#complete my statistics assignment

[cinnasite]

nerd gone viral ( ˶°ㅁ°) !!

꩜ pairing: nerd!armin arlert x female reader

꩜ warnings: explicit content, language

꩜ word count: 3.7k

꩜ synopsis: a harmless campus interview turns your best friend into an overnight internet sensation—and suddenly, every thirsty TikTok comment feels like it’s whispering your secret.

☆ art cred: @/juvianism on instagram :3

You nearly spill your coffee all over your Political Theory textbook when you unlock your phone. Another two hundred comments on that TikTok. You know you shouldn't check—you probably watched it about a million times yesterday alone—but your fingers move before your brain can scream at you to stop.

@/bookslvt01: ok but the way he talks about virginia woolf??? NEED HIM CARNALLY @/colossalthighs: i’d let him annotate my entire body fr @/arlertmeout: he looks like he apologises before choking you

You bite your lip, half-entertained and half-horrified, scrolling through the endless comments under what was supposed to be an innocent campus interview. The video has 2.3 million views now, completely insane for something filmed outside the modest main library—the same one you find yourself in at the moment—on a random Tuesday.

"Ugh, don’t tell me. You're watching it again, aren't you?"

Your head snaps up comically quick, caught red-handed, to find Sasha sliding into the seat across from you at your usual table, eyeing your phone screen with knowing amusement. 

"What? No."

"You are! You have that weird, glazed look in your eyes. The same one you get when Professor Ackerman extends the deadline for our research papers." Sasha unwraps what appears to be her third sandwich of the day. You don't mention how it’s only twelve in the afternoon. "You know you could just talk to him about it, right? He's literally one of your best friends."

"And say what exactly?" you finally close the godforsaken app, trying to ignore how your screen time report is definitely going to be embarrassing this week. "Hey Armin, I've watched your viral video more times than I can remember and I'm having very inappropriate thoughts about your tongue piercing that I absolutely shouldn't be having about my friend?"

Sasha snickers, a piece of lettuce tumbling to the table from her mouth. "Well, when you put it like that... actually, yes. One hundred percent that."

"Sasha, I can't just—" you frown in frustration, inhaling deeply. "It's complicated."

"How is it complicated? You've had a crush on him since freshman year."

"That was different. That was before we became friends. Before I knew him." You lean back in your chair, staring at the ceiling as fond memories overwhelm you. "Back then he was just this cute, nerdy guy in my intro psych class who got excited about statistical analysis and always smelled like that vanilla body wash I love. I used to sit behind him just to watch him get all animated during discussions about cognitive behavioural theory, you know?"

Sasha merely rolls her eyes. "Jesus, and you call me demented. Well, what about now?"

"Now? Now, he's Armin. He's my friend who stays up until 3 A.M. to help me with my assignments, who brings me soup when I'm sick, who texts me the dumbest memes about historical figures," you slump forward, close to pouting. "He's the guy who spent six hours teaching me how to play that MMO he's obsessed with just because I mentioned being bored over winter break. He's..."

"He's the guy you're infatuated with," Sasha supplies helpfully.

"I'm not," you start to protest, then wisely opt to give up instead. "Okay, maybe. But that's exactly the problem. I can't risk blowing up our friendship just because some stupid interview made me realise I want to climb him like a tree."

"A tree with a tongue piercing," Sasha adds with a cheeky grin.

"Fuck’s sake, don't remind me," you let your head rest against the table. "Do you know how many times I've replayed that two-second clip where he licks his lips? It's pathetic."

"It's not pathetic, it's kind of sweet. There's a difference." Sasha takes another bite of her sandwich, her eyes evidently lighting up. "Besides, you don't know that he doesn't feel the same way. Have you seen how he looks at you during our study sessions? Boy's got it bad."

"He looks at me like a friend, Sasha. Because that's what we are."

"Believe me, friends don't look at friends the way he looked at you last Friday when you were explaining your thesis argument. I thought he was going to combust from sexual tension."

Before you can blatantly disagree, you hear an all too familiar voice behind you.

"Sexual tension about what now?"

Your stomach drops directly through the floor. You turn around carefully, and there he is—Armin Arlert, campus's newest digital sensation, standing there with that signature bemused expression he gets when he catches you and Sasha gossiping. His blonde hair is mussed like he's been running his hands through it, and he's wearing that adorable blue sweater that brings out his eyes deliciously.

"Oh, um..." You scramble for an explanation, panicking on the inside. "We were just talking about... about..."

"About how Professor Ackerman's lectures are basically academic foreplay," Sasha jumps in smoothly. "All that tension and buildup with no satisfying conclusion. I mean, hello?"

Armin laughs, the sound warm and comforting. "That's fascinatingly accurate, I’ll admit." He shifts his weight, and you only then notice he's carrying his laptop bag and what seems to be a bag of takeout. "Mind if I join you? I brought Thai food and figured you might be hungry since you've been here since—," he checks his phone, "—9 A.M., according to the text you sent complaining about how it’s criminal that the library opens so early on weekends."

Your heart does a little flip at his consideration. "You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to." He slides into the chair next to you, close enough that you can smell his cologne—a rich blend of velvety caramel and toasted cinnamon that positively makes you want to lick him all over. 

Stop. None of that, you horny bastard.

"Besides, I figured you might want to hear about the latest developments in my accidental internet fame."

Sasha perks up at once. "Hell, yeah. Have you been recognised on campus yet?"

"Five times yesterday," Armin appears to lament, pulling containers out of the bag. "Including once in the bathroom, which was... awkward, to say the least." He hands you your usual order without asking what you want. "But the weirdest part is definitely the DMs."

"DMs?" you pipe up, failing to ignore how domestic this feels what with him knowing exactly what you like. Typical, precious Armin.

"You have no idea," he opens his laptop and turns it toward you two with a nervous twitch. "I've gotten marriage proposals, offers to 'show me a good time,' and at least a hundred messages asking about my tongue piercing specifically."

Your face burns as you push away the thought that you've been mentally composing similar messages. "That's... wow."

"The worst part is, most of them are asking if I'd be interested in demonstrating its uses." He fidgets with his glasses, coming across as embarrassed but also endearing. "I had no idea that thing would cause such a reaction."

"Well, it is pretty noticeable," Sasha remarks with a meaningful peek at you. "Very... attention-grabbing."

"I guess." Armin glances at you pointedly. "What do you think? You've seen the video, right?"

The question is innocent enough, but something in his tone makes you look at him more carefully. There's an out-of-the-ordinary implication that you can't quite put your finger on. "Uh... yeah, I've seen it," you manage to croak out. Terrific. Could you get any stiffer?

"And?"

"And what?"

"What did you think?"

You stare at him blankly, trying to figure out if this is a normal friend question or if you’re incorrectly perceiving the foreign edge of curiosity behind it. "I thought... I mean, your book recommendations were really good. Very passionate."

"Passionate," he repeats, the fleeting flash of understanding across his face confirming your earlier weariness. "That's interesting."

Sasha's phone cuts through the uneasiness with its incessant buzzing, and she scans it with obviously fake surprise. "Oh no, would you look at that. I have to go... meet... someone... about... a... very real thing... I have." She begins gathering her stuff with awfully suspicious speed. "You two have fun talking about books. And passion. And tongue piercings."

"Huh? Wait. Sasha—" you squeak out, but she's already dashing out of the private study room you had booked for the both of you until late afternoon (traitor). Which leaves you alone with Armin, who's scrutinising you with an expression you can't quite read.

"Alright," he speaks after a moment, closing his laptop and leaning back in his chair. "Want to tell me what you actually thought about the video?"

"I already told you."

"No, you gave me the safe answer." He tilts his head slightly, studying you with purpose. "Come on, we've been friends for two years. I know when you're holding back."

You hastily shove some noodles in your mouth, avoiding his gaze. "I'm not holding back."

"Really? Because Sasha seemed to think you had some important opinions about it."

You make a mental note to start drafting your plan for the girl’s well-deserved comeuppance. "Sasha talks too much."

"She does," Armin agrees. "But she's usually right about things. Especially when it comes to you."

The rarely there confidence in his tone makes you look up and, when you meet his gaze, the intensity catches you off guard. "What do you want me to say?"

"Did you know," he continues conversationally, "that TikTok shows you analytics about who's viewed your videos?"

Almost instantly, your heart stops. "What?"

"Mhm. Very detailed analytics. Including multiple views from the same account." His lips quirk up in a small smile. "Want to guess how many times your account shows up in my viewer list?"

You feel heat creeping up your neck. "I don't know what you're talking about." You briefly consider denying reality, blaming a technical issue, or claiming a glitch in the matrix—but none of it sticks.

"Seventy-seven times," he announces, the metaphorical checkmate hitting you straight in the chest. "As of this morning."

Oh god. Oh god, oh god, oh god. He knows. "I can explain—"

"Can you?" He angles himself forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Because I've been trying to figure out why my very good friend has watched a boring thirty-second video of me talking about books seventy-seven times."

You want to run away, mouth opening and closing like a fish. "I... the algorithm is weird sometimes?"

Armin chuckles, low and warm, absent of any malice. "Try again."

"I was checking to see if the view count was going up?"

"Nope."

You're quiet for a long moment, trying to figure out how to get out of this without completely humiliating yourself. You don't suppose it's too late to jump out of a window? Ultimately, you sigh in defeat. "Okay, fine. Maybe I watched it a few times."

"A few?"

You narrow your eyes, crossing your arms in defiance at the unsolicited endless interrogation. "More than a few."

"How many more?"

You want to strangle him, and not in the sexy way. "You’re being annoying."

"Come on." His voice has dropped slightly lower, and there's something almost akin to teasing in it. "I told you about the marriage proposals. Fair's fair."

You mutter a profanity under your breath, groaning. "Fine. I watched it a lot. Happy?"

"No. We’re getting there, though. Why?"

"Why what?"

Armin’s glee sharpens into something ravenous, a flicker of desperation lurking beneath his carefree demeanour—like he’s itching for you to say exactly what he needs. "Why did you watch it seventy-seven times?"

Your lungs feel too tight, too exposed. "Because..."

"Because?"

"Because you looked really good, okay?" The words come out in a rush. "Because watching you talk about literally anything is incredibly attractive, and because that frustrating part where your tongue piercing shows has been tormenting me ever since the video came out."

The silence that follows is eerily deafening. Armin simply stares at you, and you wish the ground would swallow you whole.

"Shit," you grumble, burying your face in your hands. "I'm sorry. That was completely out of line. I know we're friends and I shouldn't have—"

"Hey. Look at me."

The way he asks convinces you to peep through your fingers, reluctant but unable to look away. His expression is attentive and focused—definitely not one of disgust.

"You think I'm attractive?" he questions softly.

"I... yes?"

He blinks, his usual calm shattered by the raw vulnerability in your voice. His fingers tremble, revealing the fierce hope inside that there’s a potential chance that someone sees him as more than the sum of his quirks.  "Even though I'm just a loser who gets excited about obscure paranormal documentaries and spends too much time playing video games?"

"Especially because of that," you admit, having never been more sure of yourself.

His answering smile is slow and devastating. "Good to know."

"Good to know?"

He hums, reaching across the table, and gently pulls your hands away from your face. "I've been wondering if you'd ever see me as more than just your friend who helps you with your homework."

Your brain, without a doubt, malfunctions. "What?"

"Did you really think I started bringing you food and staying up late just because I'm a good friend?"

The words disarm you. You’re trapped between incredulity and the dawning comprehension of what he might be suggesting. "I…"

"And did you think I learned how to play your favourite songs on guitar just because I had time to spare?"

"Y-you said you wanted to practice—"

"And I presume you thought I got this piercing because I was feeling rebellious?"

That stops you short, confusion apparent in the furrow of your brows. "You didn't?"

Armin's grin turns almost predatory. "I got it because I overheard you and Sasha talking about how cool you find them. This was back in October, after you'd been dating that guy with the lip ring."

You feel like a kettle left on the stove too long. "You... what?"

"You said, and I quote, 'There's something about tongue piercings that's beyond exciting.’ Something along the lines of how the person has to be bold enough to get it, but there's the simultaneous insinuation of what they can do with it."

"I’m going to kill myself," you gape at him in horror. "You heard all of that?"

"I was sitting right behind you in the campus coffee shop. You weren’t exactly shy about it." He shifts closer, and you can spot the hint of silver when he speaks, "I made an appointment that very afternoon."

"You got a tongue piercing because of something I said about another guy?"

"I got a tongue piercing because I wanted to be the guy you were talking about."

The confession hangs in the air between you, charged and electric. You stare at him, trying to process this complete change in everything you thought you knew about your friendship. 

"I've been trying to get your attention for months. I was starting to think I'd have to do something drastic."

In spite of being made to face terrifying revelation after revelation, you manage to stutter out a breathless laugh. "More drastic than getting a tongue piercing for me?" 

"I was considering learning to play your favourite video game."

You snort despite yourself. "You hate that game."

He shrugs casually, as if the lengths to which he would go for you knew no bounds. "I know. That's how desperate I was getting."

The atmosphere between you feels tense now, full of possibility and two years of unspoken tension. Armin traces your knuckles and the simple touch sends heat shooting up your arm.

"So," you say, trying to stay as composed as you possibly can. "What happens now?"

"Now," he starts, standing up, "you tell me what exactly you were thinking about during those seventy-seven views."

He's close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him, and the unwavering want in the blue of his eyes makes your breath catch. "I was thinking..." you trail off, feeling timid with his attention on you.

"You can do it. Use your words for me?" his voice has gotten rougher, huskier, and it sends delightful shivers down your spine.

"I was thinking about what it would feel like."

"What would feel like?"

"Your piercing. When you..." You gesture vaguely, cheeks burning. Armin's hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing across your bottom lip. "When I what?"

"When you kiss me," you whisper.

"Just kissing?" The question is loaded with underlying intentions, and you shake your head slowly.

"Tell me what else you were thinking about."

"Armin..."

"Please." The plea is hushed but insistent. "I want to know what's been going through your head."

You swallow, your throat suddenly dry as you let go of the entirety of your self-restraint. "I was thinking about what it would feel like on my body. What it would feel like when you use your mouth on me."

His pupils immediately dilate at your words. "Fuck."

"Is that... is that okay?"

Instead of verbally affirming, he leans down and kisses you. It's gentle at first, tentative, but when you react by fisting your hands in his sweater and pulling him closer, he deepens it. The first brush of his tongue against yours has you gasping, and when you feel the metal of his piercing, it sends intoxicating pleasure shooting through you.

You break apart, breathing heavily, and Armin rests his forehead against yours.

"How was that?" he asks earnestly, voice raspy.

"Good," you breathe. "Really good."

His smile is full of care but there's primal desire behind it. "And the piercing?"

"Want more of it."

He brushes his thumb across your lip again. Truth be told, it’s plain torture. "You know, we're in public right now."

Every wall you built is crumbling under the weight of him, and all you can do is let it. "I know."

"Anyone could walk by and see us."

"I know."

"And you don't care?"

You drag your hand up his thigh, stopping just shy of where he clearly wants it, "Not even a little bit."

He kisses you again, harder this time, and you can't help the soft moan that escapes when his tongue meets yours in another dance of display. The sound seems to flip a switch in him, because his hands are tangling in your hair and he's pressing you back against your chair.

"God, you have no idea how long I've wanted to do this," he murmurs against your lips.

"Tell me ‘Min."

"Since freshman year. Since that first day in psych class when you argued with Professor Smith about the ethics of behavioural modification."

You draw away just barely, shaking under the intimacy of his declaration. "That long?"

"That long." He doesn’t think twice before trailing his teeth along your jaw, and when the metal of his piercing digs into your flushed skin, you whimper needily. 

"You were so assertive, so brilliant. I was completely and utterly gone."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because you were dating that business major asshole, and then when you broke up, we became friends,” he hesitantly halts his ministrations to flutter his eyelashes at you, “I-I didn't want to ruin it." 

Good heavens, you didn’t stand a chance from the beginning.

"But then you kept looking at me like... like you wanted me too, and I started hoping..."

"I did want you. I do want you." The admission comes out whinier than intended, but you can’t bring yourself to be bothered at this point. "So much."

His hands tighten in your hair. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You’re unaware of how many minutes pass as you lose yourself in the sensation of his mouth on yours, and the way he tastes like mint and something uniquely him. You dig your nails lightly into his sides, claiming him in an act of fervent possession. His breaths mingle with yours and the world outside your tangled bodies fades until there’s nothing but lust burning between you. By the end of it, your chests rise and fall in tandem.

"We should probably get out of here," he mumbles, peeking around the library.

Craving Armin has left you dazed, vision glassy as you attempt to make sense of your surroundings. "Right. Um, your place or mine?"

He pecks your nose, full of affection, tenderly guiding you. "Mine. My roommate's gone for the weekend."

You start gathering your things with shaky hands, hyperaware of the way Armin is observing you. When you bend over to pick up your bag, you hear his sharp intake of breath.

"Something wrong?" you ask innocently.

"N-nothing," he mutters, skittishly pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

The walk to his dorm feels like it takes forever, full of stolen glances and the kind of anticipation that makes your skin feel too tight. When you reach his room, he fumbles with his keys for a moment—so fucking cute—before getting the door open.

You haven’t had a lot of time this semester to crash at his dorm—neat and organised, with anime posters on the walls and stacks of books and manga everywhere. But you barely have time to take it in before he's pressing you against the closed door, urgency lacing his actions.

This time, there's nothing apprehensive about it. His hands are everywhere—your waist, your back, squeezing your ass—and when you arch against him, he makes a low sound of approval.

"You taste so good," he shudders against you. "Everything I’ve imagined and so much more."

"You imagined this?"

"Every night for two years." His mouth moves to your neck, nibbling along your throat. "What you'd look like, what you'd sound like when I made you come."

The words send heat pooling low in your belly, prompting you to press your thighs together instinctively. "Fuck, don’t say shit like that.”

"Why not? I’ve been longing for you. All of you," he whispers, pulling back to look at you with dark, lidded eyes. "You’re not getting away until I’ve had my fill."

It would be an understatement to say that you hadn’t foreseen this when you woke up today. That you'd be spending hours with your legs over Armin's shoulders, forgetting your own name; the compassionate, stammering genius the internet drooled over. Too bad he’s not on the market. It would be a treat if his fans could see him like this—flushed and breathless, fingers gripping your hips like he’d die without you. Armin Arlert, golden boy of TikTok, practically begging to let him ruin you.

You grow dizzy at the promise in his voice. "Please."

He lets his hand trail lower, indecently tranquil, and just as you think he’ll do something reckless—he pauses, smirking wickedly.

"Want to find out what this piercing really feels like when I eat you out?"

[eu-nicola]

children's fight

summary: your disdain for Lando was no secret. You didn’t hate him, but there was something about him that you just couldn’t stand.

warnings: nothing

word counter: 5282

author's note: english is not my first language

Formula 1 had always been more than a hobby for you; it was a passion, an obsession. You had grown up watching races, studying statistics and learning every detail of the circuits. However, it wasn’t just the sport that fascinated you, but the drivers. And for you, Max Verstappen was the best. His talent, his relentless determination and his ability to handle any situation on the track had made him your favourite since he joined the grid. So, when the current season became a tug-of-war between Max and Lando Norris, there was no question about which side you were on. 

Your disdain for Lando was no secret. You didn’t hate him, but there was something about him that you just couldn’t stand. His arrogant attitude whenever things didn’t go his way, his constant need for attention and his immaturity were unbearable to you. And even more so now, when he acted like he was on Max’s level, when, in your eyes, he wasn’t. He was a good driver, sure, but he didn’t have the mentality or experience to win a championship. That frustrated you, especially since every time he lost, he complained instead of accepting that he still had some way to go. 

One day, thanks to your “job” (it was more of an internship) as a freelance sports journalist, you had the chance to attend a private event for Formula 1 media in Monaco. It was an intimate dinner with several drivers and some sponsors, a sort of social pre-season that promised exclusive access to the stars of motorsport. You couldn’t believe it when you received the invitation. Although you had covered races before, you had never been so close to the drivers in such a relaxed atmosphere. 

The evening started well. You met up with other well-known journalists, shared a couple of glasses of wine and spoke to some members of the technical teams. Everything seemed perfect, until you saw him. Lando Norris. 

He was surrounded by a small group of people, talking and laughing as if he owned the room. From afar, his voice rang out with a carefree tone that others found charming, but to you it sounded condescending. His wide gestures and constant laughter reminded you exactly why you weren’t a fan of him.

You decided to ignore him and continue enjoying the night, but fate had other plans. During dinner, you were assigned a spot right in front of him at the head table. You tried to remain professional, even though the situation made you uncomfortable.

“And you?” Lando asked after a while, addressing you directly as he smiled with overflowing confidence. “Do you have a favorite pilot, or are you one of those who say you love them all equally?”

The comment, while seemingly harmless, made you roll your eyes internally. You had heard other journalists succumb to his charm, but you weren’t going to fall for it.

“I have one, yes,” you replied, keeping your tone neutral but direct. “Max Verstappen.”

For a second, Lando’s smile faltered, then came back stronger.

“Oh, yeah?” he said, leaning forward with a curious look. “Interesting choice. Why him?”

You took a deep breath before answering, trying to stay calm.

“He’s the most complete driver I’ve seen in years. His ability to adapt to any situation on the track is impressive, and he doesn’t give up no matter the circumstances.”

“And you think I can’t do that?” Lando replied, raising an eyebrow. Although he was still smiling, there was a defiant tone in his tone.

“I think you still have a lot to prove,” you replied bluntly, feeling the atmosphere at the table tense slightly.

Lando laughed, but this time his laugh sounded somewhat forced.

“Wow, straight to the point. This year will be different.” I’m ready to prove that I have what it takes to win.

You didn’t respond right away. Instead, you took a sip from your wine glass, watching him with a mix of skepticism and curiosity. You knew you could have been more diplomatic, but there was something about him that just pushed you to confront him.

The conversation turned to other topics, but the initial exchange hung in the air like a charged cloud of electricity.

Dinner continued, but the tension between you and Lando was undeniable. Every time he spoke or laughed, you felt your nerves fray. His voice seemed to boom louder than anyone else’s at the table, as if he was deliberately trying to get everyone’s attention. The worst part was that it worked. Every comment he made drew laughter and nods from everyone else, which only made your irritation grow.

You tried to focus on the conversation with the person sitting to your right, a journalist you'd known for a while, but every few minutes you found yourself glancing at Lando. It wasn't a look of curiosity, but of analysis. You wanted to understand what everyone saw in him, why he found it so easy to charm others while you found him so insufferable. 

Of course, Lando was quick to notice your glances, and every time he did, he responded with a smile that seemed designed to provoke you. It was the kind of smile that said: I know you don't like me, but I don't care. 

The rest of the dinner passed in a mix of awkward and disdainful glances. Every time your eyes met Lando's, it seemed like the two of you were fighting some kind of silent battle. He kept smiling with that carefree air, while you kept a neutral expression that perfectly hid the irritation you felt inside.

When dessert was finally served, you were counting down the minutes until the evening was over. But just when you thought you could escape without any more confrontation, Lando stood up and walked around the table, stopping right next to you. 

“It’s been interesting meeting you,” he said with that smile that now seemed permanent on his face. “I hope you enjoy following my season as much as you enjoy following Max’s.”

His tone was light, but the challenge in his words was clear. Before you could respond, he had already walked away. 

The next day dawned with a fresh and promising air. You had a busy schedule: interviews with some of the best drivers on the grid at one of the most important promotional events before the start of the season. Although you knew it would be an exhausting day, you were also looking forward to it. Talking to drivers, hearing their perspectives, and writing about them was one of the reasons you loved your job. 

The morning started off calmly. You arrived early, dressed in a smart but functional outfit, with a notepad in hand and a professional smile on your face. The interview room was decorated with the logos of the teams and sponsors, and a row of cameras and lights was already ready to capture every word of the drivers. 

The first interviews went smoothly. You spoke to George Russell, who always had a calm and polite charisma. Then to Carlos Sainz, who never failed to make you laugh with his anecdotes. Even Charles Leclerc, with his easy-going charm, made you feel comfortable. Everything was going well. You were professional, respectful, and although you weren't a fan of all the drivers, you knew how to maintain the balance between admiration and objective analysis. 

But you knew that eventually you would have to interview Lando Norris. And, to be honest, you were dreading it. 

When the time came, you saw Lando approach the small area where you conducted your interviews. He was dressed in his McLaren uniform, his hair perfectly messy and a relaxed smile on his face. From afar, he seemed unconcerned, but when his eyes met yours, you noticed a flash of recognition. He knew this wasn’t going to be just any interview.

“Hi,” he greeted, extending his hand to you with professionalism. “Ready when you are.”

You took a deep breath, accepted his handshake, and nodded. You decided to approach the interview as usual: direct, objective, and with questions that went beyond the standard answers.

“Lando, this season promises to be one of the most competitive in recent years. Considering your progress in the last few races, how are you preparing to stay consistent in the fight against more experienced drivers?”

His smile didn’t falter.

“Good question,” he said, leaning forward slightly as he answered confidently. “I think the key is to keep a cool head and trust the work we’ve done as a team. At the end of the day, it all comes down to who can take advantage of opportunities when they present themselves.”

The conversation flowed naturally, though you could sense a slight tension in the air. Lando was adept at answering, but it was also evident that he was measuring each word, as if he was making sure not to give you cause to criticize him further. You, for your part, remained neutral, asking pointed questions and avoiding any comments that could be interpreted as personal. 

Towards the end of the interview, you decided to broach the subject of your rivalry with Max. 

“Speaking of taking advantage of opportunities, your battle with Max Verstappen last season was one of the most talked about. How do you describe that dynamic?”

Lando held your gaze for a moment longer than necessary before answering. 

“Max is a great driver, that is not up for discussion,” he replied, keeping his tone casual. “But I think this year will show who is really ready to fight for a championship. I am ready for that challenge, and I have no doubt that I can compete at the same level.”

“Interesting,” you commented, taking note of his response. But something in his tone made you purse your lips, as if he were issuing a veiled challenge, not only to Max, but to you as well.

The interview ended with a handshake and an exchange of tense smiles. From the outside, anyone would have thought that the two of you had been completely professional. And, technically, they had been. But inside, you knew the spark of disagreement was still alive.

The off-camera confrontation

Later, as you reviewed your notes and waited your turn for the next interview, you felt a presence behind you. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“Are you always this harsh in your interviews or just with me?” Lando asked, his tone light but with a challenging undertone.

You turned your head towards him, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m doing my job. If I seem harsh to you, maybe you should review how you respond.”

Lando let out a soft laugh, leaning slightly towards you.

“I think what’s really going on is that you can’t stand the fact that you don’t like me.”

You crossed your arms, keeping your cool.

“It has nothing to do with that. I’m not here to like you or not, Lando. I’m here to do my job, and I think I did a pretty good job.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do,” he replied, his smile fading slightly as he studied you intently. “But don’t pretend that I don’t bother you. It’s obvious. I saw it last night, and I see it now.”

His bluntness took you by surprise, but you didn’t let it show. Instead, you held his gaze.

“If you’re so worried about what I think, maybe you should focus more on proving what you say on the track.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, but then he smiled again, this time with something more genuine, as if your answer had amused him.

“You know what?” “I think we’re going to have a lot of fun this year,” he said before turning and walking away, leaving you with a mix of irritation and something you couldn’t quite place. 

Later, when the interviews started being posted as teasers on social media, you thought you could relax for a while. You’d done a good job: professional, direct, and not letting your personal opinions creep into your questions. At least, that’s what you thought. 

You were in your hotel room, reviewing your notes for the article you’d be publishing the next day. Meanwhile, your phone was constantly buzzing with notifications. You decided to ignore them at first, assuming they were just alerts for posts related to the day’s event. But when the sound became incessant, something inside you told you to take a look. 

You unlocked your phone, and as soon as you opened Instagram, your worst fears were confirmed. There was a featured video on the event’s official account: your interview with Lando Norris. The clip, though brief, perfectly captured the tensions you had tried to conceal.

“Lando Norris: ‘I think this year will see who is really ready to challenge for a championship.’”

The camera then panned to you, raising an eyebrow and responding with a neutral but firm:

“Interesting.”

There was nothing inherently out of place in the exchange, but the comments told another story.

—Is it just me or is there tension between them?

—The way she looks at him… ugh, that’s pure disdain.

—What if there’s something else behind this? 👀

—She’s clearly not a Lando fan. #TeamMax.

—This feels like the beginning of a rom-com, but with cars.

You frowned, scrolling through the comments. There were dozens of memes accompanying screenshots of the video. On Twitter, things weren’t any better.

One user had posted:

“Her: ‘I’m completely professional.’ Also her: throws an invisible dagger at Lando with her eyes.”

The tweet was accompanied by a picture of you crossing your arms during the interview while Lando answered one of your questions.

Another said:

“The tension is so thick you could cut it with a rear spoiler.”

Though you tried hard not to let it affect you, a mix of embarrassment and frustration began to settle in your chest. You hadn't done anything wrong. You'd kept your composure, you'd been professional... or had you? You began to doubt yourself. Maybe your dislike for Lando had been more apparent than you thought.

The final straw was a meme someone had made with a picture of Lando smiling nonchalantly and a screenshot of you looking at him with a slightly skeptical expression. The caption read:

“Her: ‘I'm impartial.’

Also her: ‘Max > Lando any day.’

You couldn't help but let out a sarcastic laugh, even though you weren't amused by the situation.

The Unexpected Message

Just when you thought it couldn't get any worse, your phone vibrated again, but this time it was a direct message on Instagram. It was from someone you weren't expecting.

Lando Norris:

“Looks like we're trending. Did you plan this too, or am I just the one who knows how to get everyone's attention?”

You felt a rush of heat rise up your neck. This boy's audacity knew no bounds. You took a deep breath before replying:

You:

"Don't blame me for other people's interpretations."

The reply was not long in coming.

Lando Norris:

"Looks like you and I make a good team when it comes to talking heads. Maybe we should take advantage of it.”

You pursed your lips, deliberating whether to continue or leave it on read. But something about his message made you feel like this “rivalry” wasn’t going to end anytime soon. Between the memes, the comments, and Lando’s brashness, you knew this story was just beginning.

You put your phone away with a sigh, but the feeling of unease didn’t go away. Now you not only had to deal with your animosity towards Lando, but also with the fact that the entire world seemed to enjoy watching them go at each other. And the worst part of all? Lando seemed to be enjoying it more than anyone else.

The days following the social media controversy were strange, as if you were navigating in a limbo between unwanted attention and trying to get back to your routine. You decided to stay as far away from the public eye as possible. Although you still fulfilled your responsibilities, you were very careful in choosing how and when to participate. You made sure to delegate trackside interviews to your peers and limit your interaction with the drivers to a minimum. essential.

After the race, when it was time to travel to the next venue, your strategy remained: low profile. The paddock, normally vibrant with conversations, interviews and the energy that a new race brings, became a place where you moved with calculated precision. You appeared only when absolutely necessary: ​​at official photo shoots, on TV broadcasts, and always with a perfectly practiced smile.

You focused on other parts of your job, immersing yourself in writing articles, checking statistics and contributing behind the scenes. Moments of visibility were strategic, just enough to fulfil your responsibilities and avoid any unnecessary encounters. This involved coordinating with your colleagues to take on interviews with specific drivers. And, of course, among those names was always Lando Norris.

Despite your efforts to remain invisible to him, the paddock was a small place, and it wasn't always possible to avoid crossing paths with certain people. When this happened, you forced yourself to maintain your composure. You walked past him with your head held high, as if you hadn't seen him. You walked confidently, not allowing any flicker of discomfort to show on your face. But there was always that feeling, as if you felt his gaze briefly on you.

Lando, for his part, seemed busy with his own thing. He was immersed in his work, fulfilling his own commitments: meetings with the team, interviews with the press, promotional events. From the outside, he seemed completely focused on his world, almost as if the tension between you had never existed. You barely noticed any reaction from him, and that bothered you more than you were willing to admit.

There were fleeting moments, though. When you walked across the paddock with your notes in hand or passed him in the hospitality halls, you could feel his eyes on you for an instant. It wasn’t a lingering, inquisitive glance, more of a casual glance, as if he recognized you and then went on with his business.

Days turned into weeks, and the dynamic continued the same. You were both in the same place, but walking different paths. You avoided any direct interaction, and he, apparently, had no interest in seeking it out. However, social media remained attentive. Every time a photo from the paddock showed the two of you in the same place, even if it was meters away, the comments would come:

—“Look, there they are again! Is it a coincidence?”

—“They don’t interact, but I bet there’s some tension in the air.”

—“Lando seems indifferent, but she looks so serious. I’m intrigued by all this.”

Even though you tried to ignore it, you couldn’t help but see the posts. The speculations never stopped, but you remained firm in your decision not to let this interfere with your work.

For his part, Lando continued to move forward with his life in the paddock. His focus was on racing, media, and strategies to stay competitive. If he thought about you, he didn’t show it openly. But at times, when he was sitting in the hospitality area reviewing data or preparing for an interview, his mind wandered. He remembered the exchange of glances, the interview that had become a trend, and those brief moments when he saw you passing by. However, those thoughts were fleeting; he quickly dismissed them and returned to focusing on his work.

Despite your best efforts to stay under the radar and avoid Lando Norris, fate – or perhaps the small size of the paddock – seemed hell-bent on crossing paths with you. Grand Prix days became an awkward dance between keeping up appearances and trying not to explode in frustration. And, to be fair, Lando did nothing to make things better. 

The issues started small, barely noticeable, but over time, the friction became more and more apparent, both to you and to those around you. 

It all started with a seemingly insignificant moment at a press conference. You were sitting among the journalists, ready to take notes and prepare intelligent questions for various drivers. Lando was on the panel that day alongside Max and two other drivers. When it was your turn to ask, you asked a simple but direct question about his qualifying performance – completely standard fare. 

The way Lando answered, however, made it clear: he wasn’t interested in being cooperative with you.

His answers were short, almost cutting, and his tone, though not explicitly hostile, had a hint of mockery. When he finished answering, he sketched an almost imperceptible smile, as if he knew exactly how he was affecting you. Some journalists exchanged glances, surprised by the exchange. You, with an impassive face, continued writing in your notebook as if nothing had happened. 

However, in the hallways later, you heard one of your colleagues whisper:

—It seems that Lando has something personal with her.

The next brush came during a recording for a special program. You were in a small dressing room preparing your presentation when Lando burst in unannounced. He was wearing his team uniform and seemed to be looking for something. 

“Excuse me, is this yours?.” he asked dryly, holding a wireless microphone that someone had left there. 

Before you could answer, he added:

“Oh, right, you probably just need a pen and a notebook.”

You froze for a second, processing the sentence. Although it wasn't necessarily an insult, the tone was clearly meant to belittle you.

"Not all of us need a car to feel important, Norris," you finally said, with a tight smile, as you walked past him to leave the dressing room.

It was an impulsive comment, but the expression on his face was reward enough. However, the incident made it clear that neither of you were willing to take a step back.

The friction began to be noticed in public as well. When you walked through the paddock and passed by Lando, you couldn't help but feel his gaze fixed on you, even if it was only for a second. You did the same, a kind of silent challenge. They weren't neutral glances; they were loaded with tension, with something deeper than simple antipathy.

There were times when he made sure to occupy strategic spaces, as if he were looking to make you uncomfortable. If you were in the McLaren team hospitality to interview an engineer or driver, Lando would casually wander over, interrupting the conversation with unnecessary comments or jokes that weren’t quite jokes.

When this happened, you kept your composure as best you could, but your answers were always just as sharp. The atmosphere became so awkward that even other team members noticed the dynamic and were quick to jump in.

The final straw came during a charity event organized by Formula 1. You were assigned to cover the event, and Lando was one of the featured drivers. At one point in the show, while the drivers were participating in a trivia game, someone mentioned the incident on social media that had made them trending weeks earlier.

Lando didn’t pass up the opportunity to make a comment:

“Well, it seems I have a talent for bringing out the best in people, even when they don’t get along with me.”

The audience laughed immediately, but you felt the ground fall out from under your feet. Although his tone was seemingly light, the hint was clear.

Later, when the event was over, you approached the press officer and asked to change assignments to avoid covering any segment where Lando was involved. However, you knew it wouldn't be easy. The tension between you two was no longer a secret, and the more you tried to avoid it, the more it seemed like the universe was conspiring to keep you two crossing paths.

Despite the issues, neither of you were willing to back down. The relationship between you was like a rope stretched to the limit, ready to snap at any moment.

The tension between you and Lando had reached such an absurd point that, to any outside observer, it looked more like a schoolyard fight than a professional dispute between two adults. Although you both had legitimate reasons for your mutual displeasure, the way you handled the situation was anything but mature.

With those little passive-aggressive acts that seemed straight out of the angry child's handbook.

Things between you and Lando were far from calming down. The taunts and teases kept piling up like a snowball, and even though you tried to ignore it, there was something about him that you couldn't help but hate... and at the same time, something that pushed you to challenge him. But after that last race, things took a different turn.

It was an exciting race, one that kept everyone on the edge of their seats. Lando had won, and the paddock was in a party mood. Teams, drivers, media, and even sponsors gathered at a fancy club to celebrate. Although you weren’t particularly a fan of such gatherings, attending was part of your job, so you got ready, picked out a dress that was stylish enough but comfortable, and headed to the event. 

The club was packed, with dim lights and vibrant music filling the air. Drivers and team members toasted the day’s achievements, while others immersed themselves in lively conversations or danced carefree. The energy was contagious, and, for a moment, you allowed yourself to relax. 

You were chatting with a couple of colleagues when you noticed Lando walk in. His presence was unmistakable: he walked with that confidence that used to irritate you, surrounded by some of his team members and other drivers who congratulated him effusively. He wore a dark shirt, unbuttoned just enough to look comfortable but effortless, and his winning smile was so wide it almost seemed to dare anyone to question him.

Your eyes met for a brief moment. You looked away quickly, determined not to ruin your evening by thinking about him.

As the evening progressed, a man approached you. He was one of the marketing guys for a team, someone you had exchanged words with at previous events. Tall, pleasant-looking, and clearly interested in you, he began to chat with you in a friendly manner.

The talk was light, but interesting. He asked questions about your job, joked about the tensions of the paddock, and made you laugh with witty comments. Although you weren’t looking for anything romantic, you enjoyed the attention. There was nothing wrong with letting yourself get carried away in the moment after stress-filled weeks.

Without realizing it, the distance between you shortened. The man leaned in toward you as he spoke, and you responded with animated nods. From the outside, anyone might have thought there was more than just conversation going on.

Lando was leaning against the bar, a drink in his hand and surrounded by a few friends. From where he stood, he had a clear view of you and the man you were talking to. At first, he didn't pay too much attention to it; after all, it wasn't his business. But, as the minutes passed and he saw you laughing and looking at him, something inside him began to boil.

The feeling was annoying, almost irrational. He didn't understand why he cared, but he couldn't help but feel a slight tingle of irritation at seeing you so comfortable with someone else. It wasn't jealousy, or at least that's what he told himself. It was… what? Frustration? Spite? Whatever it was, it wouldn't leave him alone.

He decided to ignore it, taking a long drink from his drink and returning to his conversation. But every time he saw you from the corner of his eye, his concentration evaporated.

At some point, you decided to move to the bar to order a drink, and the man followed you. As you waited for your drink, you felt a presence beside you. You turned, and there was Lando, leaning against the bar with his typical relaxed expression, though his eyes seemed darker than usual. 

He didn’t say anything, but the air between you immediately tensed. His eyes briefly rested on the man next to you before returning to you, assessing you. 

Though no words were exchanged, the message was clear: he didn’t like what he was seeing. His jaw was slightly clenched, and his fingers drummed against the bar as if he were trying to hold something back. You, far from being intimidated, lifted your chin and held his gaze.

When you received your drink, you turned to the man and resumed the conversation as if Lando wasn’t there, although you felt his eyes burning into your back.

A little while later, you were on the dance floor with some friends. The music was lively enough to relax you, and although you weren’t the best dancer, you were enjoying the moment. Suddenly, you felt a hand on your shoulder. Turning around, you found yourself facing Lando.

There was something in his expression that seemed challenging, as if he were testing you. He looked you straight in the eyes and bluntly extended his hand. “Would you like to dance?”

You knew exactly what he was doing.

“No.” Was your dry, unwavering response.

The rejection seemed to surprise him, though he tried not to show it. A slight smile formed on his face, as if he were mocking your refusal, but there was a glint in his eyes that betrayed his irritation.

Without another word, Lando lowered his hand and turned around, returning to the bar. You went back to dancing, though you couldn't ignore the feeling that his eyes were still fixed on you from a distance.

Later, while you were dancing with some friends, you noticed him again. This time, he was in the center of a group, laughing and joking, but somehow he always ended up in your line of vision. It was as if he was making sure you saw him enjoying himself.

And you noticed. You knew he was upset, and you couldn't deny that it gave you a certain satisfaction. Maybe you even exaggerated your attitude towards the man a little, leaning towards him and smiling more than necessary. If Lando wanted to play, so could you.

The game continued for the rest of the night, a silent war that neither of you was willing to give in to. There were no words, but the looks and gestures said more than either of you were willing to admit.

When the party ended, you left feeling like you had won, though you knew Lando wouldn’t let this go easily. For his part, he was left with a mix of irritation and confusion, wondering why you let yourself be affected by him so much… and why he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

[mads-hemmo]

Too Sweet - Jschlatt part 1

baseball coach Schlatt x math teacher reader

Reader is a math teacher who finds her computer science teacher coworker an asshole. Schlatt finds his algebra/geometry coworker very annoying. What happens when they are forced to be around each other and get along?

You knew you wanted to be a teacher from a very young age. At first you thought you wanted to teach at the elementary level, but you found a love for math. After graduating with a math degree, you accepted a job at a high school in New York. Although you wanted to teach AP Statistics and Calculus, you got a job as the general algebra and geometry. This means that the majority of your classes are full of athletes and kids who do not care about their education.

You watch as a group of baseball boys walk into the classroom. “Josh, Drew, Sawyer did you do your homework?” You ask the boys.

Sawyer grabs a crumpled piece of paper out of his backpack and hands it to you. The other two boys look at you in shock. “We had an away game last night. We weren’t able to complete it,” Drew finally says.

“How did Sawyer get his done, but you two did not?” You ask the boys with a look of disbelief.

“I did mine on the bus.”

“Coach Schlatt told us not to worry about it as focusing on the game is the most important,” Josh tells you.

“I guess I’ll be having a conversation with Coach Schlatt later. Go take a seat, we are learning a new concept,” you tell the boys. You turn around to take a deep breath. Of course, Coach Schlatt, the baseball coach and computer science teacher would tell his players to not do your homework. You both have had an issue with each other since you started working here. All Schlatt cares about is baseball and his players being the best. Which sometimes means that he doesn’t expect them to do your assignments or if they fall asleep in class. He claims that they probably needed the sleep.

At the end of class, you decide to pay Coach Schlatt a visit during your prep time. As you both worked in the math and computer department, you had the same prep period. You knock on his open door and he looks up from his phone. “Ms. (Y/L/N), can I help you?” He asks you.

“Yes I needed to speak with you about a few of your players,” you tell him, walking up to his desk.

“What did they do this time?”

“Well Drew and Josh did not do their homework. Sawyer completed him, but the other two didn’t. They claimed that they weren’t able to because you had a game last night and also you told them it didn’t matter.”

He sighs and looks directly at you. “I told them to focus on the game. But have you read the research that shows that homework isn’t an effective way of teaching?”

You narrow your eyes at him, slightly. “Yes, I have. The only reason they had homework is because they felt my class time was time to play around.”

He nods a bit. “I’ll talk to them. Though you may need to work on your classroom management and also I’m sure they needed your help.”

“Thank you for your time. I’ll leave you alone.” You turn around to walk back to your classroom. “What an asshole,” you mutter under your breath.

You go back to your class to get some work done, hopefully working off your stress. How could someone be so bluntly rude? Did he really insult your teaching and your classroom management? You felt that you did your job well. Your admin seems to think so, but maybe you aren’t.

At lunchtime, you walk into your best friend’s classroom in the fine arts building. Ted or Mr. Nivision is the drama teacher and the two of you quickly became kids. As you have the same lunch period, you eat together every day. You grab your premade lunch from the mini fridge in his room. After you grab it, you slam the door. “Woah what’s wrong with you?”

You put your lunch in the microwave and slam that door too. “Coach Schlatt is what’s wrong! He’s such a douchebag.”

“What did he do this time?” Ted asks, eating his salad.

“He told his players that my homework was not important. When I went to talk to him about it, he brought up research about how homework is unnecessary. Obviously I know that. They only have homework because they refused to do it in my class. I told him that and he insulted my teaching and my classroom management,” you vent to him.

“I’m so glad I don’t teach a core content class. I think I would choke a kid out.” You laugh slightly at him. “That’s stupid of him. He’s usually a pretty good guy, but that was just uncalled for.”

You grab your lunch from the microwave and take a seat beside Ted. “I know he’s your friend or whatever, but he’s an asshole. I don’t know what I did to make him hate me so much.”

Before Ted can say anything, you hear footsteps walking into his room. You look up to see Schlatt walking in. You turn to look at Ted in disbelief. “Oh yeah (Y/N), I forgot to tell you that Schlatt is going to start joining us for lunch.”

“Awesome,” you mutter with a forced smile. “Glad that you are joining us,” are the words that came out. You wanted to tell him to fuck off and choke on his lunch. However, you decide to stay civil and give him your best smile. Hopefully Coach Schlatt will do the same.

A/N: new series!! I am so excited to write some enemies to lovers and teacherxteacher ! I hope you guys enjoy it!! Let me know what you think!!

Masterlist

[c1qfxugcgy0]

adventures in aerospace

So I recently started working at Large Aircraft Manufacturer. (LAM) The plant I work at employs 30,000 people. The company as a whole employs 170,000. Usually you only hear about LAM when something goes wrong. But no matter how bumbling it seems from the outside, it's way worse on the inside.

Three months after my first day, I have been "graduated" from "training." In reality, I'm still completely worthless on the floor: the training center has given me a paltry subset of the production certificates I need to actually to do my assigned job. A commonly cited statistic at LAM is that a hundred men a day are retiring, each one representing decades of experience, walking out the door, forever. The training center is in the unenviable position of managing a generational replacement, and have resorted to shoveling heaps of zoomers through as fast as possible. (As one of the few people with a visible hairline and who is not wearing a Roblox graphic tee; I am frequently mistaken for an instructor, and asked where the bathroom is, what time the next class starts, etc)

In theory, the training center knows what shop I'm assigned to, and can simply assign me all the required classes. In practice, they do the absolute minimum amount of training in a desperate attempt to relive the crowding in their handful of computer labs and tell graduates to pick up their certs later.

Of course, the irresistible force of the schedule meets the immovable object of the FAA. If you don't have the required production certificate to perform a particular job, you don't touch the airplane. Full stop, end of story.

And so the curtain opens on the stage. It reveals a single senior mechanic, supervising a mechanic who finally received all the certs and is being qualified on this particular job, surrounded by another three trainees. Trainees are less than nothing, absolute scum. At best we can fetch and carry. Mostly we are expected to stay out of the way. And the senior mechanic is only senior in title. He is one of six assembler-installers who is certified to actually work on the plane, out of twenty people on the crew, and spends every day with a permanent audience. He is 23 years old.

("Mechanic"? If you think the jargon at your job is bad, try joining a company that's a century old. Assembler-installers are universally referred to as "mechanics", despite doing work that's nothing like what a car mechanic does, and who are generally paid far worse than FAA certified A&P mechanics. Mechanics are the 11 bravos of LAM, grunts, the single largest category of worker. The tip of the spear. Hooah!)

Large Aircraft Manufacturer is in a dilly of a pickle. All of its existing airframe designs are hilariously antiquated. It tried designing a brand new plane from a clean sheet, and lost billions of dollars to a decade-long integration hell. After that, to save money, it tried just tacking bigger engines on an older design without changing anything else, and the stupid things plowed into the ground in an excruciatingly public manner.

LAM is now trying a middle road. It is upgrading one of its designs that is merely middle aged, rather than ancient, and with proven, de-risked components built in-house, rather than scattering them to subcontractors across the world. And it's still blowing past deadlines and burning billions of dollars LAM really doesn't have to spare.

This is the program I've been assigned to.

Advanced Midbody - Carbon Wing has taken the bold step of just tacking on carbon fiber wings to a conventional aluminum fuselage. Shockingly, AMCW is now stuck in lightning strike testing, due to that troublesome join between conductive aluminum and conductive...ish carbon fiber. But LAM, confident as ever, or perhaps driven by complaints of its customers, has announced that full rate production will begin just next year. Thus the tide of newhires. According to the schedule, we're supposed to jerk from one wingset a month to one wingset a week. That's not going to happen, but, oh well, orders from above move down at the speed of thought, while reality only slowly trickles upwards.

"120 inch pounds? Really?"

I startle upright. I have observed one hundred pi bracket installs, and I will observe a hundred more before I can touch aircraft structure. This is the first disagreement I've witnessed. A more advanced trainee is questioning the torque spec on a fastener. It is not an entirely foolish question-- most sleeve bolts we use are in the 40 in-pounds range. Doubling it that is unusual. I cough the dust off my unused vocal cords and venture an opinion.

"Well hey I could look it up? I guess"

The lead mechanic glances at me, surprised that I'm still awake, then looks away. Excuse enough for me!

I unfold myself from the stool I've been sitting on for the last four hours then hobble over to the nearest Shared Production Workstation.

We do not get Ikea-style step by step instructions on how to put together the airplane. Like any company that's been around for long enough, LAM is a tangled wad of scar tissue, ancient responses to forgotten trauma. If you state a dimension twice, in two different places, then it is possible for an update to only change one of those dimensions, thereby making the engineering drawing ambiguous. Something real bad must have happened in the past as a result of that, so now an ironclad rule is that critical information is only stated once, in one place, a single source of truth.

As a result, the installation plan can be a little... vague. Step 040 might be something like "DRILL HOLE TO SIZE AND TORQUE FASTENERS TO SPEC". What hole size? What torque spec?

Well, they tell you. Eventually.

(Image from public Google search)

You are given an engineering drawing, and are expected to figure out how things go together yourself. (Or, more realistically, are told how it's done by coworkers) Step by step instructions aren't done because then dozens of illustrations would have to be updated with every change instead of just one, and drawings are updated surprisingly frequently.

Fasteners are denoted by a big plus sign, with a three letter fastener code on the left and the diameter on the right, like so: "XNJ + 8"

To get the actual part number, we go to the fastener callout table:

(Note the use of a trade name in the table above. There is nothing a mechanic loves more than a good trademark. Permanent straight shank fasteners are always called HI-LOKs™. It's not a cable tie, it's a Panduit™. It's not a wedgelock, it's a Cleco™. Hey man, pass me that offset drill. What, you mean a Zephyr™? Where'd the LAMlube™ go? This also means you have to learn the names of everything twice, one name on the installation plan, and one name it's referred to in conversation.)

We find XNJ on that table, and fill in the diameter: BACB30FM8A. Now we look up the spec table for that fastener:

The eagle eyed among you might note that there is no "diameter: 8" on that table. As a LAM mechanic, you are expected to simply know that "diameter" is measured in 32nds of an inch, which simplifies down to 1/4.

(LAM preserves many old-school skills like fraction reduction and memorizing decimal equivalents like this, like flies caught in amber. Not least is the universal use of Imperial units. Many American manufacturers have been browbeaten into adding parenthetical conversions. Not LAM! Any risk at all of a mechanic seeing a second number and using it by accident is too great, and anyway, it violates SSOT. Lengths are in inches and feet, weights are in pounds, volume is in gallons and if you don't like it then you can go eat shit!)

After 10 minutes of following references, I arrive at that table, print it off, highlight the correct row, and hand it off to my senior mechanic.

"Great, thanks."

Gratified that I have enhanced shareholder value, I sit back down, and immediately fall asleep. Another day living the dream.

(next post in this series)

[ask-codeearasure]

So... About that shitty Cross take that one person made....

If you've been following certain creators, even this account, I'm sure you've spotted a specific idiot going around complaining about Cross being Trans-Coded and using Republican talking points to say that it's "forced" or "doesn't make sense" and whatever other bullshit that shouldn't even be looked at let alone acknowledged. HOWEVER, instead, we are gonna sit down and talk about how the Trans Experience is so versatile and why Cross (and similar characters) being Trans-Coded is actually extremely important.

Gender nonconformity is fucking terrifying to Republicans, this is why it's been one of this generation's favorite punching bags.

If you look at the women who are tied to the Republican Party, you see a lot of hyperfemininity, so much so it's easy to tell that Barbie is considering suing them for stealing all her plastic.

Jokes aside, gender affirming care is gender affirming care and they are using the same gender affirming care that trans people have been using for years. This isn't only about nail products and cosmetic surgery, but also breast reduction or implant surgeries.

Gender affirming care however, is demonized by the right because they don't get it nor do they acknowledge that there is a range to it.

I once read a story about how one person had realized they were trans because a friend of theirs pointed out that when they had the option of choosing the gender of their playable characters in gaming, they always went with the gender they were not assigned at a birth. Example being an AFAB person constantly choosing male characters.

Though I have not finished watching Underverse this is applicable of XFrisk and XChara shoving the name "Cross" onto... Cross. They are pointing out he is not Sans despite being assigned that name since creation. Their true intentions here had cruelty in mind, but Cross made the name his own.

He is in denial about it which is applicable to how a LOT of trans people are in denial about it sometimes. Hell I remember a Right Wing talking head on Twitter who had tried to transition, detransistioned due to pressure from their family and then stayed at their assigned gender because of it and falling for the Republican propaganda.

Denial isn't just a river. It never has been.

Some people are in denial about their gender identities and sexual orientation and with the coming presidency we are going to see a rampant uptick in that statistic. With that coming, characters like Cross are needed far more.

Cross's story, as far as I've seen, is rough and follows a lot of self-acceptance and self-advocating storylines. Even when it comes to the biggest things that anyone from the LGBTQIA+ has to face, one of these struggles being the fear of rejection and/or being rejected by one's peers.

From what I've seen when it comes to spoilers is that Cross does end up being rejected by those he was close to before meeting Ink, and thus has to come full circle and accept himself by saying "I am Cross". He has to deny the name he went by in the past. He has to because if he doesn't, he'd be giving in to living in denial of who he truly is and thus be living a life of suffering for no reason than to keep others comfortable, setting himself on fire to keep people who couldn't give a damn about him warm.

A lot of Trans people have to show their rejection of their past or even the acceptance of that past to come to terms with themselves. Each person is different when it comes down to finding who they are and accepting that. It depends on the individual.

Some treat their past and their deadname as though they're a completely different person or someone who died so they could live. Think of a phoenix rising from the ashes.

Others treat it like their past self was the caterpillar where their new and true self is the butterfly.

Is it perfect?

No.

Is Jakei a perfect writer?

No. Neither are a lot of my favorite writers and franchises (I'm looking at you Riot Games and your shitty centrist takes on the worst of human history's sins).

But some of the things that imperfect writers make are beautiful and Cross is one of them. He is one of the few characters that speaks for the writer when it comes to saying "I see you, I see your pain. I see your suffering. You are not alone. You deserve to live your life the way you want to. You are valid."

But there are a few questions that the more clueless of people are going to ask.

Why bring Politics into this? And why do Republicans like the media made by progressives?

The answers are FASCINATING.

I bring Politics into this because Republicans, specifically Cishet white people, have made everything political since the beginning of time. Everything they don't like, everything different from them, everything they don't understand, and everything that directly rebels against their patriarchal idea of "paradise" is now considered "Political".

I remember a Republican had argued the dumbest thing once, and I was so dumbfounded I had to take a step back because holy shit.

Their argument was that black people enslaved each other which made their enslavement by white people their own fault.

Now if your jaw is on the floor, you already know where the problem is. If you don't get where the problem, is let me ask you something.

If that is the case, who was the one who made it all about skin color?

I'll tell you.

It was the white people (who were Democrats before the massive party switch, which makes them modern day Republicans).

Who were the ones who made having jobs all about gender? It was the Cishet white men (99% of whom are Republicans).

Who constantly demonized the LGBTQIA+ community during the Stonewall Riots? Mostly Cishet White Republicans.

Who are demonizing Trans people right the fuck now? Republicans and Pick-Me Gay people who vote for Republicans and side with Republicans thinking that the Republicans will finally accept them when they know Republicans won't fucking do it.

Being LGBTQIA+, making non-white characters, making a character a woman, it makes that character "Political", and "Political" characters are always the ones put on the spot for accusations of "forced diversity" and "perversion" where anyone with a working sense of conscience will understand this is a talking point butthurt Republicans or those warped by Republicans pulled out of their assholes looking for a problem where there isn't one.

All art, be it animation, digital art, traditional art, singing, writing, is political. They've always been political.

Do you want to know why Republicans are always bitching about coffee orders? It's because the Enlightenment era thus leading to the Romantic Era of literature was started because of coffee shops it was where all the best writers hung out. The moment they met each other and started talking to each other, the Enlightenment and Romantic Eras started taking off in full force.

It is because of the Enlightenment and Romantic Era writers we don't have Child Labor anymore. A lot of their writing brought talks of nature and the horrors of Child Labor into question. You can't talk about the history of Child Labor without talking about William Blake's Chimney Sweeper and Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Cry of the Children. You fucking can't. Without Blake and Browning we'd still have children in mines and on rooftops risking their lives to clean your fucking chimney.

And here is where we get to the why. Why Republicans LOVE progressive media.

Here is a little secret.

All shows and media made by Republicans are shit because it is all Propaganda.

I know. Shocker.

Look around.

Mr. Birchum, New Norm, Leo and Layla, it's all propaganda. It's all the same Republican talking points that they never shut up about and even then they don't know what they're talking about.

Ask a Republican what "intersex" means. Do it, I dare you.

They won't fucking know but they'll tell you that it's Satanic and shouldn't be allowed near children.

They'd never guess that it's a spectrum of natural gender nonconformity and mixed sexual/hormonal characteristics such as having PCOS or being AMAB and still having a functioning uterus. They don't care that their delusions about there only being "male" and "female" for reproductive sex options has led to medical malpractice, social abuse, murder, and erasure of intersex individuals, and the ones that do know about intersexuality diagnose it as a "Differential Sexual Development Disorder" as if just being born intersex makes someone's existence inherently wrong with an inherent need for surgical and hormonal "correcting".

Republicans like progressive media because it knows how to say something and still be well written. This is why Republicans LOVE Star Trek, Star Wars, My Little Pony Friendship is Magic, and Arcane.

It's all progressive media but it all knows how to build a world and say something. Good writers are progressive and know how to write.

Don't get me wrong there is a LOT of fucking garbage that tries to be progressive but that is a small outlier that Republicans LOVE to bring out and bash on to say that we're the ones who ruin media. They make false equivalences to try to make you stop thinking. They need stop-thinking clichés and talking points because it's all they have. But they are so fucking terrified of anything different from what is in their stupid bubble that saying "Oh yeah the champion Taliya is trans" will send them screaming and crying.

Yeah, Riot Games danced around the fact that one of their characters is Trans because they knew she'd scare off the entirety of the Republican player base. They had to hide it and use her magical girl skin to gently hint at it with "Yeah when I'm in this outfit I feel more like myself!" and the entire multi hour long Star Guardian album animation having the Trans Flag being the main pallet on everything.

I honestly wonder how many Republicans ran off when they saw THAT CaitVi scene in Arcane.

Republicans just hate anything that isn't Cis, isn't Hetero, isn't a man, and isn't white. This is why it's not uncommon to find that cishet white men are always found at Klan rallies or the modern Klan rallies which are called "Trump Rallies" these days.

This is why a lot of exhausted Democrats, Liberals, and BIPOC, Feminists, and LGBTQIA+ people have been laughing their asses off at the Pick-Mes who are getting fucked over now that they realize that surprise surprise, Project 2025 was the plan! We fucking told you so, dipshit!

This is what you asked for dumbass! We tried to warn you. You didn't listen. LESSON FUCKIN LEARNT!

Republicans like progressive shit because we make good media.

Republicans HATE anything that isn't CISHET and WHITE.

Now, am I saying all this to claim the person who made that anti-trans Cross post is a Republican, an abuser, or anything else that contributed to this systematic nonsense? Absolutely fucking not. That's an extreme statement to make and they're most likely just a very mislead kid who may or may not have been influenced by a couple of these problems, and them acting out the way they did is perhaps a reflection of how important it is to acknowledge these things even if our community is just fandom and the point is to have fun, to have a distraction from all the bad powers at play.

Either way, their actions pissed me off. Hope they learn.

Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk. Get the fuck out.

-- Ouija

[duskofastraeus]

Exam Season Diaries 2

- Finished revising for my Differential Equations Exam

- Completed my Differential Equations Methods Exam (Survived (sort of)/Did not Survive)

- Re-did all Thermodynamics problem sheets

- Re-did all Statistical Mechanics assignments

- Revised all Thermo material

Notes of the day:

What in the actual hell was that exam.

[yurozo]

resident evil (university au headcanons)

a/n: this is purely based on the beginning of my last year :( feeling bittersweet

chris redfield: a third year sports medicine/kinesiology student. if you're looking for someone who almost always has a water bottle full of creatine in his bag, chris is your guy. he's never the type to dress up, especially because he insists on 8am lectures to 'increase his productivity', so he's usually in sweatpants and under armour compression shirts. he joined the rock climbing club at claire's insistence of getting involved around school, but is unfortunately still getting the hang of it. it's hard to lift all that bodyweight, so the majority of the time he just hangs there. has very little social life. he'll go to a party, drink a single beer, then leave. turns women down because it would mess with his schedule. he's paying a lot of money to be there, and save for a bit of attitude towards his professors, he takes his studies seriously. diet-wise, this man preps like a mfer. protein peanut butter shake at 7.30 am no exceptions, within a 20min time limit of his workout. the dorm fridge has an ungodly amount of boiled eggs. toxic trait: does that white man hand raise when he has a question, and usually only thinks about what he's going to say after his hand goes up. jill valentine:

sociology major, criminology minor. has her schedule perfectly planned out so nothing is before 10am. she can and will ignore chris' pleas to meet her on campus beforehand, usually preferring to go for a coffee before a lecture. is never seen without some source of caffeine in her hand. jill isn't a huge fan of sociological theories, instead choosing to focus on the statistics aspect of it.

her dorm room is an absolute nightmare. there is not a single space on her floor that is not covered in clothes, but has no shame in bringing people over despite this. she'll just kind of awkwardly shuffle them away with her foot to make a pathway.

isn't part of any clubs, mostly because she can't be fucked for that kind of socialization. people always hit on her during class anyways, so it's not like she's hurting for company. she usually hangs out with chris or claire on campus, goading chris into doing something with her or letting claire drag her along into studying. toxic trait: has a windowsill full of empty monster energy drinks. leon kennedy:

a math major, criminology minor. has absolutely handed in multiple sheets of homework with tear stains in the corners. for how nonchalant he seems to be on the outside, he really does take his studies seriously, and always shoots for a perfect gpa. he's primarily seen haunting the third floor library, always looking like he's in a perpetual state of agony.

despite all the silent attention he gets from people during lectures, he does not entertain it whatsoever. the man is there to learn. he has one class with jill where they sit in complete silence together save for a couple of witty jokes at the professor (or other students) expense. the professor both loves and hates him. he's a frequent visitor of office hours, but his assignment is always printed and crushed in his fist. he's had a few short-term girlfriends in university, but nothing long-term. he firmly believes that he has rizz, but he does not. most people just let it slide because he has that attractive weird aura around him. toxic trait: unironically shushes people during a lecture. claire redfield: engineering major, communication minor. another person who takes her studies fairly seriously. the fortunate thing about claire is that she doesn't particularly have to try, the good grades just descend on her from the heavens. it makes chris furious. however like jill, she is not a fan of mornings and is usually seen frowning angrily at the board.

has a friend with a house off campus to store her bike so she can fix it up on her days off, using her engineering notes of course. she's part of a few clubs, but isn't fond of being part of leadership or anything. claire goes purely for the vibes.

goes on a couple strings of dates with guys, but always refuses to go out with people from her classes. she's seen it crash and burn so many times that she's not doing herself. will, however, recommend other people to her brother. toxic trait: pulls up to campus at 9am with the loudest motorcycle engine known to man, and always slams her helmet down on her desk when she sits down.

[mxauthor]

Creativity

Summary: Y/n is a photographer and Spencer is a great model.

Word Count: 1,135

Warnings: fluff, kisses, probably false statistics, giggly spence at the end.

November 4th. 

That was the deadline of when Y/n’s assignment was due. 

That date was one week away and she had no idea what the hell she was going to do. The whole class was given three weeks to complete the assignment and Y/n was running out of time. 

She’s an aspiring photographer.

Several of her works have been published in magazines and have won many contests. She even has a website dedicated to her photos as well as other young photographers wanting to pursue their passions. 

However, most of her clients don’t want an amatrue to take any of their photos, hence the course. Even though her boyfriend, Spence, has rattled off statics about not needing classes to become a photographer; it still made her feel better: more official

But now, her photography course is requiring her to submit new artwork instead of some of her old pieces. The professor said he ‘wanted to put their learning to use and catch something they’ve never thought of before.’ 

Y/n hated it. She was hitting deadend after deadend. Everything she’s shot is within her comfort zone, not new. 

With a loud groan Y/n threw her head back on the couch she was perched on. Spencer only rounded the end the moment she was looking up at their light tan ceiling. 

“Still can’t find anything?” Spencer asked. His tone knowing the answer, but wanting to be caring still. 

“Not a thing.” Y/n replied, enunciating every word in the sentence. Spencer looked at her with a sympathetic look. Knowing the frustration not being able to achieve something. 

He thought about the requirements of the assignment, having told him once she first got it. Spence wanted to help, he really did, but it was the first time he’s drawn a blank. 

“I have no clue what to do. All the photos I’ve taken are like the ones I’ve taken before.” Y/n raised her head and looked at her boyfriend of a year. “Nothing new, nothing that’s caught my eye.” 

“You know statically, most photographers set up their master photos. All of them have been staged and made to look candid. A lot of the photographs that I’ve studied since you’ve started your classes I’ve noticed that a lot of the items seemed to be perfectly placed. Just like it was made to be a photoshoot of some sort. While a lot of your works are within the moment, scenery or candid of people.” Spencer rambled. Y/n watched him intently as he talked, never liking to cut him off once he started, “So I believe that your professor is asking you to do something of the sort, to make a piece that you have to stage. I would suggest using someone that you are comfortable with, which will trigger a higher dopamine output as well as a higher serotonin that allows cognitive flexibility and an increase in mood.” 

Y/n looked at Spence. A sparkle within her eye that Spencer knew to be trouble. 

“Comfortable, staged and someone I know.” Y/n summarized, Spencer nodded along enthusiastically, always touched when someone listened to him all the way through. 

“Yep.” 

“Well then, pretty boy, I just found my client.” Y/n said, her eyes sparking with, what Spence can only describe as creativity. And lust. 

The nickname alone should’ve told him that he wasn’t going to like this idea nor was he going to be the most comfortable with it. However, when Y/n had jumped up from her seat and started to set up her equipment with a huge smile on her face, Spence couldn’t really say no. 

Y/n had placed one of their kitchen chairs in the living room (after she moved everything out of the way). Claiming that it was perfect. Her lights and camera were setup to where he supposed was his place in all of this. 

He watched with a little nervousness as he stood in a white button down and some black pants. He was demanded asked to change from his comfortable warm pajamas, into this more serious ‘photo worthy’ outfit. 

“Okay now, I need you to sit in the chair and I’ll be right back.” Y/n commanded, her voice left no place to argue.

So Spencer sat down. Patting his legs while he waited for the final piece of this photoshoot.

About 2 minutes had gone by before Y/n walked out, red lipstick painted on her lips. As well as a tub in her hand. If he looked close enough, he could see kiss marks on her hands, some more faint and one very vibrant. 

Spencer studied the way Y/n walked up to him. Almost like she was trying to seduce in a way. As she got closer, Spence could see a smirk playing on her lips. 

“What are you-” Before the genius could actually ask his question, Y/n had kissed him. 

His brain short circuited. His IQ is now at 60. 

It took a second before he kissed back, before it could get more heated Y/n pulled back. She studied the lipstick print on her boyfriend, liking how well it was placed. 

Spencer’s face had flushed, he stared at her surprised, trying to understand what’s happening. 

Before he could ask Y/n started talking, “The assignment is to do something new. To try and incorporate all of the lessons we’ve learned up into now. As you’ve said all of my past works were either scenery or candid photos. Something that has just happened or there for anyone to see. What I’m doing here is different. This is a photoshoot, not candid. You are normally sophisticated and well cleaned, however at this moment your unshaven and floppy hair. As well as dressed in something more date-casual.” 

Spencer tried computing everything that was said, only to realize what she meant. His flush grew a little as Y/n looked at him for a silent ask, him nodding his answer. 

She started to unbutton the top four buttons of his shirt. Spence started to grow even redder as Y/n started to kiss all over his neck, face and chest. 

He felt like he couldn’t breathe, all this attention and kisses making him hot.

But one thing is that he couldn’t stop smiling. Neither of them could. Y/n’s kisses varied in shape and size, trying hard to control the smiles on her face. Spencer giggled and flushed until she stopped. 

Y/n looked at the lipstick marks with a proud smile and a flush of her own. Giddy to take the pictures. 

“Okay hold still.” Y/n commanded, trying to capture him flush and giddy. 

Trying to catch her Spencer, the goof ball that’s in love with her, in a living memory.

[velvetvexations]

JUST saw a radfem post complaining about a statistic that said womens' goals in video games are completion and something else while mens' are competition and destruction and... Got terfy about it????

Like wow, what a shock, a bunch of guys like using video games as rage rooms and a bunch of lasses use them to satisfy the urge for Clean Number.

lol this is like Julia Serano saying "I wanted to win but I never wanted my opponents to lose for such is my innate womanly empathy"

I need women to stop assigning moral virtue to their gender like right now this second immediately

[do-androids-dream-ao3acc]

Hi! From the soft angst prompts, ❛whatever you do, do not let go of my hand.❜ for Bucktommy?

I'm Here to Save You

Every firefighter knows the saying: three bad calls are followed by a disaster. Fate had obviously decided that this was one of those days, Buck thought as he rolled up the hose at lightning speed. Everything that could go wrong had gone wrong three times today: a mistake on connecting a hydrant had soaked them all, Eddie had sawed his foot open while breaking up an overturned car, and a novice driver, blinded by the sun, had crashed into the fire truck. In the end, everything had turned out quite well, even though Eddie was in hospital for safety reasons and the fire engine now had a large dent. But still…

Gerrard was mad as hell, and everyone else was tense. Buck was counting the days until Bobby's return (he'd be back for sure), but the day was far from over, and everyone had categorized the three missions for what they had been: crap.  

"Something's gonna happen," Chimney gloomily stated.

"Yeah, I don't think we'll be getting off work on time today," Ravi quipped.

"Don't jinx it," said Hen. "Three jobs in a row, totally screwed up. That’s bad luck, you should know that by now." 

"I don't believe in such things."

A heated discussion about superstition and statistical probabilities broke out, and normally Buck, who was a walking encyclopedia when it came to such details, would have joined in. But not today. He looked ahead, through the windshield, and remarked thoughtfully, "Looks like a thunderstorm approaching."

"Nothing in the weather report," remarked Gerrard tight-lipped. Chimney, who loathed the guy intensely, interjected, "Thunderstorms can often be reliably detected only one to two hours before they arrive."

Hen ignored them and nudged Buck, "You don't think..."

"Yes, I do," Buck replied. "Three bad missions, one disaster. A thunderstorm is the icing on the cake.“

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

Half an hour later, the sky was heavily clouded, and the sound of thunder could be heard from the distance. The 118 had completed another mission, successfully this time, and was on its way back to the station when the radio crackled with a message. 

"Lightning strike at Pier 17, harbor area, reinforcement requested for emergency services on site."

"They have their own fire station," Gerrard remarked with an ugly laugh. 

"Wait a minute," Buck said, his brow furrowed with concern, "Pier 17, that is the firehouse, isn't it?"

"Station 217, yeah, 2 stands for the southern neighborhoods, 17 for the harbor section," Chimney said, looking at Buck.

"Confirm," he pressed out between clenched teeth, giving Gerrard a challenging stare.

"What, Buckley?"

"Confirm the mission. The 217 needs help."

"We'll be at the harbor in ten minutes, Captain," Hen said in her calm voice. 

"We're one man short after we dropped the Latino at the hospital."

"His name is Eddie," Buck said dangerously calmly, "and we've managed all the other missions without him. Confirm the assignment."

"It would be a shame," Chimney intervened, "if the chief hears that we were so close and haven't made our fire engine available to the 217."

Gerrard glared at him and reached for the radio.

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

It was ironic that, of all places, it was the fire station that was on fire, Buck thought. As they reached the harbor, the clouds poured down with heavy rain, and lightning flashed furiously across the sky. Buck looked up grimly. It would be ridiculous to develop a fear of thunderstorms just because he had been struck by lightning once, right? The statistical probability was... well, very low. It definitely wouldn't happen again. 

The fire station of the 217 was already completely engulfed in flames, and with it almost all the equipment – including their own fire engine. The 221 had been close enough to take the assignment, and they were happy to see reinforcements, because the fire was... a beast, Buck thought in surprise, realizing for the first time that Tommy was stationed here. The hangar was only a hundred yards from the station, and now Buck spotted him: Tommy and two other men were trying to prevent the fire from spreading to the hangar. 

Gerrard was busy looking busy and putting Ravi and Hen to work. Chimney and Buck exchanged a single glance, then took off running towards the hangar. 

"Damn it, report in,  Han and Buckley!"

"We're doing our job, Captain," Buck yelled, not even taking a glance back. 

The fire came dangerously close to the hangar, but so did the thunderstorm: at that moment, it seemed like heaven opened all the floodgates. Hail pelted down on the men, and Buck could barely see where they were running. Sometimes, rain was a firefighter’s friend, but this… this was no longer a fire to be impressed by the elements. The lightning must have struck an electrical distribution board, because the smoke and the huge flames were repeatedly accompanied by sparks. 

"Watch out," Chimney shouted over the roar of the fire, and Buck jumped out of the way of a splintered cable just in time, it was flashing across the floor, sparkling dangerously. Tommy turned, and his eyes widened as he recognized them.

"Didn't want to miss this, did you?" he called out, but Buck noticed the concern in his voice. The station was probably completely destroyed, and if the fire hit air support as well... 

"We wanted to see if you were any good in firefighting," Chimney replied, "but I'm afraid you've taken on a lot."

Thunder roared and a flash of lightning lit up the sky. Buck flinched. 

"Don't think you can do much here," Tommy said and briefly laid a hand on his arm. "You might as well…"

"You need us," Buck replied curtly, a wry little smile on his lips. "It's just a thunderstorm."

There was clear doubt in Tommy's eyes, but he nodded. "We need to shore up the back of the hangar," he said, "it's close to the bank, and it's sloping. There were two lightning strikes, the second one hit a fuse box behind the hangar and set off a kind of chain reaction."

"Who builds a hangar so close to the water?" asked Chimney, shaking his head.

"Someone who didn't expect something like this to ever happen," Tommy returned. 

They circled the building, which the others were still trying to keep clear of the fire, and now Buck saw what he meant. It was barely visible from the front, but the hangar was actually located on a hillside property that sloped steeply down to the sea. High waves would rarely be a problem here, and there was normally no danger of landslides – the hangar was actually in an ideal position for helicopter launches both for missions in the city and across the water. But then the storm somehow got out of control. 

Three deployments, one disaster, Buck thought as he looked at the mess. Perhaps the harbor building had once been a warehouse, because behind it was one of the smaller harbor cranes used in the past to transport heavy loads. It hadn't been in use for a long time, but the fuse box, which was also located back here, had. It was charred black, burnt through, and hissing with sparks like an angry snake. Tommy had said that lightning had struck. The force had apparently torn one of the power cables from its ground anchorage and hurled it towards the crane, which now resembled the Leaning Tower of Pisa. 

"It takes very little to crash into the hangar," Chimney said, "Or it tears off a chunk of the slope and crashes down," Buck added, pointing to the crumbling soil beneath the crooked crane. 

"Both, I'm afraid." Tommy looked at both men, all cheerfulness gone from his features. "We need ideas."

"And tools, I should think, wait," Chimney said, turning and running off.

"What the..."

"He knows what he's doing," Buck went. "Probably fetching the winch. In the meantime, we could…"

His voice trailed off as he carefully approached the crane, pushing a heel into the ground to test it. 

"I was thinking about the pile of firewood," Tommy said with a gesture to his back, and Buck raised his brows. "You're storing firewood behind your hangar?"

"Collection point for Forest Service," Tommy replied with a shrug. "The 217 is not a particularly glamorous fire station, Evan. We share the ground with other tenants."

"Your captain allows this?“ Buck remarked, shaking his head, "But well, sure, with those big beams there we could…"

He didn't get to finish the sentence. Another bolt of lightning crashed across the sky, directly over the water, so close that the sudden brightness stung Buck's eyes. A memory flashed through his mind, glowing like the lightning that had struck him and stopped his heart. Buck staggered back.

"Evan?"

Tommy's voice seemed to come from far away, and through the rain, still streaked with hail, he was all but a blur. Buck’s feet failed to find a hold, but it wasn’t until his stomach dropped that he noticed something was very wrong.

"Evan, hold on!" Tommy yelled, and Buck finally realized that he was falling. His mind kicked in again, or maybe it was just instinct, he jerked his arms. His fingers clawed into earth that slipped beneath his fingers, wet from the rain. Panicked, Buck realized that his feet were dangling in the air, and he was slipping. Then, a violent jerk, and something, someone, grabbed him by the wrists. 

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

Strands of wet hair fell into Buck's eyes, but that was the least of his problems. He didn't dare look down, but an ominous rumble that was clearly not thunder told him that the crane wouldn't last much longer. And he was right in its path, should it tip over. 

A face appeared at the edge of his view, the most beautiful blue eyes Buck knew, yet there was fear in them. Impossible, Buck thought. Tommy isn't afraid of anything. However, perhaps this was a situation in which one should be afraid. Buck was hanging over the precipice, about to be hit by a crane, and all that was holding him up were two strong arms, pulling painfully at his own muscles.

"Hold on," Tommy repeated, his voice commanding, and almost automatically Buck clasped the hands that held him. 

"Whatever you do, do not let go of my hand, do you hear me?"

Tommy's eyes sought his, and Buck blinked. 

"'S fine," he croaked, and Tommy shook his head. "It’s not, stop deflecting and listen. I’m gonna pull, and I need you to support me with your knees or feet. Imagine you're mountain climbing, okay?"

"Tommy, the crane…"

"You will not think about the crane," Tommy ordered, his eyes flashing. His voice sounded strained. I'm heavy, Buck thought. "You will just listen to my voice. I'm pulling now."

He moved with a groan, and Buck felt as if his arms were being dislocated. The pressure on his wrists was immense, and he frantically tried to find some kind of grip on the sloping terrain with his boots. 

"You... will ... not... let go," Tommy gasped, as if it were some kind of mantra, and so Buck didn't let go, no matter how much it hurt or how hard it was. Progress was piecemeal, the ground was slippery and it was still raining. Buck winced with every thunderclap, but the lightning seemed to move away. His stomach dropped when Tommy slipped once, but he held on to him, and once, he himself lost a foothold that he had just gained on the slope. He still held on.

It seemed to take hours, but in reality, Chimney told them later, it had been less than two minutes. He approached at the same moment Tommy pulled Buck up. Buck slid across the damp ground and banged his nose into the soil, but he was safe. Or so he thought. 

"Look out," Chimney roared, but another roaring was even louder, announcing danger.

Tommy looked up when the crane lost its grip, and his eyes were wide as he grabbed Buck by the collar and took what he later would call– in the safety of Buck's bed and with some pride – a masterful Muay Thai jump. They rolled over the ground, dangerously close to the edge, and the crane fell very, very close to Tommy's left foot. Earth pelted down on them like rain, a deafening crash sounded, but... They were safe. 

Tommy came to rest on top of Buck, looking at him in amazement, as if he couldn't believe they'd pulled this off. He sucked in a breath and said, "Every day with you is a disaster, Evan."

"That was fate," Buck replied timidly, and Tommy laughed.

"Definitely," he replied, and when he kissed him, the world stopped for a moment, and it was wonderful. 

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

Thank you so much for this prompt, I had fun :) A03-Version

[thelarriefics]

UNIVERSITY FIC REC, Part II: Below you will find more fics that take place in college. (Part I)

📖 Underneath It All by @peachypetalhazz (394k)

Enemies to friends to lovers AU where Louis is a cliché bad boy that Harry can’t seem to get rid of.

📖 there's no fair in farewell by @so-why-let-your-voice-be-tamed (218k)

When Harry and Louis, two Cupids who have been bringing people together for decades, are tasked with making Soulmates Liam and Zayn fall in love, it proves to be much harder than expected. But maybe, just maybe, that isn’t such a bad thing after all.

📖 blue moon by @aquietlarrie (152k)

or the self indulgent 50’s au where i wanted a safe space to explore the culture, history, and sexuality of being gay in a time when it was extremely difficult to do so. includes, lots of questionable dancing, healing your inner child, and one heck of an emotional ride.

📖 Never Be by @cherrystreet (117k)

The one where Harry Styles moves to Connecticut from England for nine months as a part of a study abroad program, and he just so happens to move in with Louis Tomlinson and family.

📖 Pour Your Heart Out by @hrrytomlinson (92k)

Louis is his soulmate. Or at least Harry thinks he is. Louis feels the same as Louis. But there are a lot of people named Louis in the world and this Louis might not be the Louis. It’s besides the point though, because Harry knows he can’t allow himself to get close to any boys. He just can’t and he’s told himself this multiple times. He has to simply stay away from Louis Tomlinson. But he can’t. Harry Styles can never stay away from Louis Tomlinson. It’s physically impossible for him to.

📖 knock knock, i love you by @thelovejandles (86k)

Harry and Louis get kicked out of a statistics exam for passing a knock knock joke note, and subsequently fall in love. Harry's a virgin, there's a cat, a hot cocoa date, a lot of sex, even more knock knock jokes, and everything is lovely and happy.

📖 Are There Second Chances? by @kissyboystyles (85k)

the most eventful twenty-four days of Louis Tomlinson's college career.

📖 A Distant Hazy Light by @greenfeelings (76k)

Life’s pretty ordinary for Harry. He lives with his best friend, got into university just like he’s planned, and manages to support himself just fine for an unbonded omega. If he sustains that lifestyle by getting paid to help alphas through their rut every now and then, that’s nothing to be hung up on. Until he’s hired by an alpha that turns everything upside down. Or, Harry’s working on taking Louis’ walls down, until he builds his own up.

📖 Bikestrike by @thinlinez (68k)

What would you do if you saw someone riding your bike, which had been stolen weeks before, across campus? Omega Harry chose to show no mercy. He didn't know it would all lead him to his own demise.

📖 always you (i should have known) by @28goldens (60k)

or the one where harry and louis cant stand each other and fake date to make someone jealous.

📖 Start A Revolution From My Bed. by @rainbowsandlovehl (57k)

Louis is ready to live on his own, in a dorm, in a new city. He is ready to make new friends, have fun and study a little. But he is not ready for Harry, his pretentious roommate who is out to ruin Louis' sleep and make his dorm life a complete hell.

📖 Love's On The Line, Is That Your Final Answer? by @moonhusbands (54k)

Harry can’t believe it when Louis, the boy he’s always had a tempestuous rivalry with, asks him to be his boyfriend. Well, pose as his boyfriend, that is—for a new television game show in which young couples are quizzed on how well they know each other for a jackpot of thirty grand. Reluctantly, Harry agrees—because he's got student loans to pay off, hasn't he? What's the harm? And he can totally deal with keeping his secret thing for Louis under wraps too. This is all just to win some money. It's fine. No big deal. What could possibly go wrong? Well, everything. Obviously.

📖 The First Year by @parmahamlarrie (46k)

When Louis Tomlinson was assigned a first year student to be his roommate for his final year at the University of Manchester, his expectations were low. All he needed was a cheap place to sleep and keep his stuff amidst his nights out, willing his brain to forget his past. He never expected Harry Styles to become his eclectic, sweet, and cuddly best friend. That was never the plan.

📖 your lips in the low light by @givesuethemoon (20k)

Set over the course of one night, at one fateful frat party. Louis and Harry find that there are not many things they will ever need more than each other.

📖 getting yourself wet for me by @dreamersdivin-headfirst (10k)

frat boys take on watersports

📖 my heart's against your chest, your lips pressed to my neck (i'm in love now) by @bottomhaztoplou (8k)

Five times Louis gives Harry a courting gift and one time Harry reciprocates.

📖 Hea(van) Is A Place on Earth with You by @insightfulinsomniac (6k)

University students Harry and Louis want to spend some alone time together — the problem is, both of their respective roommates are fast asleep. Harry solves that problem with some blankets, a secluded parking space, and his beloved beater van, Belinda.

📖 Lost In This Craze For You by @larrysballetslippers (4k)

Louis thinks he is incapable of making his boyfriend come, but Harry just needs a little more from him.

[knifedog-machina]

Being Human: A Species Identity Compare and Contrast

Written by Gavin Reed-Machina on June 27, 2024.

Hey, I'm Gavin, and despite hanging out in various alterhuman spaces, I'm 100% a human person. I live in a system with two headmates who are also human, but identify as other species as well - Max as a velociraptor therian, Jude as a dog archetrope and an android. In contrast, I specifically, completely identify as human.

What's so special about that, being human? Statistically, it's nothing remarkable - most people on Earth identify as human after all. I think what's really interesting is that, over the past year, I've been connected to communities that all contain people (or non-people, as the case may be) who partially or fully identify as nonhuman - otherkin, therians, a solid number of fictionfolk and some alterhumans. Therefore, I feel like I can compare and contrast my species identity to the experiences of others, in a way that most people who philosophize on what humanity is don't get the chance to.

We tend to think of humanity as The Default, a non-identity, since the majority of self-identified nonhumans were raised as human, and we all live in human societies. Most people don't bother clarifying that they are human unless they're dehumanized, because it seems obvious that being born human means you're human. Given humanity's position as a default state, a lot of nonhumans see it as an opposing and fundamentally different experience from nonhumanity.

In this way, species identity is similar to gender identity - cisgender people, who identify with the genders they were assigned at birth, are often assumed by transgender people to have a fundamentally different understanding of gender. I feel like both of these assumptions are oversimplifications, ones that miss out on a lot of nuance, and throughout this essay I will be comparing gender and species, as a trans man whose species is as important to him as his gender.

There are some common threads I've noticed when it comes to having a sense of identity. I wouldn't call them universal experiences, I can't read minds, but they're frequent enough to be significant. They may be more obvious when it's an identity at odds with your body (e.g. being transgender or nonhuman) - but I'd go so far as to say that plenty of cisgender (and human!) people also experience these feelings, and simply don't have the words or desire to describe their feelings with these terms.

First off, identity euphoria - the internal sense of alignment, joy, and contentedness one gets from presenting and being perceived as their identity. A trans man might experience gender euphoria from presenting and being treated as a man, and so do many cis men. Think about how thrilled many guys are when their beards fill out; that's facial hair as a presentation of masculinity, and gaining it is a gender euphoric experience. In a very similar way, a nonhuman experiences species euphoria from being perceived as their species - and so do I, as a human being.

I’m trans, so I know how gender euphoria feels for me. I find that the more I'm just treated as a man, the more that the bright elation of being correctly gendered turns into a sense of quiet satisfaction - this is what I am, and everyone knows it, and all is right with the world. There's no reason to think too much about it unless something calls attention to it, and then I feel confident and comfortable enough in myself that other people's judgements are more annoying than hurtful. I exist peacefully in my body, happy with the way people see me in it, and sometimes I'll do something that feels extra masculine and grin about it for five minutes.

My species euphoria falls into the same sort of category - I feel content with my body, the way it matches how I feel internally, and the way other people treat me because of it. I feel fundamentally comfortable with my human body map and movements, having a flat face and hands and nails, walking upright on the soles of my feet. I feel comfortable when I'm acknowledged as a human and a person, when I do something that’s known to be human - when I wear different clothes to express myself and keep out the cold, when I cook a meal to eat with people, when I sing for the fun of it, when I write and draw to share something creative, when I interact with human technology and invention and creation. Humans have been making clothes and foods and songs and adding marks to the world for about as long as they've existed, and we're still doing it, and if I think about it too long I get emotional. I’m human and I feel deeply connected to humanity, and most of the time I don't think about it because I'm treated as one, but sometimes I’ll notice that I'm doing something that just feels fundamentally human, and it's really nice - sometimes species affirmation can be in the little things, like wearing a beat-up jacket or writing a personal essay.

On the flip side, there's identity dysphoria, the distress experienced when one's identity doesn't align with the way they present or find themselves perceived as. A trans woman might feel gender dysphoria because of her body hair; many cis women also feel less feminine if they don't shave. Species dysphoria is a well-known experience in the nonhuman community, the distress of being seen as human or having a human body when you don't identify as one. Given what I said earlier, hopefully it doesn't come as a shock that people can have the opposite experience - feeling distressed about being seen as nonhuman. I get this kind of species dysphoria.

It feels odd to talk about species dysphoria when I’m not nonhuman, but I still feel it. Mostly it comes up in the context of being in alterhuman spaces, being accidentally mislabeled as nonhuman through proximity to those who are, and I've also felt it in the context of playing around with visualizing myself as nonhuman in art. My body map doesn't have nonhuman features, parts like wings or tails or claws or pointy ears. Picturing myself like that feels wrong, it feels like sandpaper, like there’s this foreign thing attached to my body and I need to cut it off so I can stop this crawling sense of my body not being my own. I used to have an awful amount of gender dysphoria, and I feel like the two are very comparable experiences - the distress of feeling like your body doesn't match your mind. I got top surgery, so the gender dysphoria is gone, and thankfully my body is actually human, because I would be just as distressed about being seen as nonhuman as I was about being seen as a girl.

It’s kind of fascinating that I feel this way, that I can’t picture myself as nonhuman without feeling incredibly uncomfortable. On the other end of the spectrum, there's the entire furry fandom, a subculture of people - most of whom definitely identify as human beings - who regularly depict themselves as nonhuman animals for fun and self-expression. We’re all human, what gives? Do they have a more malleable sense of species identity than I do?

Maybe, maybe not. I don't have a straightforward answer to that - like I said, I can't read minds, and I'm just one person. But I do have a couple thoughts on the way humans interface with nonhumanity, on the topic of enjoying it.

See, I get dysphoric about being considered nonhuman, but I've found some loopholes in there. I’m completely fine with my fictional counterpart - the character getting tossed into different AUs for our personal enrichment - being turned into a vampire, a werewolf, a selkie, an android, a person with wings. How's that any different from other expressions of nonhumanity? Well, for me, those stories don't induce dysphoria because they're about humanity, at the end of the day - how people cope with being seen as or turned into monsters, the way they treat one another and the way they treat supposed outsiders, the ways society might change if humans were slightly different animals but still called themselves human. If I were a werewolf, I'd still be human, just one living with the consequences of also being a wolf. If I had wings in a world where all humans have wings, I'm still human in the context of that world. That baseline sense of humanity is what’s important to me.

In a similar vein, I can't stand seriously being seen as nonhuman - but pretending to be nonhuman? Roleplaying? Dressing up in a costume? I can do that. I feel like there’s something very human about being fascinated by the abilities and strengths of every animal that's not your own kind, and wanting them for yourself - the human desire to fly like a bird, swim like a fish, hunt like a wolf, run like a deer.

I think a lot of what people like about fursonas is this sort of wish fulfillment, of having the cool traits of all these fascinating animals, and having that animal self-portrait still being anthro - human - enough to relate to. It's animality through an anthropomorphic lens, through how fun it can be to play pretend and express yourself as a cool deer-wolf-lion hybrid. And usually, those animal choices are symbolic, and the fursona reflects the personality of the person who made it - more often than not, it reflects the cultural stereotypes of what that animal is, instead of being true to what the animal is like as a living organism. It's about the way humans see themselves in animals, not necessarily the way we are animals. So, ironically, being a furry tends to parse as a very human thing to me.

So far, most of this essay has been a comparison, since I see a lot of similarities between identifying as human and identifying as nonhuman. Putting my species into my list of self-identifiers, like how I'd list my name and pronouns, has cemented it as a crucial part of how I view myself and want to be seen. That's the same way a lot of nonhumans think about their species. I have a strong sense of species identity, it just so happens to align with being human. Contrasting the categories seems harder to me.

I could list a bunch of different nonhuman traits that I lack, but it would be on the same level as saying one kintype is different from another. I don't care about walking on all fours, and neither does Max as a raptor. I don't instinctively try to bite a threat, I’d rather kick it, and I know a horse would agree with me. I don't long for the sky and neither does Jude, they're a dog. I don't have a prey drive and neither does a hamster. I don't feel like a nonsapient animal, and neither does an elf.

When it comes down to just being a certain species, there’s not that much of a difference between identifying as a human and identifying as a dragon. There's a bunch of traits that feel correct, and a million others that don't feel right at all.

I could say that I don't understand feeling like I don't fit in my own body, but I do - I had gender dysphoria. I have species dysphoria. If one of my partners is having a phantom shift while co-fronting with me, I invariably end up either leaving front or nullifying their shifts, because I just don't feel comfortable if our combined body map is nonhuman. I don't have memories of being a different species than I am, having abilities that I don't have in my body now, but those aren’t necessary to be nonhuman in the first place.

Do I need to find a contrast that makes sense? Does there need to be some fundamental difference between human and nonhuman identity?

I don't think so. It's all identity, at the end of the day.

[viperrbby]

Paws and Effect (Chifuyu x Reader)

Prompt: You have a crush on your neighbor, who also happens to be your classmate in college. Your cat ends up unintentionally being your wingman with your crush.

Had to write for my special guy. Chifuyu and Mikey have been heavy on the brain lately. Based on a time when my cat got out lol and set in a modern AU. Hope you guys like this one, I tried my best to learn how to get him in character. Chifuyu deserves more love

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The frantic thump of your heart echoed in your quiet apartment. Cleo, your blue-eyed Siamese, was gone. She’d been missing for almost an hour, and worry gnawed at your insides. 

“Cleo, where are you, baby?” You called, your voice cracking with anxiety. You’d checked every nook and cranny, under furniture, in closets, even peeking inside kitchen pantries, just in case. Cleo was a curious cat but never went outside and was usually under the bed. This was unsettling.

Desperate, you paced around the living room, eyes scanning every inch of the space. There was only one place you hadn’t checked yet: the window. 

You pulled the curtains apart to see that she had opened the window. You had left it cracked open earlier to let some fresh air in, but she must have gotten too curious and pushed her head through the crack to get out. You sighed and closed the window before exiting your apartment to look for Cleo.

You called for Cleo, hoping she would hear your voice. 

Nothing.

Where could she be?

You continued searching the bushes and underneath cars, the feeling of anxiety gnawing at your insides. She couldn’t have gotten that far but never went outside, so she may have been scared and hiding.

You searched for the entire afternoon but with no results. You sighed with sadness and walked back upstairs to your apartment so you could make flyers, post them around town, and post about her on social media in the missing pet groups.

Entering your apartment, you sat down on the couch. It was empty without her presence inside. She was usually zooming back and forth, climbing on the kitchen counter, or cuddling up on your lap as you worked on college assignments or watched TV.

A knock interrupted your thoughts as you started creating your post about her. You stood up to answer the door.

It was your attractive neighbor, Chifuyu Matsuno, whose apartment was across from yours and was your statistics classmate at the local college campus. He was holding Cleo and wearing a white sweater and dark pants. 

“Looking for Cleo?” He asked, his green eyes staring into yours. “I saw the apartment number on her collar,”

A rush of relief washed over you as Cleo sat comfortably in his arms. You had completely forgotten that she really likes men. Whenever your male friends would come over to visit, she was all over them. 

“Cleo, you little brat,” You said with a mixture of relief and annoyance as Chifuyu handed the blue-eyed, adventurous feline back to you. “I’ve been looking for you all morning!”

“She got inside my apartment and was playing with my cat, Peke J,” Chifuyu said with a slight chuckle. “I was quite surprised to see a random cat inside my living room when I woke up,”

“I’m so sorry,” You apologized, putting Cleo back inside your apartment, “I hope she didn’t cause any trouble for you,”

“Not at all,” Chifuyu replied with a warm smile. “She was a very welcome guest. She and Peke J seemed to hit it off quite well,”

“Well, maybe Peke J and Cleo can become playmates then,” You suggested. “She gets a little bored by herself here sometimes,”

Chifuyu’s lips curved into a warm smile. “That’s a wonderful idea. I’m sure Peke J would love to have a companion,”

As you closed the door behind you to prevent Cleo from escaping again, your gaze lingered on Chifuyu, and you felt a surge of attraction toward him. His calm demeanor, quiet confidence, and pine-green eyes captivated you. You would be lying if you said you didn’t have a crush on your classmate and neighbor. 

You and Chifuyu talked for a while longer, discussing your studies and your interests. You were impressed by his thoughtful insights and genuine desire to listen and could tell how much he loved Peke J. He gave you his number in case you two need to discuss upcoming assignments. You said your goodbyes to him for the evening, a newfound connection sparking between you two. 

In the following weeks, you and Chifuyu began spending more and more time together outside of class. You would often study together inside your apartment or his apartment, talking about everything from your dreams to your pet peeves. You discovered that he worked at a local pet store and how he fell from the second story of your apartment complex chasing after Peke J, which you couldn’t help but laugh at.

One evening, as you returned home from a tiring shift at work, you walked toward your apartment building, feeling the cool evening air on your skin. You recognized Chifuyu’s choppy, blonde undercut and his signature white sweater in the distance. He was sitting on the benches in the common area of your apartment complex. You then recognized a small ball of white fluff sitting on the bench beside him. It was Cleo, and somehow, she had managed to escape again while ou were at work. 

“Your cat escaped again,” He said, noticing your presence. 

Cleo happily circled around his hand as he petted her, purring loudly. 

“Again, Cleo?” You shook your head, smiling with amusement, lacing your words. “She really has a thing for you,”

Cleo, as if to confirm your statement, rubbed her head against Chifuyu’s hand, a contented purr rumbling in her tiny chest. You reached down to pick up your mischievous feline, your fingers brushing against his. A spark, more potent than any static electricity, surged through you, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake. 

“She’s a friendly cat,” Chifuyu replied, his gaze lingering on you and cheeks flushing a soft pink color. 

The air between you, thick with something undefined, almost made it difficult to breathe. You felt a warmth spread through you. Maybe it was how his pine-green eyes seemed to hold a gentle, almost hesitant understanding. Or maybe it was the soft smile that played on his lips, a smile that made your heart flutter with a strange, delightful nervousness. 

He took a step closer, his hand reaching out to brush a strand of your hair behind your ear. The gentle touch sent shivers down your spine, and you knew you were a goner. He was too close, and the scent of his cologne, a subtle blend of sandalwood and something sweet, was intoxicating. You and Chifuyu stood momentarily, your gazes locked, the air crackling with unspoken feelings. 

“May I?” He asked his voice husky with emotion. 

Your heart skipped a beat, and you nodded, unable to form words.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a gentle caress. The kiss was soft, sweet, and full of promise. It felt like a whispered secret, a shared understanding beyond words. You tasted mint and something else, a touch of something spicy. 

When you finally pulled away, the air between you and Chifuyu crackled with electricity. His cheeks flushed, and you felt a strange warmth bloom in your chest. 

“You know, your cat is quite the matchmaker,” Chifuyu said, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes sparkling with a newfound mischief.

You laughed, agreeing with him. If it weren’t for Cleo’s constant escapes, you wouldn’t have had the courage to converse with Chifuyu. Cleo had brought you closer to him, and you couldn’t have asked for a better outcome. 

[icarusflewfirst]

Back at it after the Christmas hols

Inferential statistics is gonna be the death of me 🤯

they’re definitely not easing us back in at all. Have an assignment due tomorrow but it’s completed and submitted so fingers crossed it’s good because my brain is fried

Hope everyone has had a great day! x

[tthatsonme]

Intellect, by molly.

— People often underestimate the seriousness of your sudden shift of motivation, in this day and age; it’s uncommon to see anyone (especially younger people) read a book or have any interest in having goals whatsoever, but you’re different, you’ve set the curve, you’re the centre of attention and everyone should be like you especially when it comes to academics, parents are constantly asking you to teach their kids your way because of how effortless your work ethic and dedication to school seems.

— Whenever the teacher needs an example on how to do a math equation or what a well written and worded essay SHOULD look like they always hold up your assignments as an example, you are 100% the best example of what a student should be like an any generation but especially this one, all of the parents and guardians with the “brain rotted iPad babies” or “wasting their lives away because of technology addiction teenagers” beg you to tell them what your “secret is” but maybe you’re not even fully aware of your greatness or level of discipline and success.

— You have a very distinct and important morning routine that you do every day, whether your routine has 4-steps or 40-steps it’s almost like it’s been burned into your DNA to follow it daily, your routine is not optional, you have the most perfect sleep schedule it’s almost as perfect as you, but in case you need a late study night you wake up everyday well rested regardless of whether you slept a full 8-hours or not, your memory to do things is amazing, you have a better memory than most people in your classes, you remember everything that you hear, read, and write in terms of school, you remember how to spell everything, your handwriting is always neat and legible, you could basically rewrite the dictionary at this point, fun fact: most people in this generation aren’t fluent in English because of the lack of spelling and vocabulary (my teacher said this so it’s probably true), while the other people in your class are crying over the phone ban if you have you you’re perfectly fine without your phone for 6-8 hours a day, you’ve never had any issues writing stories or having original thoughts, you have an extremely expanded vocabulary and are an amazing writer, “You don’t use brain rot?? Nerd alert!” It’s surprising to hear someone only use quote “brain rot terms” ironically, whilst the rest of the world is having unintelligent conversations about skibidi toilet and whatnot you’re the complete opposite.

— You have no issues in and are the best at all forms of mathematics, geometry, algebra, calculus, arithmetic, trigonometry, number theory, statistics, set theory, topology, discrete mathematics, probability, combinatorics, numbers, mathematics analysis, analytical geometry, differential equations, applied mathematics, game theory, pure mathematics, linear algebra, numerical analysis, and matrix algebra, natural sciences, engineering, medicine, finance, computer science and social sciences, biology, chemistry, physics, astronomy, earth sciences, zoology, ecology, microbiology, astrophysics, neuroscience, logic, ethics, psychology, philosophy, mechanics, and social sciences, morphology, sociolinguistics, pragmatics, psycholinguistic, linguistics, phonetics, historical linguistics, stylistics, and computational linguistics plus whatever other courses and classes that you have. [If this last part seems random it’s because it is, it’s copy and pasted from a personal sub I made a year ago for 11th grade :p]

_Things to remember

You can and will only ever manifest what you desire from this subliminal

Make sure not to obsess over your results because they can lead to limiting beliefs

You don’t have to listen daily or 1-7 times or anything like that, one is always enough with any subliminal :)

[whathorselegs]

Writing Year In Review 2024

Doing the Tinyzai year in review also got me curious about my Fanfic statistics, so I thought I'd share my 3 most popular fics of 2024!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・

In Over His Head Hits: 1471 Kudos: 127 Comment Threads: 21 Word Count: 14,250 Summary:

Dazai and Chuuya are assigned to work a mission together, however, things go sideways when the boys start bickering before they've even been briefed. Things escalate and Chuuya is injured, resulting them being taken off their original mission. And Mori assigning Dazai the new mission of looking after Chuuya.

When The World Tears Me In Two, Who Can I Turn To But You Hits: 1463 Kudos: 200 Comment Threads: 12 Word Count: 9,798 Summary:

A two part fic of Dazai and Chuuya having really bad days and comforting each other through it. They do not follow on from each other but are separate scenarios. Please read the author's notes for content warnings. Part 1 - After a bad mission and an exhaustive week, Chuuya is at his physical and emotional limits. His body is ready to shut down by the time he gets home and all he wants to do is curl up and sulk in the fog of exhaustion. Little does his know, a certain ex-partner of his has invited himself over with plans of his own. Part 2 - Dazai is on the wrong side of multiple nights of drinking. His mind's spiraling and he's out of money and alcohol to keep his emotions suppressed. His stewing in his misery is cut short when his partner breaks into his home and plans on whisking him away, whether he likes it or not.

Kuma, His Human and the Other One Hits: 1285 Kudos: 242 Comment Threads: 20 Word Count: 2,866 Summary:

I am a dog. A Japanese Terrier to be precise and as of two weeks ago I have begun my new life living with a human, Chuuya. Luckily for me, my human was easy to train. Then the other one showed up. Or A short one shot told from the perspective of Kuma, Chuuya's newly adopted dog as he adjusts to his new life with his new owner... And the guy who keeps showing up at Chuuya's apartment, called Dazai.

I'm really happy with these three being the most popular as I love these fics a lot and I feel they are three pretty different genres of my writing.

My personal favourite I wrote this year is:

Aftermath Hits: 597 Kudos: 69 Comment Threads: 9 Word Count: 5,593 Summary:

Stranded in a quiet, forgotten corner of the European countryside, Chuuya is standing guard in a hallway. He could never have predicted this is how Meursault would have played out, or it's consequences. His partner is once again injured, severely, and it's his fault this time. He can't run from that fact, nor can he run from the figure wearing his partner's face that seems intent on driving him completely mad. (Or Chuuya hasn't slept and is having trauma induced hallucinations post-Meursault)

I got to stretch my horror writing muscles with this one attempted something different, so it has a special place in my heart.

I look forward to writing many more fics in the next year and thank you all for your support <3

(Also, I encourage any writers who see this to also do it, celebrate your works and achievements, I dare you. Consider this an open tag. Tag me if you do so I can also celebrate you writing)