings are loud and boisterous, and people talk with their hands. My grandmother makes delicious Italian cookies called Pizzelles, and we call dish towels Mopinas (which isn’t even in the italian dictionary — it must have evolved on its own. Call it Englitalian [Italinglish? Coined.] ).

And that’s about all I’ve got to hold onto of Italian culture. Although I have more contact with Greece through the Orthodox Christian community and my direct-immigrant grandparents, I’ve never felt particularly connected to either culture. I don’t speak either language, and up until this past summer (when I visited Greece), I’d never been to either country. 

People from the United States of America — especially, I think, those in the Northeast — place emphasis on their ethnic heritage that those from other countries around the world do not. Ask an American, and they’ll probably know where their blood comes from — if the records of their ancestor’s immigration do exist. Ask an Italian, or a Spaniard, and they probably will not. Odds are, in fact, that their blood will be just that: Italian, or Spanish. 

The USA is a country built on immigrants, and it continues to be so to this day — and to me, it somehow feels wrong to not know anything about your cultural background.

This is a weirdly complex topic — one that I’ve thought about a lot —but bear with me here (and keep in mind, this is all from my personal point of view, and I welcome all new perspectives! Feel free to send me a message to discuss🙂). I think that, in the more liberal sphere of American adolescents, it’s almost “bad” to not know anything about your heritage — especially among white people, which is a label that I identify with. The USA has done a lot of messed up stuff in the world, and I think this is true to an extent that young Americans feel a desire to distance themselves from their nationality. 

Instead, we grasp on to what we have that sets us apart from it — where our parents, grandparents, or great-grandparents come from. It gives us something to point to in conversations, something that lets us say “see, look, I’m not just a white-washed American, I’m cultured”, something to help us feel like we have more depth — especially in a country where everything feels like it comes from something else.

This is why I mentioned above that this is more common in the Northeast — although I can only truly speak on what I’ve experienced in Northern Virginia and in the University of Michigan. When I think of the term “melting pot”, I think of places like New York City. Southern states, and perhaps those in the West, have developed a culture that feels more unique, more distinctly American, and this is why (from my outside perspective) it seems like something more people feel proud of and claim as their own.

As I mentioned, this perspective comes from personal experience. And this is all something I’ve felt as a white American, at least 2 generations removed from my “mother countries”. After spending a weekend in Italy, I finally got a piece of that contact that I had always craved.

Italo-

Italian culture is just that — uniquely italian. Food, history, architecture, art — not only is it unique, but it is rich. From the first day that I spent with Gaia and Camilla, it was apparent that they felt a deep connection, pride, and understanding of their culture — and this is something that they graciously and enthusiastically shared with me.

I now have a greater — albeit limited — understanding of what it means to be Italian, in Italy. I learned about Italian espresso, when to have it (spoiler alert — any time of day is game), how to prepare it, and how it tastes. Some of my favorite moments of the trip were peacefully spent over the breakfast table in Gaia’s home, enjoying a light carb heavy breakfast and freshly brewed coffee.

We ate simple, delicious food at every restaurant we went to. The food was less extravagant than I expected it to be. Most of the meals were simple, with a focus on the ingredients and their preparation. Pastas, pizza, Milanese, Ragu, more pasta. Tiramisu, and gelato, too.

We had a night out — first to aperitivo, then to dinner, then to a bar that was built in an old desecrated church, then to a cheesy karaoke bar where the whole place was singing old Italian songs at the top of their lungs — with a group of 12 in Gaia’s hometown, which was made up of friends stemming from her high school days. The biggest difference between the Italian dinner party and an American one — we took our time. There was a feeling of ease at the table. Nothing was rushed. We enjoyed each dish, each glass of wine, and over everything, enjoyed each other’s company. The focus was on the people and the conversation, not on what was to be ordered and how fast it came out. I hope to bring this rhythm back to Ann Arbor with me (but that may be more difficult than I think. See footnote 1 below*).

We explored multiple Italian cities, and walked a TON. I learned an interesting perspective of Milan (which was a beautiful city) from Camilla’s boyfriend — Milan is Italy to Europe, and Milan is Europe to Italy. (See footnote 2**). The architecture was beautiful, and after a rainstorm, Milan looked magical. The ground was sparkling, reflecting the dramatically lit buildings of the city center in the puddles that gathered on the ground. I saw the Italian countryside, picturesque rolling hills backdropped by an epic sunlit cumulo-nimbus cloud.

I even learned a base of the Italian language (I probably said “Come si dice” 100 times) that will serve me well if and when I want to learn it in the future — or if I ever get my Italian citizenship and decide to move there. Guess only time will tell.

-americano

3 days is not a long period of time, but I can confidently say now that I understand a little better what it means to be Italian. I feel more connected to my cultural heritage — and in turn, I feel more connected than ever to my native culture in the USA.

It’s true that the USA has done a bunch of messed up stuff in the world. Imperialism, war crimes, political and economical extortion — the list goes on. But the longer I spend in Europe — the more I come into contact with different cultures, and understand foreign perspectives on the USA — the less these things feel like they’re inside a black box. Instead of avoiding these hard truths, I can face them head on — allowing me to acknowledge the bad and the good that comes with US culture.

A big critique I’ve heard abroad is that the United States has no culture of its own — but I don’t think that’s true. The USA is a place where global cultures collide, providing its citizens the opportunity to experience bits and pieces of the world and giving rise to unique elements born from this fusion.

Over the past 2 months, I’ve slowly shifted away from the feeling of shame that comes with being an American in Europe — and that’s thanks to a willingness to learn, adapt to, and accept cultures that I experience while I’m abroad (re: cultural humility, blogpost coming soon). Now, I’ll proudly say that I’m 50% Greek, 50% Italian, and 100% American. With my continuously evolving understanding of my individual parts (and all of the other cultures I come into contact with, especially Spain), I feel like I can better understand and contribute to that fusion, both in the melting pot of the United States, and as an international citizen in Europe — enriching the lives of myself and those I come into contact with.

Such is becoming “cultured” — a concept that has a bit of a pretentious connotation (IMO), but is worth striving for. I’ll be returning to Italy for spring break (Rome, Florence), so hopefully I’ll continue to develop this connection then. I also bookmarked in Google maps here all the places I visited in Italy this trip (and will do so in the next one) if you're considering taking a trip and want recommendations!

I planned on writing about Sevilla this week too, but I think this post has gone on long enough. I thoroughly enjoyed the different vibe it has from Spain, even through the rainy weather we experienced. 

As always, check out the image descriptions for more details on each one. I hope everyone has a great rest of their week, and see you back here next soon!

Hasta luego,

Niko Economos

Aerospace Engineering

Universidad Carlos III de Madrid

Madrid, Spain

* In Italy, and the rest of Europe, servers get paid fair wages. In the USA, it’s not required, because it’s expected that servers will make up the difference in tips. I worked as a server for 2 summers, and made $3.50 an hour. The amount of money I made in a night was directly correlated to the number of tables I turned over. As a result, I did my best to get orders in fast, food out faster, and clear the table as quickly as I could so that I could make more money. Until this fact changes, I think it’s hard to have the same no-rush Italian experience over dinner unless you’re really conscious of it. Personally, if I’m not feeling pressure from a server to leave quickly, I’m likely feeling a sense of guilt for staying too long and reducing their nightly wage, no matter how well I tip. Maybe home cooked meals are the answer, which I’ll hopefully be well practiced with next semester :)

**To Europeans, they look at Milan and see what they think of Italy. The world capital of fashion, beautiful architecture, prosperous and well known city. Italians look at Milan and see what they think of as Europe —highly international, intercultural, and as a result more gentrified and expensive. I found this to be really interesting. Is there a US city that fits this bill?