#corkscrew model

[hyper-coasters]

Busch Gardens Pass Member Exclusive Collectors Plates.

The original Gwazi design, with two trains. Man, I miss that lion & tiger duo so much. It's nice to see such a throwback! This was one of my first big coasters! It still ran with both trains my first time riding it, but I don't remember it after that. The original Gwazi closed on February 1st, 2015, with deconstruction beginning in 2019. Did you know the frames of the original Gwazi trains have been reused on Texas Stingray, at SeaWorld San Antonio?

Python! I have not ridden this coaster, but borh of my sisters quite liked it, and have positive memories! Python closed on October 31st, 2006. It seems like it was another veru photogenic ride for the park.

And finally, one of my favorite rides prior to its closure. I even remember back when Sand Serphant was Cheetah Chase, back before Cheetah Hunt was constructed. I don't think I have seen any Sand Serphant merch since the rides closure.

[nonbinarynightcrawler]

if you peel back exactly one layer of the excuse "the tools don't make it easy for 3d artists to make black/curly/textured hairstyles" underneath you will see "this is an industry-wide problem that I do not want to address because it would force me to admit that the tools have not been developed because that specific need is not seen as a priority"

[sermalatenightsnack]

You vs. Hawks: Who’s Japan’s Sweetheart, Really?

Episode 1

SUMMARY: What if there was another pro hero on the rise—just as fast, flirty, and fan-favorite as Hawks? You didn’t ask for the spotlight war, but now you’re in it. From a chance meeting behind a restaurant dumpster to joint missions and viral interviews, the world can’t stop watching Japan’s “favorite rivalry.” Too bad you’re starting to enjoy the game. TAGLINE: Fem!reader. Mentions of sexiual tension. Slow burn. Two rising stars. One too many cameras. And absolutely no rivalry feelings whatsoever.

Based on this blurb

A small drabble before you met him here

Unfinished series!

A/N first time writing a series. And editing on tumbler is a pain.

An overly televised disaster waiting to happen.

You never meant to become a household name. Not really. Not in the way that came with hashtags, interviews, or limited-edition soda cans with your face on them.

But somewhere between that rescue in Shibuya and the time you called Hawks “Featherboy” live on national television, you became the headline.

And unfortunately for you, so did he.

The Pro Hero scene was never quiet, but ever since you showed up, it’s been chaos. Not villain-related chaos---PR chaos. Tabloids live for it. Paparazzi stalk rooftops just to catch one of your now-famous aerial tag matches. The internet has been divided into two camps:

#Team(Hero Name) — “They’re hot, unbothered, and can do a perfect barrel roll in three-inch platform boots.”

#TeamHawks — “He’s iconic, strategic, and literally saved Japan. Let’s not forget the wings, people.”

#(Hero Name)hawksTruthers — “Just kiss already.”

Your agency says you’re good for each other’s image. You call it “brand beef.” Hawks calls it “free entertainment.”

And today, like clockwork, you land next to him on top of a burning building with a sigh.

“Don’t tell me you were waiting for me,” you say, brushing soot off your sleeve.

He grins. “Wouldn’t dream of stealing your spotlight.”

“You couldn’t if you tried.”

“Oh? Then what do you call this?” He gestures to the hovering drones, all centered on the two of you like it’s a red carpet and not, you know, a potential hostage situation.

You smirk. “I call it Tuesday.”

[SMASH CUT TO: A neon-lit studio set with a spinning title card]

“WHO’S WINNING THE (HERO NAME) VS HAWKS RIVALRY?”

~~~An Exclusive HeroWatch! Segment (Now in 4K UltraDrama)

[Cue dramatic music: overproduced strings and fake wind FX]

[Clips play rapid-fire: you diving off a skyscraper mid-rescue, Hawks laughing on a late-night show, the two of you shoulder-bumping post-mission like it was nothing.]

[Cut to: a host with aggressively styled hair and too much eyeliner.]

HOST (grinning at the camera):

“Two top pros. One public stage. Endless sexual tension---I mean rivalry. We asked you, the people, whose side you're on!”

[Insert “Street Interviews” section. Microphone, shaky camera, chaos.]

INTERVIEWEE 1 (teen with glitter stickers on their cheeks):

“(Hero Name)’s literally my role model. They once did a double corkscrew flip just to grab a kitten off a ledge. Hawks could never.”

INTERVIEWEE 2 (older man in a hawks hoodie):

“Hawks is practical. Sharp. Efficient. (Hero Name)’s cool, sure, but they do too much sometimes. Gotta reel it in.”

INTERVIEWEE 3 (couple sharing one hawks/skyline-themed umbrella):

“We love them both, but let’s be real---those two are flirting. Right? Like, it’s not just us, right???”

[Cut back to studio. Dramatic spin on the host’s chair.]

HOST (leaning forward like this is serious journalism):

“HeroWatch polls show a 50/50 split---nationwide. The tension’s high. The fans are louder than ever. And with another joint mission scheduled next week...”

[Cue ominous thunder sound effect]

HOST (grinning wide):

“...someone’s feathers are gonna get ruffled.”

[Roll credits. Blurry freeze-frame of you and Hawks dodging debris, mid-sassy banter.]

...

You were in your apartment. Dim lighting. A half-empty takeout box that sat on your lap as the TV plays a little too loud in the background.

You didn’t mean to watch it.

In fact, you were planning to ignore it entirely. Just like you ignored the trending hashtags, the fan art, the shipping threads, the conspiracy theories about your “lingering stares,” and the video essay titled “Why Hawks and (Hero Name) Are the Next Great Rivalry/Enemies-to-Lovers Arc” that had over 2 million views.

But the second your name dropped in the ad break--“Next up: Why Japan can’t choose between (Hero Name) and Hawks!”--you froze mid-bite and instinctively hit the volume.

And now you're here. Slumped on your couch, squinting at your TV in exhausted disbelief as glittery-eyed teenagers argue over your combat flips and some dude in a Hawks hoodie says you're "too much."

What the hell is this.

You cover your face with one hand, fingers dragging down over your mouth, and exhale a slow, bone-deep sigh.

How did it get this far?

Seriously. How.

Your mind flickers back---past the screaming headlines, the fanbase wars, the constant speculation---to the moment this entire circus began. Not in a battlefield. Not in a press conference. But behind a dumpy soba restaurant with a broken neon sign.

You remember it too clearly.

One year ago. Night. Rain. You’re walking home after patrol, minding your business.

It was supposed to be a quiet detour. Just you, your umbrella, and the sound of wet gravel under your boots.

And then you heard it. Rustling. Cursing. Muffled grunts.

You paused, narrowed your eyes down the alleyway beside the soba shop. A pair of wings---red, twitching midair. “Whoever” they belonged to was halfway into a garbage bin, legs kicking wildly like an overturned turtle.

You tilted your head.

“…Hey,” you called, cautious. “You alright?”

No answer.

“Do you need help?” you tried again. “Or are you... trading drugs in there?”

The person froze.

Then---WHUMP.

A head popped out. Feathered blond hair, ruffled and speckled with rice grains. Wide amber eyes blinking at you. A noodle stuck to his cheek.

You blinked back.

“…You’re not homeless, are you?” you asked.

He grinned, upside-down. “Nah. Just forgot my phone.”

You stared at him. Then at the bin. Then at him again.

“Your phone,” you repeated slowly. “In the trash.”

“Yep. Dropped it in while tossing leftovers. Pretty dumb, huh?”

That was the first time you saw him in person. Pro Hero #2. Elbow-deep in soup-stained napkins and laughing like this wasn’t the most ridiculous introduction imaginable.

You couldn’t stop thinking about it for days.

But in the moment you’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little thrown.

Not because it was Hawks---though yeah, Hawks. Pro Hero #2. The walking, talking soundbite machine with feathers and fame on his side.

No, what got you was how you met him.

Not at a press event. Not during some high-octane hero team-up. No slow-mo action sequence, no cameras, no scripted “Hey, aren’t you---?” moment.

Just you. And him. And a dumpster.

And the second that spiky mop of blonde hair popped out of the trash, you had a choice to make.

Drop the act---or double down.

You picked the latter, obviously.

Because your public image? The easy smiles, unbothered, cool-in-every-storm type? That had taken work. You had fans who’d never seen you sweat, who praised your every witty comeback and gravity-defying save. You couldn’t just stutter in front of the nation’s golden boy because he happened to be rummaging for his phone behind a soba shop.

So you leaned a hip against the wall, arms crossed, gave him a half-lidded stare like he wasn’t half-covered in pickled ginger.

“…You usually go dumpster diving on your nights off?” you asked, tone smooth like you'd planned the question three days in advance.

He looked up at you, eyes glinting, mouth curved. “Only on Mondays. Tuesdays are for alley yoga.”

You snorted. Couldn’t help it.

“So you are Hawks.”

He hopped out like it was nothing, brushed some seaweed off his jacket, and gave you that exact smirk you'd seen a hundred times in interviews. “Guilty. And you’re (Hero Name), right? The fans think we’d look good together.”

That---that---he just went straight to the point... Huh.

You barely managed a shrug. “Haven’t even bought me dinner.”

His eyes crinkled, amused. “Soba counts, if you don’t mind it reheated.”

You played it off with a scoff and a casual look away, pretending like you're not just now realising how much he wasn't just just like you...He was just like you---too much like you. The jokes was like meeting a mirror you weren’t sure you wanted to look into.

But that was the game, right? Keep the mask on. Keep it smooth. Never let them see you break.

Even when they catch you off guard behind a restaurant and toss your whole online persona into the trash with a wink and a noodle on their face.

You stayed leaning on the wall, playing around with what words to say next in your head‚ though your mind was already backtracking to what he just said---“The fans think we’d look good together.” Did he just open with that? No hello? No preamble?

You glanced him up and down, from the noodle on his shoulder to the way his wings rustled behind him like they had their own amused rhythm.

“Didn’t think you were the type to check your QRTs,” you said, arching a brow.

“I’m not,” he replied, flashing a grin that was just a little too satisfied. “But my agency is. They keep a whole folder. HeroWatch calls it ‘The Flirt Wars.’ You’ve got good numbers.”

You exhaled sharply, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “You’re kidding.”

“Dead serious. You’ve got better reaction stats than I do. Stronger pull with the 18–24 crowd.”

He said it like he was proud of you. Like this was some kind of twisted influencer competition and you’d just unlocked a new tier.

You tilted your head. “So what, you track me down behind a soba place to... what? Compare analytics?”

He shrugged. “I was hungry. You were here. Felt like fate.”

“Right,” you muttered. “Fate with a side of trash juice.”

Hawks snorted and finally started fixing himself up, flicking rice grains off his gloves and straightening the straps of his jacket like he hadn’t just been neck-deep in restaurant garbage. “You’re shorter than I thought.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He gestured lazily with one wing. “You come off taller online. More... towering menace with killer cheekbones. Reality’s got softer edges.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That your way of flirting, or just a weird insult?”

“Why not both?”

And there he flashed a grin---that grin. The kind that made it feel like you were the one being toyed with, like you were a punchline he already knew the end to.

But two could play that game.

You pushed off the wall and took a slow step forward, letting your eyes trail over him with deliberate cool. “You’re louder in person,” you said. “Thought you’d be more mysterious. Y’know, brooding. Aloof. Not... elbow-deep in someone’s leftover lunch.”

He laughed---really laughed this time, head tipping back. “Guess we both break expectations, huh?”

You paused, lips twitching despite yourself.

“…Yeah,” you murmured. “Guess we do.”

For a second, neither of you said anything. The hum of a nearby streetlamp buzzed overhead. A cat knocked over a can in the distance. Hawks was still watching you, eyes sharp behind that easy smile, wings settling in a little closer like he wasn’t planning on leaving anytime soon.

You crossed your arms again, fighting back the urge to actually consider this interaction as anything meaningful.

“So,” you said slowly, “you stalking me now, or is this just a trashy coincidence?”

He smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Dang.

Ahem.

You rolled your eyes---just enough to let him see it, but not enough to give him full satisfaction.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” you muttered, brushing past him, casual, as if this whole encounter hadn’t gotten under your skin.

You half-expected him to let you walk off with the last word. But no.

Of course not.

“Hey,” he called behind you.

You stopped, only slightly.

“What.”

There was a pause---just long enough for the silence to bite a little.

Then:

“You’ve got a leaf in your hair. And uh… soy sauce on your elbow.”

You turned fully, ready to argue---deny it, ignore it, anything---but the he just looked at you like he’d already memorized your microexpressions and was ready to catalog every single one‚ made you rethink.

Your eyes slid his way, neutral.

“Alright. Thanks.”

Flat-toned acknowledgment.

You didn’t reach for your hair. Didn’t check your elbow. Just stood there, steady.

His eyes narrowed slightly---curious, amused---but you caught it. That tiny twitch in his mouth, like he hadn’t expected that response.

“I get people pointing things out all the time,” you added, flicking a hand lazily. “Stains, threads, food on my face---y’know, the classics. So now I just say thanks.”

You glanced at him, letting it land.

“And don’t fix it?”

“Nope.”

That got him. A low chuckle rumbled out of his chest, and he nodded slowly like he’d just found another reason to be entertained by you.

“Well, (Hero Name), this was fun.”

And then---with the gall of someone who knew exactly what they were doing---he gave you a two-finger salute‚ turned on his heel with the kind of careless grace that only came from annoying amounts of self-confidence. Wings stretching, streetlight catching on the edges, and he was gone---vanishing around the corner like you’d imagined him.

Disappeared like this had been just another Tuesday night errand.

Like he hadn’t just tossed your night into a blender and strutted off with the lid.

You stood there a moment longer.

Still not brushing the leaf out of your hair.

What the hell just happened?

At first, you hadn’t even planned on it being a rivalry.

You’d just wanted to one-up him.

Maybe the next time you ran into Hawks, you’d be the cool one. Unflinching. Dismissive. You’d say something smart---subtle but scathing---and he’d finally be the one left blinking, stuck with a leaf in his hair.

But then he started showing up.

Everywhere.

You brushed it off the first time. The second, you gave it a little side-eye. But by the fourth unexpected run-in---at a charity event, a late patrol, a live-streamed PSA---it was getting suspicious.

And before you knew it, Hawks had become something of an occupational hazard.

There he was: in the corner of your interviews, hovering at joint patrols, clipped into your comms like it was the most natural thing in the world. You didn’t invite him---PR did, apparently. “Shared air time” and “opposing charm points” and other buzzwords that meant ratings.

You didn’t mind the spotlight. You’d just rather not share it with someone who had the audacity to leave you standing with a leaf in your hair and soy sauce on your elbow.

So when he swooped into formation beside you mid-air and mid-mission---smug, composed, like he belonged---you didn’t flinch.

You turned just enough to meet his gaze, flashing him the same easygoing grin you wore on livestreams and magazine covers.

“Well,” you said, voice smooth, “look who’s following my lead.”

He gave you that two-beat laugh, head tilting like he was delighted you were playing back.

“Figured you’d want backup,” he said, as if you hadn’t handled six solo ops this month without blinking.

“Oh, how thoughtful.” You glanced down toward the van below, then back at him. “You bring backup for everyone, or am I just lucky?”

“You,” Hawks said, effortlessly, “are many things. But no one’s ever called you lucky.”

“Not to my face,” you shot back.

His grin widened. A challenge. You let the wind ruffle through your hair as you banked slightly ahead of him---just a bit---like you were carving out the lead.

“Keep up, Feathers. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

He chuckled behind you. “And here I thought I was the cocky one.”

You smirked, not bothering to look back.

But unfortunately (not)‚ that wasn't the end of it.

Back to present:

You're on your couch. TV now playing a slowed-down clip of you and Hawks laughing mid-mission with sparkles added in post.

You sink deeper into the cushions, biting the inside of your cheek. You knew the media would twist things, but this? This was peak nonsense. (But kinda funny too)

You and Hawks weren’t even rivals at first. You were just trying to mind your own business while he kept showing up at your patrol zones like some cryptid in aviators. Then the missions started. Then the banter. Then the banter during missions. Then the one time you both tried to stop a jewel thief and ended up accidentally crashing a wedding.

You didn’t ask for a public rivalry. You were just trying to do your job.

But now? Now it’s you vs. him in the public eye. Fans drawing you like lovers. Kids calling you the “Birdbrain Duo.” HeroWatch running full-length segments debating your aerial dynamics and emotional chemistry.

You grab the remote, mute the TV, and stare at your own frozen image on screen---smirking at Hawks in the middle of a burning hallway, like you're having the time of your life.

And, okay... maybe you kind of were.

But that’s not the point.

“…This is getting out of hand,” you mutter into the silence.

And somewhere---inevitably---your phone buzzes.

It’s from Hawks.

[Hawks:] U watching HeroWatch? They gave you my jawline. Kinda rude tbh.

You stare at his message.

Your lips tug upward, slow.

You move to type with one hand, casual.

[You:] Must’ve been the lighting. Or maybe they just think I wear it better.

The typing bubble pops up almost immediately. Predictable.

[Hawks:] Oof. A hit to the jawline and the ego? Cold.

You let the silence hang for a beat too long before replying. Let him stew. Then:

[You:] I thought you liked cold. Isn’t that why you keep flying next to me lately?

Pause. Beat.

[Hawks:] …Touché.

[You:] Don’t get soft on me now, angel.

You swear you can feel him stopping in the air wherever he is.

[Hawks:] Angel??

You pop another bite of your cold takeout.

[You:] Too much? Thought we were both fanservice now.

Silence.

Still nothing.

You smirk wider, toss your phone on the table, and lean back into the couch. You don’t need the last word. You already won this round.

And besides---he’ll come flying back for more. They always do.

Especially the pretty ones with too many feathers and too much airtime.

Your phone hasn't buzzed again. Not yet.

You glance at it---just once---out of the corner of your eye like it might buzz the moment you look away. But it doesn’t. Just your own reflection in the black screen, faint and smirking a little too wide.

God, this is fun.

You stretch, slow and satisfied, kicking your legs up over the arm of the couch and letting your takeout box tip just slightly. The scent of lukewarm curry clings to the room, the volume from the muted TV flickering across your face in flashes of fan-edited chaos. The screen is still frozen on that frame---your face tilted toward Hawks mid-mission, expression amused, his own caught in that half-laugh, half-glare thing he does when he knows he’s been baited.

They captured it so well, you almost want to applaud.

Almost.

Instead, you scroll. The ship tags are exploding. Your name paired with his in increasingly unhinged combinations, fan cams stitched together like a love story. There's even a slowed-down audio clip of your last mission---your voice layered over his, syncopated like a duet.

You shake your head. It’s not that you don’t get it. You just never asked for it.

No, he started this.

Well---okay. That’s not fair. Technically, he was just being his usual breezy, too-charming self, and you… may have fed into it. Just a little. Just to see what he’d do.

And now?

Now he's texting you like this is a game you both agreed to. Like there are rules.

You roll your neck back against the couch cushion and stare at the ceiling.

It wasn’t personal before. Just a weird coincidence. A few overlapping patrols. A trash bin. Some chemistry, maybe. But now? Now he’s on your turf. Casually leaning into your airspace. Cracking jokes like the two of you are synced-up sidekicks.

You narrow your eyes at nothing in particular.

He’s in your missions, your mentions, your hashtags. Your spotlight. And what’s worse? You don’t hate it.

Though you kinda wanna mess with the script. Have him flustered mid-flight. Or have him making the headlines about your “undeniable chemistry.” have every viewer pausing the playback wondering how Hawks got played so smoothly by someone who never even raised their voice.

Yeah, you'll totally do that.

Your phone buzzes again.

[Hawks:] U free tomorrow? Got a joint mission briefing. Thought we could “sync our energies” or whatever PR likes to say.

You pick up the phone, type:

[You:] Only if you’re ready to get out-charmed.

Send.

You’re still staring at your phone.

The screen lights up again, and you catch it just in time---the typing bubble flickers to life, disappears, then reappears like it’s debating with itself. You squint, thumb already twitching toward the screen.

Then the message lands.

[Hawks:] btw, after the mission---u wanna grab food or something? Like, real food. No more trash dives. I'm evolving.

You stare.

Your brain---bless its tired, overworked circuits---lags for a second.

Huh?

You read it again. And again. And… yeah, it’s still there.

Dinner. He asked you to dinner.

HAWKS asked you to dinner.

You blink slowly, then narrow your eyes like the message might morph into something else if you glare hard enough.

This has to be a trap.

You never---never---thought he’d be the one to ask first. Not because you thought he wasn’t bold enough (he’s too bold, actually), but because he’s too proud. Too annoyingly smug. Always toeing the line of flirtation like it’s a performance, always acting like he’s got it handled. That man practically oozes control over every situation.

So why… this?

Why now?

Your brain launches into damage assessment mode.

Is this a PR stunt? Did his managers tell him to do this for engagement? Is this for some HeroWatch segment called “Rivals Try Pasta”?

You imagine sitting across from him under suspiciously perfect lighting, camera flashes going off, and some blogger captioning it ‘Rivals. Lovers? We Investigate.’

You grimace. What if there will be paparazzi?

Or maybe he’s just being nice. Or... professional. This could be a hero thing, right? Just two coworkers grabbing a bite. Totally neutral. Totally platonic. Totally not--

No, who are you kidding. You saw the way he typed that.

“I’m evolving”?

Is this supposed to be flirtatious? Ironic? Genuine?

You sit there in dead silence, phone glowing in your hand, jaw faintly slack.

You never imagined in a million years that he’d be the first to flinch.

And that’s what this feels like. A flinch. A crack in the game. A move not designed to win, but to be seen.

Your thumb hovers over your keyboard.

Alright, Birdbrain. What’s your angle?

Because if this really isn’t a trap…

Well. Then you might actually be in trouble.

You let your thumb hover for another beat before finally typing back:

[You:] suspiciously specific evolution

are your PR managers involved in this? Will there be cameras? a “Top Ten Heroes Try Soup” livestream?

You pause, then add:

[You:] …but if it’s actually just food

and not some weird press stunt,

I’ll bite.

A second later:

[You:] but if there are cameras I’m ordering the messiest dish on the menu. And i’m not wiping my mouth.

Then you hit send.

You stare at the message.

Your phone buzzes again.

[Hawks:] lmao

nah, no cameras

unless you’re bringing them

which honestly would be kinda flattering

Another buzz.

[Hawks:] swear it’s just food

no PR managers, no press, no schemes

just me

evolving

in your general direction

You blink at that last part, reading it twice.

Then he sends:

[Hawks:] bring your messiest dish game tho

I’ll match you bite for bite

consider it... team-building

And finally:

[Hawks:] mission first

dinner after

don’t be late. i might take it personally.

You stare at the string of messages, thumb hovering but unmoving.

No press. No PR. Just him. Just food.

Just Hawks, allegedly evolving in your general direction---whatever the hell that means. You’re not sure if you want to snort or roll your eyes… or smile.

You reread the last message:

don’t be late. i might take it personally.

Tch.

He’s got jokes now. Team-building? He’s really trying to make this sound like a professional bonding exercise when he knows it’s not. Or maybe that’s the trap. Maybe it is professional to him, and you’re the one overthinking it.

Or maybe---maybe he’s serious. No schemes. No handlers in the shadows. Just him showing up… and hoping you will too.

But… do you trust him?

You glance at your closet without meaning to. Then back at your phone. Then the closet again.

If he's telling the truth, great. If he's not? Well.

You’re not showing up underdressed.

You’ve played the background long enough. So if this turns out to be a PR stunt?

You’ll make sure the cameras get your good side.

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Not A Verstappen: Gridlocked {1}

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x fem!driver!reader x Lando Norris Summary: Charles and Lando come to your apartment for the thank you dinner as promised. Warnings: 18+ only, sexual tension, alcohol, touching? WC: 2.4k F1 Masterlist NAV: Sibling Rivalry One || Two || Three NAV: Gridlocked One || Two || Three || Four

Black smoke billowed out of the pan you thought you had turned off and you rushed to toss it in the sink before opening a window. The breeze was a moment too late to clear the air of the dark tendrils snaking higher and they soon reached the smoke detector, the piercing sound of its alarm filling your kitchen. 

“Shit,” you cursed as you tried to jump and hit the detector to shut it off but you were just too short. “Double shit.”

A knock sounded at your door and you threw it open, grabbing whoevers hand it was and dragging them inside. “Thank god, hit that fucking thing for me will you?” you asked, realising it was Charles who had arrived on time, unsurprisingly.

His nose wrinkled at the heavy stench of smoke and he rose onto his toes to reach up and turn off the alarm. “You look like you have been, um…creative.”

You smiled at the attempt of a compliment before laughing at the situation. In the cold pan on the stove were the chicken breasts that were meant to be frying and you slapped your forehead as you realised you had turned the wrong element on. “Looks like we are going out to dinner, which is probably safer. I don’t think I could have kept my promise not to give you food poisoning by the looks of it.”

“I’m not dressed to go out,” he said as he looked down at his polo and chinos.

“Are you kidding me? You look like a damn model.”

“Thanks. It’s not easy being this handsome,” Lando said as he walked in the front door that was still open, a bottle of wine in his hands. “I see your cooking skills are as good as mine.”

“Har-har,” you drawled as you reached into the cupboards and got three wine stems out. “Liquid dinner it is.”

“Haven’t you sworn off drinking?” Charles asked as he rummaged around your cutlery drawers, finding the corkscrew for Lando.

“Pfft, that was just for summer break to stop the PR team from riding my ass,” you said with a grin. “Plus, you two won’t let me get into trouble. At least not too much.”

The cork popped open and Charles took the bottle from Lando to read the label. “I don’t think we have anything to worry about,” he laughed as he handed the Prosecco back. 

“What?” Lando asked with a frown as he turned it around to see the label. “The lady at the shop said this was good.”

“Sure, for an afternoon at the beach, but it won’t get you drunk.”

You took the bottle from his hands and kissed his cheek to erase the pout on his face. “It is the perfect starter course, and my bar is fully stocked with the hard stuff.”

“No,” Charles sighed as he took the bottle and poured three drinks. “I’m sure there is something salvageable to eat. No drinking on an empty stomach.”

You raised your glass to him. “I wish you luck, my kitchen is cursed.”

He tapped his glass with yours and winked. “I’m a miracle worker, watch me.”

You sat with Lando at the kitchen table as he showed you some photos he had taken throughout the year that hadn’t been posted online, keeping you entertained with stories that would get him in trouble if they ever got out. Every now and then you would check on Charles who familiarised himself with your kitchen, opening and closing all the cupboards and drawers before sighing.

“Admit defeat yet?”

His green eyes narrowed at you from across the room. “Never. I just can’t find any- of nevermind. What is this monstrosity?” He pulled a large jar out of the fridge and grimaced at the sight. 

“Crushed garlic,” you said obviously but he grew even more offended by the jar as he held it at arms length away.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered as he opened the lid and sniffed it. “It will do, I suppose.”

“What are you cooking?” Lando asked as he saw the ingredients lined up on the bench.

“Chicken pesto pasta.” He didn’t even look up as he sliced some limes up, muttering that lemons would have been better. 

“See, this is what I was looking for,” you said to Lando as you rested your chin on your hand watching Charles navigate the kitchen comfortably. “He cooks for me, you did my laundry, you’re both good looking and funny. That’s what I need from a man, I need the love child of Charlando. I give up. It’s impossible. I’m never going to find that.”

“Okay, this definitely isn’t going to be enough,” Lando said as he took the almost empty glass from your hand and rose from the chair. You and Charles both watched him cross over to the wet bar and tap his fingers along his lips as he debated what spirits to choose. “We need to cheer you up, I’m thinking tequila sunrise or strawberry daiquiri?”

“And music,” Charles added as he diced an onion that had been hiding at the back of your refrigerator for who knows how long. “Not mine, because it’s all depressing.”

“So music and drinks…why don’t we just go out?”

Neither looked happy at your suggestion and they both shook their heads. “I’m not in the mood for a lecture from your brother,” Lando admitted.

Lando plugged his phone into your stereo and some soft pop song started to play in the background as Charles said, “And it's too loud to talk in a club. This is nice, no?”

“I guess the company is half decent,” you teased.

Charles chuckled and beckoned you over with a curl of his finger that had a dollop of creamy pesto sauce on the end. “Taste test.”

Your stomach clenched as you parted your lips for him and his eyes held yours, the moment too intimate to dare break. His lips parted with a silent sigh when your tongue rolled over the pad of his finger, and he took a harsh breath as your lips sealed around it and sucked it clean. 

“Hmmm,” you moaned as the flavours coated your tongue and you pulled back, licking your lips as you did. “Oh my god, Charles, that is delicious.”

You couldn’t help noticing how the green of his eyes had been swallowed by his blown pupils or the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed twice before he could muster a response. “Now that I’ve seen your cooking, I’m sure everything else tastes delicious.”

“It’s not that bad,” you said with a laugh as your attention was pulled away and a shot glass was placed into your hand. “I thought we were having cocktails?”

“We will, but,” Lando said as he reached past Charles to grab the salt before he sprinkled a line across his hand. “Tequila first, sunrise later.” He grabbed a wedge of lime next and pinched it between his teeth with a daring curl of his eyebrow. 

The food was forgotten as Charles watched you wrapped your fingers around Lando’s wrist before running your tongue across his skin. The grains of salt coated your tongue as you raised the glass to your lips and tipped the liquor back under their heated stares. You swallowed the liquor and inhaled the fiery burn that followed as you eyed up lime waiting between Lando’s lips. 

This moment balanced on a knife's edge and you could feel how influential it could be on making or breaking the friendship you had with both Lando and Charles. This was the line in the sand that once you crossed there could be no return.

No one dared to breathe. No one dared to move. 

They were waiting for you. 

You licked your lips of the salty spirit residue and stepped closer to him. Your fingers trailed up his neck to tease the short hairs on his nape as you pulled his head down to meet yours and you bit the lime, tearing it from his lips as the sour juice ran down your chin.

“You’re a bad influence,” you teased as you wiped away the excess and stepped back. 

The tension in the air evaporated with his proud grin and Charles chuckled as he turned back to the pan before it burned for a second time.

“I’m just trying to cheer you up,” he replied innocently.

He made his way back to the wet bar with a little dance that had you laughing again. “It’s working.”

The sunset made the perfect backdrop over Monte-Carlo as you stepped out onto the balcony with a plate in each hand and placed them on the small square table. The music drifted out from the french doors after Lando queued enough songs to last the night and joined you and Charles with the extra strong drinks he had made.

“We should do this more often,” you said as a calm settled within you and you watched the yachts dotting the sea beyond the marina.

“What should we toast to?” Lando asked as he placed your glass in front of you, the cocktail matching the orange skyline.

“Single life?” you offered, earning a snort from him as he dropped into the seat beside you, mirroring Charles on the other side.

“How about the hunt?” Charles joked and you groaned at the reminder. “Since we are all looking for love now.”

“Not me,” you surprised them. “I’ve deleted every dating app from my phone and given up. I might even get a cat to keep me company.”

“I thought ‘a girl had needs’?” Lando teased with a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows.

“Nothing a little self love can’t take care of,” you muttered to your drink as you took a sip, making Charles choke on his. “What? It’s true. You can’t tell me that you don't use your hand out when you need it.”

“We definitely need to do this more often,” Lando chuckled as he spared a fork full of extremely overcooked pasta. 

Charles sent a grin across the table to Lando before their eyes turned to you, a mischievous glint reflecting in both pairs as Charles agreed with a nod. 

“Then let’s cheers to that,” you said as you raised your glass. 

“To the three of us,” Charles winked, clinking your glasses.

“The three of us.”

The empty plates were neatly stacked and the last rays of light had long disappeared, but you weren’t ready for the night to be over. The air was growing cold and the fading solar lights dotted around the deck were starting to attract bugs, interrupting the peaceful lull in conversation. 

“Do you want to stay and watch a movie? You probably shouldn’t drive anyway.” You hoped your question didn’t sound too eager and tried to cover it up with the logical statement. It was needless though as they both perked up at the offer and started to clear the table.

“I’m up for a movie night,” Lando agreed as he took the glasses, leaving Charles to take the plates. “Another round?”

 “Yes, please. I’ll meet you on the couch.” 

You went to your room and changed out of the jeans and top you were wearing, opting for an oversized white AlphaTauri shirt you often slept in instead, before dragging the quilt off your bed. You switched the lights off around the apartment as you passed them and flopped down onto the couch between the two men who had been quietly chatting. Lando reached for the refilled glasses on the coffee table and handed you yours as you asked, “What are we watching?”

“Nothing sad or Charles will cry,” he said with a little laugh as he helped spread the blanket over everyone.

“And nothing with shooting or Lando will cry,” Charles shot back with his own teasing smirk.

“And nothing with romance or I will cry,” you added as you swiped up the remote and scrolled through the options on Netflix. “Guess that leaves horror. Paranormal Activity?”

You wanted to look away but you couldn’t as the crackling image on the screen only grew darker. You knew what was coming but it still didn’t stop the squeak that escaped your lips or the way your tense body startled at the jump scare.

The guys chuckled as if you hadn’t felt their legs knock yours at the sudden slam of a door and the blanket shifted until you felt a comforting hand on each thigh, resting just below the hem of the shirt. It took everything in you to keep still as their palms warmed your skin and the heat spread to your core and you felt Charles’ thumb start to draw soothing circles.

Under the guise of settling back into your skin after the fright, you laid back into the cushions and stretched your legs out. From the corner of your eye you could see Lando bite his lip as the shift left their hands even higher up your thighs, almost brushing the lace edge of your panties.

“Scared, chérie?” Charles asked, his voice a little deeper than usual.

It wasn’t the horror movie that was causing a fine tremor to work its way over your body, setting every nerve ending alight. And it certainly wasn’t the horror movie that was causing the goosebumps to tingle across your skin. 

It had been a long time since a man came so close to you that your core was turning to molten lava without even being touched and you lost the battle to remain still, your thighs clenching together in search of friction. You could feel a second heartbeat throbbing between the juncture and as the blanket slipped down your body your peaked nipples were easy to spot through the thin material. 

“Not exactly,” you uttered as Lando’s fingers squeezed your thigh, almost as if he were silently begging you to part them for him. 

“You’re shaking,” Lando murmured close to your ear. 

“I know,” you whispered as your throat clogged with the pleas for them to touch you, to slide their hands just another inch higher and sate the need your body craved. 

You felt the touch of Charles’ shaped beard along your jaw before his lips brushed your ear. “Breathe, chérie. We’ll take care of you.”

His thumb drew another circle and your chest expanded with the softest gasp as you felt the pad of his digit run along the seam of your underwear. 

Lando mirrored his friend, his breath hot on your neck where his lips set a trail of scorching fire to your ear. “Will you let us take care of you?”

Click here for part two.

Tagging: @destourtereaux @severerebelearthquake @sunf1ower16 @octaviareina @omgsuperstarg @mvclff1 @alwaysclassyeagle @icantcomeupwithamusicalname-blog @laneyspaulding19 @booknerd2004-blog @mimimarvelingmarvel @chonkybonky @jpg3 @bangtanxberm @secretlyangrymagazine

[iamthekaijuking]

Balahara’s gills

Remember when I said that, after a lengthy period of thinking and observing, balahara’s gills were likely true gills?

Yeah scratch that

I had @krmoaten-blog take a closer look at the gills on the model and not only are they closer to the shoulders (and presumably lungs) than they are to the head, they also corkscrew with the rest of its body.

@thesumlax also brought it to my attention that gills are part of the skull much like pectoral girdles are (or were for tetrapods). While it isn’t very likely gills would separate from the cranium, it’s certainly more believable for them to be right behind the head like on Somnacanth. And not over the shoulder like the freakazoid above.

So I’m probably not gonna classify Balahara within Polypterygia.

[whalesongsblog]

WIZARDING EDUCATION IN THE SURYA EMPIRE.

If you haven't looked at the absolutely incredible lore @rambling-tam is building around their wizarding education system of North America, pls go check it out. It 100% inspired this post.

LORE DROP: In my fic, Hogwarts is a postgraduate university. Miradevi completed her undergrad education in her empire, which boasts one of the foremost magical colleges in the world.

The Surya empire is a blend of magic, muggle, and nonhuman beings. Each contributes in their own way, and the rigid lines of the European wizarding world are nonexistent. Here, the mythical and arcane blends with cutting-edge muggle technology and science, because the Surya empire firmly believes that diversity is the key to social progress.

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Prior to the iron fist of British colonization, Indian (specifically Hindu) education was essentially a lifestyle. A holistic focus on education was coupled with studying texts like the Vedas and Upanishads with a guru. This was known as the Gurukul system, where a child would leave their family behind to live with their teacher and other students in the gurukul, often spending months to years deep in the forests. Education began at the age of five with the Vidyarambha ceremony, where the Goddess Saraswati, patron deity of wisdom and knowledge, was worshipped. Students from all over the world traveled to India to partake in this system and receive an education that focused on practicality, innovation, spirituality, and oneness with the greater universe. 

Miradevi Surya Lakshmi is the princess of the Surya empire- a fictional nation within the very real state of Rajasthan, modeled after Udaipur. Ancient legends and their magic linger in the soil, enriching every aspect of life in the empire. Weaver Witches spin intricate magic into each stitch of their handwoven garments, allowing the shimmering threads to shift and dance under the burning sun. Street vendors harvest dried chillis spread out on low stone rooftops under the full moon, made potent through murmured spellcasting. 

The intricately carved temples simmer with incense and shakti- the primordial essence of the Goddess. The figures depicting scenes from the Mahabharata and Ramayana painted with painstaking detail onto the temple walls occasionally pause in their actions to wave and grin at the temple-goers. 

Ma Kali bares her teeth and tongue in a fierce smile as she drains the blood of the demon Raktbeej, and college students hurriedly ask for her blessing as they dart off to their exams. The female pundits adorn the warrior goddess with fresh marigolds that hang alongside the stone-carved necklace of skulls on her neck. 

In the evenings, magic hangs hazily in the cold desert air as street musicians regale crowds with the magic they breathe into folk Rajasthani music. Goblin tribes from the deep desert stand alongside werewolves and muggles, leaning closer to the siren song of the music. 

The children of the Sun Kingdom live and die by innovation. Scholarly pursuit runs in their blood, a heat and need for excellence burning brighter than the desert sun. Whether in arts, sciences, or the arcane, the people of Surya strive to innovate and create new parameters for excellence. And no academic institution was more prestigious than Miradevi’s alma mater: 

YUDHISTHIR COLLEGE OF MAGIC EXCELLENCE 

REGION: Surya, Rajasthan. (Based on a blend of Udaipur and Ranakpur). Mountainous, mystical, and steeped in the ancient and arcane. 

PHILOSOPHY: You stand on the shoulders of kings, born into bloodlines that have nourished this nation. Do as the great Maharajas once did, and be a leader this land and these people can look up to. 

ARCHITECTURE: The college is built partly into the side of a cliff face and partly above ground. The massive library is built like a constantly moving corkscrew- enchanted to keep circulating, tomes from ancient eras till modern times stacked on towering shelves. 

Nothing is as it seems. None of the rooms are as small as they appear, and, TARDIS-style, everything is bigger on the inside. Old and new blend together, with ancient stone hiding the gleaming, sleek metal and glass of research labs. Parts of the college unfold and retreat as needed, warping time and space around it. A shimmer of magic that hangs around the cliffs and mountains conceals just how much of a behemoth the college is. 

Modeled after ancient Hindu architecture. Gateways and towers are oriented with stunning precision towards the sun and stars, with massive, marbled open courtyards that allow for fresh breeze to sweep through. Peacocks and magic creatures wander through the grounds and classrooms, occasionally providing a welcome disruption to a dull lecture.

ACADEMICS: Students find amusement in thought experiments and mock war-room scenarios where enchanted players move across massive boards in exercises of diplomacy and tactical strategy. The underground wing of the college, built into the steep cliffsides, houses the most advanced Dark Arts Research facilities in the world- access is coveted, and the price of losing oneself to the arcane is steep. But the students of Yudhishtir understand, better than most, the illusion of power and how quickly it can be lost. 

Muggle science blends with magic as astrophysics is taught alongside jyotish- the ancient Indian art of astrology. Quantum physics goes hand in hand with transformative magic, equations, and theoretical spells cluttering up blackboards. 

Here, the study of chakras means so much more than what it has been diluted to by the outside world. The chakras are energy cores within the body, keeping each element in alignment with the cosmos and their individual planetary connections. Health assessments begin with a full-scale examination of the energy strains in the body, probing for misalignments. The medical students at Yudhishtir study blood magic and osteokinesis- occasionally donating bones to the scholars of Nimitta Shastra. Also known as Omenology. 

Then, there are the students of Tantric practices. Ritualistic and occasionally misunderstood, tantra dissolves the borders between reality and maya- the great illusion of life. These students sequester themselves deep in the mountain chambers, focused on meditative practices and rituals that leave a residue of powerful magic hanging in the air like the desert heat.

SPORTS: India is the birthplace of chess. In the Surya empire, a similar game is played, called Chaturanga. The battlefield (in the form of the board) keeps changing- in the span of a few minutes, the tide of battle can turn, and it is up to the wit of the player to maintain an upper hand to secure a victory. It is usually a multiplayer game built on alliances, cooperation, and, occasionally, betrayal. 

Brooms in the empire are used for cleaning. If you ask a student of Yudhishtir what they do for physical exercise, they will point to the massive, fireproof stables hulking beyond the grounds of the university. 

Maharashtrian Venomteeth, Himalayan Whiptails, Desert Droughtcallers- each species is meticulously looked after and bonded to students that enroll in dragon-riding lessons. They’re rather spoiled. 

When Miradevi began her postgraduate studies at Hogwarts, she was very amused by the brooms.

MOTTO: Ahaṁ Brahmāsmi. I Am the Universe. 

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Taglist: @amethystandemma @rosewoodcafe @butternutt613 @elisalsaa @okeydokeylackey @ravenwind-75 @berserkerrose

[richiegreasuh]

A SPIDER SILVER CHRISTMAS

The soft hum of a baseball stadium on a quiet Christmas Eve felt surreal to Spider-Man, the hero of New York. Perched high atop the scoreboard, he adjusted his mask, staring down at the snow-dusted field below. The gentle flurries painted the world white, but it was Captain Roxas standing alone on the mound who truly caught Peter's eye.

The famed baseball player exuded calm even in the stillness. His silver uniform, perfectly tailored and gleaming under the lights, shimmered as though alive. The word "Silver," emblazoned across his chest, seemed to pulse faintly, synced with the rhythm of Roxas's heartbeat. His fiery red hair burned like a beacon against the cold, and despite himself, Peter couldn’t look away.

“Captain Roxas,” Peter muttered under his breath, pulling his mask halfway up to sip from a thermos of cocoa. “Guy pitches like a machine, looks like a model, and somehow makes a silver baseball kit look cool? Leave something for the rest of us, man.”

He chuckled quietly, but the subtle hum of his spider-sense stirred—a faint signal, not danger exactly, but enough to keep him alert. His lenses narrowed as he spotted movement in the bleachers: ten figures in rival team jackets creeping onto the field, their motions quick and deliberate.

Peter sighed. “Hooligans on Christmas. Of course. Somebody’s definitely getting coal this year.”

Slipping his camera off his shoulder, Peter lined up a shot for the Daily Bugle. “Spider-Man Stops Baseball Bandits.’ Guaranteed page one,” he mused, adjusting the lens. But as he focused, a strange sensation crept over him. The camera felt heavy—unnecessary, even. The urge to capture the moment dissipated, as fleeting as mist under sunlight.

“Eh, Jonah can live without one story,” Peter muttered, shaking off the feeling. Pulling his mask back down, he launched a web and swung down to intercept the intruders.

The snow fell softly, muffling the sounds of the city as Spider-Man landed atop the dugout rail, cracking his knuckles. The ten figures spread out in a loose formation, their torn and faded jackets clashing against the serene beauty of the snowy field.

Peter called out, flipping casually off the rail to land in front of them. “Y’know, there are better ways to spend Christmas Eve. Decorating a tree, sipping eggnog… maybe not getting webbed up by yours truly.”

One thug growled, brandishing a crowbar. “Big mouth for a guy in tights.”

Peter shrugged, stretching like a track star warming up. “What can I say? It’s part of my charm.”

Chaos erupted.

The first thug lunged, swinging wildly. Peter ducked, sidestepped, and spun behind him. “Whoa! You’ve got the finesse of a gorilla in tap shoes,” he quipped, yanking the crowbar away with a quick thwip of webbing before knocking the thug into a snowbank.

Two more rushed him with bats. Spider-Man leapt straight up, twisting mid-air like a corkscrew to avoid their swings. He landed gracefully, arms spread wide. “Guys, teamwork! You almost had me. Almost.”

Before they could react, Peter webbed their bats and wrapped the duo together in a neat bow. “And that’s what we call a double play!”

Four more charged. Peter grinned. “Finally.”

Flipping high over their heads, he fired webs mid-air, snagging two by the ankles. With a yank, he swung them into their teammates, sending all four sprawling. “You’re out!” he called, landing in a crouch as snow kicked up around him.

The last thug stood his ground, wiry and determined, gripping the glowing silver baseball tightly.

His eyes darted between Spider-Man and Captain Roxas before twisting into a sneer.

“You want this ball? Catch it!” he snarled, rearing back and hurling the ball with all his strength.

Peter's lenses widened as the ball shot through the air like a missile. “Whoa, that guy’s got a cannon”

Before he could react, Roxas stepped forward, calm and composed, a silver bat suddenly in his hands. His red hair flared like fire in the stadium lights, and his silver eyes gleamed with intensity.

“I’ve got this,” Roxas said, his voice steady.

With effortless precision, Roxas swung the bat. The crack echoed through the snowy stadium as the bat connected with the ball, sending it hurtling back through the air. It didn’t just return the ball—it sent it flying faster and harder than it had come, a silver streak cutting through the snow-filled sky.

The thug stumbled back, eyes wide with terror as the ball smashed into the ground inches in front of him, kicking up a spray of snow and ice. He turned, panic flooding his face, and bolted for the bleachers.

“Leaving already?” Spider-Man quipped, landing directly in the thug’s path. “You forgot your manners—and your ball.”

Before the man could react, Peter webbed his legs, pulling him face-first into the snow. “Yeah, not your best play.” He planted a boot lightly on the thug’s back. “Don’t worry, the cops will help you figure out how to spend Christmas in a cell.”

Peter glanced back at Roxas, who had walked calmly to the mound, his bat resting on his shoulder. The glowing ball rolled to a stop at Roxas’s feet.

He picked it up with a graceful motion, inspecting it for a moment before turning to Peter. “You handled that well,” Roxas said, offering the ball to him with an easy smile. “Consider this a gift.”Spider-Man tilted his head. “For me? Seriously?”

Roxas replied smoothly, stepping closer. “Not many would show up here tonight.”

“Yeah, well, friendly neighborhood hero, that’s me. Comes with the job description.

Peter landed on the mound, the glowing silver baseball still warm in his hand. He turned it over, watching the faint glow pulse in time with his heartbeat.

The sensation was strange—not unpleasant, but... different. Almost comforting. His lenses narrowed slightly as he glanced at Roxas.

The captain stood nearby, his silver bat resting on his shoulder. The stadium lights shimmered off his red hair, and his silver eyes glowed faintly, as if reflecting the very snow falling around them. Peter’s gaze lingered on those eyes, the way they seemed so calm, so steady.

“Thanks for the ball, Cap,” Peter said, his voice quieter than usual. “This thing’s... something else.”

Roxas smiled faintly, stepping closer. “It’s more than a ball, Spider-Man. It’s clarity.”

Peter tilted his head, still studying Roxas. “Clarity, huh? You’ve got a lot of that going on. The silver, I mean. It’s... different. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Roxas held his gaze, his voice low and steady. “It’s not just silver, Spider-Man. It’s a way of being. A way of life.”

Peter hesitated, his fingers tightening slightly on the ball. “Yeah, well... life’s a bit much lately. Not sure clarity’s even in the cards for me.”

Something in his tone cracked, just slightly, and Roxas caught it. He stepped closer, his silver eyes soft but intent. “Too much for one person to handle, isn’t it? The weight of the city. The constant struggle to do the right thing, even when it feels like it’s never enough.”

Peter’s mask hid his expression, but his shoulders sagged. He nodded slightly. “It’s... yeah. It’s a lot. Feels like I’m always running from one disaster to the next. Fighting thugs, stopping robberies, saving people, and no matter what I do... there’s always something else waiting. Someone else who needs me.”

His voice dropped. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m even making a difference.”

Roxas smiled gently, his voice soothing but firm. “You carry the world on your shoulders, Spider-Man. You’ve sacrificed so much, given everything you have. But what about you? Who carries you?”

Peter looked at him, caught off guard. “I mean... I don’t know. No one, I guess. That’s just... the job, right? It’s what I signed up for.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Roxas said, his silver eyes locking onto Peter’s lenses. “There’s a different way. A better way.”

Peter tilted his head. “Better how?”

Roxas’s voice grew softer, almost hypnotic. “The Silver Collective. A place where you don’t have to bear the weight alone. Where the struggles of the world fade away. Everything is easier, smoother. You don’t fight—you flow. You don’t resist—you become. Together, as one.”

Peter’s grip on the ball loosened slightly as he listened, mesmerized. “Sounds... nice. Too nice. Like a dream.”

“It’s real,” Roxas said, his silver eyes glimmering as he stepped closer. “No more burdens. No more doubts. Only clarity. Only peace.”

Peter’s voice was almost a whisper. “Peace... I don’t even remember what that feels like.”

“You can,” Roxas said, gesturing to the ball in Peter’s hand. “You’ve already taken the first step. Let the silver guide you, Spider-Man. You’ve done enough. Let us carry you now.”

Peter stared at the ball, its glow pulsing softly in his hand. The warmth spread through him again, soothing, quieting the constant hum of his spider-sense. The weight on his shoulders felt lighter—his thoughts quieter. He looked back at Roxas, his lenses flickering faintly.

“What do I have to do?” he asked, his voice unsteady but curious.

Roxas smiled. “Nothing. Just listen. Let it in.”

The glow of the ball intensified, and Peter felt the silver threads weaving across his suit. He didn’t resist—he couldn’t. The warmth was overwhelming now, spreading through his chest, his limbs, his mind. The red and blue of his suit faded into gleaming silver, and the spider emblem transformed into a shining insignia of the Collective.

Roxas placed a hand on Peter’s shoulder, his touch steady and firm. “You’ve carried enough for this city, Spider-Man. Now, you’ll carry my vision. You’ll serve. And in that service, you’ll find peace.”

Peter—now the Silver Spider—stood still, his silver eyes glowing softly. The hum in his mind was no longer a warning; it was a calm, steady rhythm. His voice, when it came, was quiet but certain.

“I serve. I obey.”

Roxas stepped back, admiring the transformation as snowflakes glistened against Peter’s new silver suit. The hum of the stadium filled the air, soft and constant, as Captain Roxas turned his gaze to the field.

Christmas Eve fell silent once more, the snowy stadium now home to the Silver Collective’s newest recruit.

[moonshynecybin]

What’s your favourite situation to put pre divorce rosquez in.

honestly to the surprise of no one it is gay sex at laguna seca 2013. it is marc cutting vale on the corkscrew exactly the way vale did in 2009 and vale being slightly annoyed by it but mostly endeared. giddy. looking at marc and knowing he's maybe met his match but without all of the baggage and pressure and fear of actually knowing him. of loving him. the thrill of beginning. not yet sunset for him but late afternoon. TRULY like. looking at the press EXCITED about how good marc is and how he's exceeding expectations and how hes the NEW MODEL of vale and "it is not an exaggeration to say marc is the next valentino." it is recognizing marc is LIKE HIM with all of the FUN that implies before the bone deep dread of getting older knocks them of kilter.

and because of this marc is having the best weekend of his lifeeeee. he CUTS vale on track and WINS and vale CHOKES him in parc ferme as a JOKE and then goes to the press and. isnt even mad! EVERYONE gets mad at marc! and vale isntttttt... he says this is good! and that this is racing! and that marc is impressive! and just like HIM! which i have to imagine lights marc up from the inside outtttt... and then they go and hang out together at a party (CANONICALLY.) where. well i simply have to imagine marc pulls vale off to talk and kisses him. eager and clumsy. leaning up a little on his tiptoes. and after a second vale pulls back and laughs a little and shoots a knowing look around one eyebrow quirked marc thinks his heart is going to EXPLODE. and vale jokes that they should find somewhere more private. and then they do!!!!!

[hopekreymin]

Do you have any body type headcanons for each dude? I personally think that p4 is the one with the most muscle definition and p2 is the skinniest

Oh, of course I thought about it. I like to imagine that P1/Redux Dude is not overly athletic and has no visible abs, but has toned arms. He has fairly broad shoulders and doesn't look too skinny at all, just average. And his arms are really quite big, just like the Redux Dude model😭 It makes you wonder if it will be nice to hug him or if you will be afraid that he will choke you...

I also imagine P2 Dude to be thinner and more lanky than the other Postal Dudes. But sometimes I draw him with a little belly, probably more of a beer belly or something. Or is it because of his weird and trashy diet?

Hear me out, WHAT IF P3 DUDE IS CHUBBY😧 I don’t know why, because his model in the game is completely different, but I like to headcanon this. At first I thought that maybe he had a chubby belly, but skinny arms and legs, but then it seemed kind of silly to me. So I draw him stocky and with a little soft belly.

I think it would make sense if P4 Dude had a dad bod. Overall, a little toned, muscular and stocky, but still with some fat and perhaps even loose skin in some places or stretch marks.

Corkscrew? I'm always divided on him. But most people portray him as athletic, but not without, shall we say, some roundness(BOOBS AND BOOTY) I've only seen him portrayed as chubby a couple of times.

[dreamerwitches]

Portable models part 2, Albertine and Gisela

It's AMAZING getting to finally see these models up close. There's a lot of love put into them like Albertine's pockets are actually open and the corkscrews on Gisela's uhhh chin bits are actually modelled instead of a faux texture or something

[teenycat]

i had a really vivid dream about a made-up species of parasite. like i was so convinced they were real i had to google them to make sure they weren't.

anyway i made some really crude drawings because if i had to deal with seeing them so do you

TW for human bones, crudely drawn blood, general nastiness and a really long yap post under the cut

skulls were screenshotted from the interactive 3d google model, which directed me to here btw... i did not have the patience to put effort into learning anatomy... sorry. credits to biodigital!!!

alright SO. they're called underlings. i think. they liked to call themselves a lot of different names but "underling" was the most commonly used term by humans and it's the name i'll use in this post

LARVAL STAGE 1

is the size of a small piece of thread. they sneak into food, usually food that's been in a damp part of the wilderness awhile (eg. foraged mushrooms, shade-loving plants, wild game meat), hoping to be eaten by humans. they sit in the intestines for a few days, gorging on the host's semi-digested meals until they reach stage 2

LARVAL STAGE 2

is about the size of a baby ball python. it eats its way through the intestine lining and squiggles up the spine like a corkscrew until it reaches the skull. some of them will crawl all the way up the intestines, through the entire digestive system and use the back of the nasal cavity to reach the skull (VERY UNPLEASANT) but the former is the more common tactic. it'll hollow out a little nook for itself in the skull and attach itself to the brain.

TAKEOVER STAGE

takes exactly 6 minutes for almost all cases. i'm not super well-versed in how the nervous system works, so exactly HOW this stage happens is a mystery.

the underling will search through the host's brain and begin communicating in whichever language they're most fluent in. it's unclear whether the creature is physically capable of making sounds or if the host can only "hear" it through their thoughts. mostly, it just gloats about all the havoc it will wreak with its new body. the host will lose feeling in their extremities, then the ability to move them, then they experience a sort of "dullness" to their emotions. calm is the wrong word... it's as though the ability to feel strong emotions fades. finally, the host's thoughts will slow and fade as well.

PUPATION(???)

after this, the underling takes full control of the host's body. it will need to consume 7-20 humans (they don't eat their own host for some reason) before reaching maturity, so it has to be strategic about not being caught by authorities before it can reach its desired body count. most if not ALL of it's understanding of the world comes from the host's brain. it'll typically target the people emotionally closest to the host. whether this is for convenience, nutritional benefit or just to psychologically torment the host is unclear.

after reaching maturity, they burst free from the skull and take off into the night sky like flighted manta rays, never to be seen again. some speculate they're an alien species trying to return home, and their emergent flight takes them all the way to the stars

the few lucky souls that survived long enough to hold a conversation with an underling report they're extremely xenophobic and have a sort of fascination with ruling not just the planet, but "all of existence"

[theoutcastrogue]

8 Fancy Pocket Knives

Etched pocket knife from Eskilstuna, Sweden

Silver / mother of pearl Victorian fruit knife, England

Damascene Toledo knife, Spain

Inlaid Toledo knife, Germany

Silver-plated fruit knife, USA

Damascene Toledo knife, Spain

Etched pocket knife from Eskilstuna, Sweden

Mother of pearl pocket knife from Eskilstuna, Sweden

@victoriansword [details after the cut]

1) Swedish pocket knife by EKA (Eskilstuna Kniffabriks AB), c. 1980-2000. Model 6 GS (1967-2010), with main blade, bottle opener/screwdriver, pen blade, and nail file. Tang stamp "EKA / SWEDEN" (from 1967), etched handle, 7 cm closed.

These were very popular in the 2nd half of the 20th century as gift knives or advertising knives. They were manufactured by many cutlers in Eskilstuna, and widely exported. The decorative pattern appears, with variations, on Swedish knives from at least the 19th century, and is inspired by Norse / Viking art, which often features twisted serpents/dragons. The interlacing perhaps also borrows from Celtic knots.

2) English fruit knife by Martin Bros & Co, 1848. Silver blade with 4 hallmarks (for Queen Victoria, the year, sterling silver, and Sheffield) and maker's mark, mother of pearl scales, 9.5 cm closed.

This is the posh version of what used to be an incredibly useful tool, a knife (and sometimes a multi-tool knife and fork) for eating on the road. The fancier ones were also status symbols, and very popular gifts – millions of silver fruit knives were manufactured in Britain from the 18th to the 20th century, mostly in Sheffield, Birmingham, and Edinburgh.

3) Spanish Toledo knife, as it's sometimes called, a damascened penknife of recent manufacture. Two pen blades, tang stamp "TOLEDO", 6.7 cm closed.

Not to be confused with Damascus blades! The handle is damascened – decorated with gold inlaid into oxidized steel (see here for details). Reminder that gold is a highly ductile metal (you can stretch it real thin before it breaks), so that impressive aesthetic result comes from a tiny amount of gold. It's a cheap knife, is what I'm saying, for tourists basically.

4) German pocket knife, confusingly also called Toledo, by Hartkopf. With main blade, pen blade and nail file. Brass handle inlaid with oxidised steel. Tang stamp "Hartkopf&Co / Solingen", 8cm closed.

It's "damascened" in the broad sense of inlaying, hence the name "Toledo": it supposedly emulates the Spanish style, and perhaps pretends to be Spanish, but both the metals and the geometric patterns are different. Knives of this type were popular in Germany all through the 20th century as gifts and advertising knives.

5) American fruit knife by William Rogers Mfg, made in Hartford, Connecticut c.1865-1898. Main blade, seedpick [also called nut-pick or nut-picker *snickers*], silver-plated nickel silver, decorated with flowers and apples. Tang stamp: an anchor logo and "Wm ROGERS & SON AA", 8.2 cm closed.

Sometimes fruit knives like this were bought by fruit shops/groceries (relatively fancy ones, presumably) in bulk, and sold or given to customers as gifts.

6) Spanish Toledo penknife (another one). With pen blade and damascened handle, different pattern, probably a bit older. Tang stamp again "TOLEDO", 6.8 cm closed.

7) Swedish pocket knife by Emil Olsson, c. 1920-1950. Blade, pen blade and corkscrew. Tang stamp "EMIL OLSSON / [star logo] / ESKILSTUNA", 9.2 cm closed.

Another etched serpent pattern on the handle, though by now you have to squint to see it. This knife has seen some shit. Until ~1940, pocket knives were widely sold and used in Sweden because they came with corkscrews, and all the bottles had corks, and everyone needed to open bottles. After the war, bottle caps replaced corks for everything except wine, and the pocket knife's utility plummeted, and cutleries started closing. There used to be hundreds, and by now only EKA's left. So statistically, if it's from before ~1950 it saw a lot of use, and if it's after ~1950 it did not, it was a gift or something.

8) Swedish pocket knife by EKA, c.1935-1965. Model 38 PB, with blade, pen blade, flat screwdriver, and corkscrew. Handle with mother of pearl scales and nickel silver bolsters, tang stamp "E.K.A. / ESKILSTUNA / SWEDEN", 8.3 cm closed.

The corkscrew is a quirky one, known as Gottlieb Hammesfahr patent: it pivots on the pin and opens perpendicular to the handle, not pulled downwards as in most pocket knives.

[alternative-morenita]

EP.1 - The Spirit

EP.1 - THE SPIRIT synopsis | 1 |

Nebraska

The asphalt based road implodes, bulging until it cracks. The bright, haunting flames of hellfire casts upon the nightly sky. Rising amongst the chaos, a motorcycle - a model similar to that of a Harley - appears, it's mighty engine roaring across the quiet night.

The matte black motorcycle was singed and encrusted with skeletal features that resembled hands gripping against the metal. Large tires were lit with flames, small embers left in its trail.

Its rider was that of supernatural. Its figure a resemblance to one of a human female; however, it lacks the existence of human flesh and hair. Its head matched that of a skeleton, the same damning flames that birthed its presence flickered around its head.

The Rider - some would call her. Others? The Devil's Bite or even, The Bloodhound of Hell.

Her story was one crafted of fables and rumors. She was an even bigger enigma of the Underworld than Lucifer himself. No one, but the Princes of Hell, knew much about her or why she's so highly regarded -- all skills and terrifying demeanor put aside.

For most, they used to be humans of an old world long forgotten. Their humanity exchanged for a life of sin and immortality while others never had such luxuries; born to be soldiers for an unstable cause. And yet, none were granted such divine abilities.

Lilith and Lucifer were the only divine figureheads demons could think of, their dastardly angelic history a need to know for all subordinates. Not even their Princes were divinely endowed, they were simply elder demons who were outshined by a raging, vengeful black sheep.

In the height of Azazel collecting his army of humans mutated with demon blood, the Spirit was left in her shackles -- her responsibilities sidelined as the current ruler wrecked havoc topside and his envious brothers conspire against him, believing his plot to be senseless.

And as believed, Azazel's plans had fallen with him. His eternal soul eradicated and weaken, his plot demolished; however, in the wake of his failure was the rise of a new kind of trouble. The Devil's Gate had been opened and many demons had escaped which now means that the hound was back to work.

Despite the silence, she had already been given two missions. Scrolls burned with names that she were to find. The Seven Sins and a puppet demon that goes by the name, Ruby. Between her scrolls and their scents, the Spirit would get the job finished with ease.

<Time Skip>

Since entering the state, things have been silent. She could feel their a tremble within the atmosphere, the once dark presence she had on arrival had diminished. They were here and they were scared.

With the humans walking within the light, the Spirit had to keep up with appearances and mingle with the living. Her once flaming skeletal look had been covered with brown skin - a chestnut shade and a mane of dark orange corkscrew curls streaked with blonde tresses frames her round face.

Although she looked human, the way she acted was far too perfect. From the way she walked to the way she could evade danger, mindlessly crossing the busy roads. Thankfully, acting like such creatures wasn't her focus.

What was her focus was the overly sweet scent that floated around a little clothing store in front of her. The block was cut off with yellow caution tape and photographers surrounded the a car with a bloody, dented windshield and the body that laid wrapped beside it.

The store itself seemed to have received no damage, but officers still took the moment to question for any witnesses. A smirk stretches across her face as she reaches the block, she pulls out her fake badge that earns her clearance in the investigation.

Before enters the store, her body tenses and comes to a halt. Her honey colored eyes trail to see the tall yet slender figure of Sam Winchester. He stood frozen, puppy eyes studying the vehicle and the covered body.

"Shit," she softly curses. Quickly, she walks inside and easily spots the eldest Winchester from across the store.

His hand lays on the shoulder of a random woman as he speaks nonsense to her. "What happened outside makes you realize how fragile life really is. You got to make every second count."

She rolls her eyes, continuing her search for the security office. Meeting a guard, the Spirit sends as polite of a smile as she could before flashing her badge.

"Detective Benson," she introduces herself, Irish accent thick. The man nods, studying her badge diligently before letting her inside the office.

The owner looks her way, greeting her with a firm handshake. "How can I be of service, Detective?"

She points at the security screen on the desk. "I was hopin' you could play the security footage from the day of the incident?" He nods, sitting at the desk.

"Yes, ma'am," he begins to rewind the footage.

Together they watch a man come inside the store and make his way to the suspect. They spoke for a few seconds before she walks over to the victim. A short moment later, they watch as the suspect follows the victim outside the store while the man she had just spoke to was left behind to watch.

However, in the Spirit's eyes, she noticed demonic aspects of the recording that the human lacked the ability and knowledge to do the same. The owner firmly smacks at the side of the screen, his eyebrows scrunched.

"I don't..." he mutters, confused. "I don't know why it's doing that. Every time we try to watch the footage, it always does this."

The Spirit nods, a soft smirk taking over her usual deadpan. "It's fine, sir," she falsely reassures him. "I've seen all that I needed. I'll take my leave and report to my supervisor about the next step of action. Have a safe night, fellas."

She walks out, easily sliding past the Winchesters and Bobby Singer. As she steps out of the boutique, she begins to cross the street for her motorcycle when a familiar stench wafts under her nose. Her body tenses as she begins to study every human that walks around her.

Behind her, Sam Winchester walks from the store, his face scrunched as he walks off from the scene. Following him was a blonde woman, her gaze pierces through him, eyes never leaving his figure. The youngest Winchester stops, turning to look over his shoulder.

He comes to see no one behind him. Slowly, he returns his gaze forward, eyebrows scrunching with more confusion than he had before. The tall man continues to walk, oblivious to heavy tension that lurked over him.

The blonde woman sighs in relief, walking through the small backstreet when a hand grips her by the shoulder. It tosses her into the brick wall of a building, the force knocking the wind from her lungs. Wide, grey eyes open with fear as they lock onto a glaring pair of ambers.

"Ruby," the Spirit growls, sneering at the escaped demon.

We're beginning the Supernatural series and I'm so excited, this story has been in the making for years!

Chapters -> 2 | 3 | 4 |

[martuzzio]

Breaking news: despite being temporarily banned from playing hockey because their helmets don't fit, not all of the active members of the New Jersey Devils seem to be discouraged by their recent inexplicable developments. Some of them even think their new horns are "sick" and "awesome" and "totally better than my brother's horns." More at six

Fun horn facts!

Timo's horns are modeled off the Toggenburg goat, a species of dairy goat from, surprise surprise, Switzerland. The inspiration here is obvious like always (hee hoo Swiss man gets Swiss goat horns)

Luke's horns are modeled off the greater kudu, an antelope from eastern and southern Africa. I broke the "person from x place, so animal is from the same place" formula here because because the kudu's distinctive corkscrew horns made me think of Luke's curls :D