#data analyzed (answered)

[yaoi-hate-machine]

can we have a moot book club

[fallen-symphony]

Who do you guys like the most on your team? Who do you hate the most on the enemy team?

"An interesting question... Although I'm not one for relationships since I'm a superior being... I must admit that Obake's intellect and Motivations truly seem to resonate with me. He's like a more intelligent Dr. Regal.

"As for who I hate on the enemy team... Probably my stupid brothers... Especially RiFT. So much power, yet he uses it to serve lower beings. What an insult..."

"Glad to know we can get along, Slur. I have always found you fascinating... But as a brilliant mind who loves potential, Eggman Nega is a man after my own heart."

"The feeling is mutual, Obake. I do have respect for Dr. Starline and the Analog Man as well."

"Oh, it's such an honor to hear you say that, Mr. Eggman Nega, sir. Know that you are my favorite here as well."

"As for who I hate... Though I haven't met them in person, that Peni Parker and her robot, SP//Dr remind me too much of Hiro and Baymax, which remind me of my past Failure! If I can't get my revenge on Hiro, then Peni will be the next Best thing..."

"I feel the same way about that key wielding Sonic that showed up not too long ago! Dimensional variant or not, he's still a Sonic, and Sonic ruined my plans many times! I want to destroy him personally...!"

"Hey! You lay off him, Egghead! That Sonic is mine, ya hear me!? I'm the one who's gonna destroy him! I hate him and every other Sonic out there! I'll destroy them all until the only one left is me!"

"You tell 'em, Scourgey! Now, tell them how I'm your favorite person here!"

"If by that, you mean my LEAST favorite person here, then yes, that's you, Rosy."

"Awww! You say the meanest things, Scourgey! You're one of my favorite people here, too..."

"But her... This one right here... She's my girl..."

"Aw, thank you, Rosy. I like you, too. Such an adorable little psychopath ready to smash some heads... It's like having a little sister... But of course, my favorite has to be Dark Mega for obvious reasons."

"You're my favorite, too, Dark Empress! A beautiful Darkloid queen like you has stolen my heart..."

"As much as that Empress chick terrifies me almost as much as Rosy does... Gotta agree with her. Dark Megz is my favorite member here. We both got beef with our goodie-goodie two shoes doppelgangers, and we both want to live in a world of chaos."

"Yeah... I'm disliking that Megaman more and more each day. He gets to keep his Lan, while I was rejected by mine when I became the ruler of the Darkloids."

"I feel the same way about Roll. She gets to keep her Mayl, but mine wouldn't accept the new me..."

"Can I help you smash that good Roll that makes you look bad, best friend?! Can I, can I, can I?!"

"Sure... As long as I get to land the last blow."

"Deal!"

"Obake and Eggman Nega are inspirational. Their genius far exceeds mine, and I have much to learn from them. I don't have any personal beef with anyone on the enemy team... Yet... But that ARiA and her army of Guardiangemon might be a problem."

"CHYA HA HA HA HA HA!!! My favorite person here is obviously the Great Lord Brevon! No one can compare to his greatness...!

"As for who I hate the most, obviously it's that blasted Commander Torque! He and Squid Head have been getting in Lord Brevon's way far too many times! I promise to destroy them!"

"I can always count on you to praise me, General Serpentine. I, too, can't stand Commander Torque. That blasted dragon girl might not be with him now, but he can still be a problem... Especially with that new squad of his."

"My favorite member is Ophelia! Even if it's not official, she's awesome!

"And my favorite member on the other team is my beloved Nana..."

"You're supposed to be talking about the enemy members you hate, lover boy. Anyway, probably no surprise to anyone, but Mr. Tinker is my arch nemesis on the enemy team. I got over the grudge of him 'murdering' Dr. Eggman ever since meeting the superior Eggman Nega. That doesn't mean I don't want to show him up. What about you, Sync?"

"..."

"Gee, nice choices there, chatterbox."

"I think we can all assume he hates everyone equally, teammate and enemy alike. Anyway, it seems we reached our limit, time-wise. We need to get back to our plans of taking over the Multiverse."

[sentient-rift]

So, Patren no 1 has returned got terminated, this is my alt now.

Anyway, Here's a question, Rift, is there anyway to remove/CTRL-ALT DELETE Slur's powers? Ie an uninstall battle chip>

"That's a good question. To somehow erase her powers would be a way to stop her without killing her, even if she doesn't decide to turn over a new leaf...

"The problem is... I don't know how to do that myself, nor do I have a battle chip that can do that..."

"Then we'll just have to make one."

"Yes... Perhaps we can do that... Though, judging from how powerful Slur is, the best we can probably do is temporarily nullify her powers..."

"Even so, that's a good start. She'll be vulnerable, and then we can probably place her in a cyber cell."

"If that's the case, we should also try creating a special cyber cell that nullifies Slur's powers. Hikari, let's split into two groups. My group will work on the cell, your group works on the battle chip."

"I'm sure I can help with that chip, Dr. Hikari!"

"And I have some experience in building cages, so I'd like to help you with that cyber cell, Dr. Wily."

"I'd like to help however I can..."

"Then it's settled! Let's get to work, everyone!"

"Thank you for that idea, Patren #1. I'm glad we have a plan that doesn't involve deleting my sister."

[yappacadaver]

you can still reblog Raymond with propaganda ykno. the smash blog reblogs propaganda if it's mentioned p regularly

dw anon i have been propagandizing tf out of him in my tags and rbs x'D but what i wanted to do was resubmit him after the waiting period with completely different pics and see how that affected the results :o cause he got a model update and a new ending where his clothes get ripped off exposing his massive tits, and that's what i put in the poll

but like before that ending we were smashing this

which is way more indicative of his character than the promo art i opened with :3c Brian likes to doll him up and expose him for social media clicks but real raymondheads know the truth (he's only got apologies and scary blue puppydog eyes in his arsenal)

[education43]

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[irlnikeiyomiuri]

guys. guys. guys.

[bookwyrminspiration]

guys I cannot emphasis enough how unimportant this survey is

if I asked very nicely would you all be willing to take a one minute anonymous survey for my linguistics class. if the answer is yes, please click here. thanks :)

(sharing for a better response size would also be very appreciated)

[hellotailor]

armand’s costumes are such an interesting data point re: his nebulous sense of identity.

when analyzing any costume, there are always many factors to consider: the setting, the character’s personal taste and economic constraints, storytelling concerns like tone and genre, etc. with armand, we also need to remember that he’s 500 years old and violently disconnected from his human origins. everything he wears has an element of disguise, selected to blend into a new environment.

armand was enslaved as a child in 16th century delhi, and barely remembers his mortal life. unlike louis - who can return to new orleans after 80 years and reconnect with his past - armand has no home to return to. his whole backstory, even his name, is rife with traumatic subtext, leaving him with an obsessive need for structure and control. this adds an extra layer of meaning to costuming choices that initially seem like straightforward menswear. 

armand’s 1940s wardrobe is very put-together - primarily three-piece suits and coats that make him look wealthier and more formal than louis, who is purposefully dressing down. most of these outfits are tailored to bulk up armand's frame, leaning into the "maitre" persona. and like his business-casual dubai wardrobe, he always leaves his collar open. when i interviewed costume designer carol cutshall, she described this as a symbolic power move, signalling that he's an apex predator who doesn't need to protect his throat.

my personal interpretation is that while armand clearly likes to look good, he has a complicated relationship with attractiveness. he doesn't always want to draw attention. his color palette is shadowy (black, grey, brown, olive green), and he’s much less flashy than the other Théâtre vamps. however when he’s feeling confident and flirty, he becomes more of a power-dresser - for instance his hunting outfit with the big coat and sunglasses, or his habit of wearing kohl.

interestingly, most of armand's 1940s costumes set him apart from the coven. the Théâtre vampires dress like cabaret performers, embracing a lot of period-specific styles. by contrast armand is more timeless and neutral. in fact, due to the relatively minor changes in men's suits over the past 100 years, there's a lot of overlap between his wardrobe in the 1940s, '70s and 2020s:

the rest of the Théâtre squad share an unofficial uniform of boldly clashing monochrome patterns with pops of bright color. meanwhile armand has a very plain wardrobe, emphasizing the image of him as a businesslike authority figure surrounded by zany artistes. he only wears subtle stripes on a few occasions in the '40s, reflecting the recurring prison motif we see in lestat's trial suit and (most famously) the dubai penthouse bedroom:

if we ask the question, "what does this person like to wear?" there are easy answers for lestat, louis and claudia. we understand their tastes, and the motives behind them. but armand is more enigmatic. we can recognize through-lines in his wardrobe, but his "taste" is dominated by whatever role he's currently decided to embody, whether that's a parisian theater director or a real estate mogul in dubai.

the times when he appears to have the most fun with clothing are when he steals a pair of sunglasses from his human dinner (!) and when he's pretending to be rashid. in other words, when he's explicitly performing for an audience. "real armand" is still a mystery.

(i may write more about armand's dubai wardrobe later, but for now, you can find all of my iwtv costumes posts on this tag!)

[flwrkid14]

Tim Works Hard So He Can Nap Harder

The thing about Tim is that he gets things done.

Not in a normal, reasonable, “wow, he’s really productive” way. No, Tim operates on an entirely different plane of efficiency—one that defies common sense and possibly the laws of physics.

Give him a five-hour task? He’ll finish it in two. Tell him something is impossible? He’ll stare at you, offended, before proving you so wrong it physically hurts.

Sometimes, it’s out of sheer spite. Bruce once told him a mission was too complicated for him to handle alone, so Tim completed it in record time out of pettiness alone. Jason told Tim he didn’t have the skill set for corporate espionage. So Tim hacked three shell companies overnight, uncovered Black Mask’s entire financial network, and sent Jason a PowerPoint presentation with the subject line: “Skill Set Acquired”.

Other times, it’s about time management. Tim understands, at his very core, that the faster he works, the sooner he can stop working. If he has to burn through a mountain of reports in a single hour so he can take a nap, then so be it. If he has to analyze data at inhuman speeds so he can binge-watch a show later, then he will.

The bats have learned to just… let it happen.

Dick once made the mistake of asking Tim to help him streamline his schedule. Tim, in under an hour, not only optimized his entire calendar but also accounted for every possible emergency, scheduled backup time slots for rescheduling, and somehow made Dick twice as productive without making him feel busier. It was kinda terrifying.

Barbara asked him to double-check some intel. He cross-referenced it against every available database, found three hidden links no one had noticed, and sent her a color-coded report with visual aids.

Bruce told him to track a smuggling ring in Gotham. Tim mapped out their entire operation in one night, had arrests lined up by morning, and then went home to sleep like a corpse.

Steph once sarcastically asked if Tim could figure out how to clean up the Gotham underworld in a week. Tim pulled out a ten-step plan before she even finished her sentence.

Tim doesn’t waste time. He doesn’t believe in half-measures. He works fast, works well, and then disappears before anyone can ask him for more.

The only thing scarier than Tim’s efficiency is the fact that he actively chooses to use it selectively.

Because while Tim is capable of working like a one-man army, when it benefits him, he’s also capable of weaponized uselessness. If he doesn’t want to do something, suddenly he’s the most inefficient person alive.

He’ll take weeks to answer a text. He’ll forget how to do basic tasks. He’ll act so completely incapable of anything that people just stop asking him for things.

But when he wants something done?

It’s over before you even realize he started.

[mariacallous]

You, US Citizen, have the right to know what your government is doing (including DOGE - formerly known as the US Digital Service and which surprise! isn't listed as one of the agencies on FOIA.gov but the USDS website can still be accessed here: https://www.usds.gov/contact-us)

If the information you want is not publicly available, you can submit a FOIA request to the agency’s FOIA Office.  The request simply must be in writing and reasonably describe the records you seek.  Most federal agencies now accept FOIA requests electronically, including by web form, e-mail or fax.  See the list of federal agencies for details about how to make a request to each agency and any specific requirements for seeking certain records.

Is there a special form I have to use to make a FOIA request?

There is no specific form that must be used to make a request.

What can I ask for under the FOIA?

A FOIA request can be made for any agency record. You can also specify the format in which you wish to receive the records (for example, printed or electronic form). The FOIA does not require agencies to create new records or to conduct research, analyze data, or answer questions when responding to requests.

How long will it take before I get a response?

Agencies typically process requests in the order of receipt. The time it takes to respond to a request will vary depending on the complexity of the request and any backlog of requests already pending at the agency. A simple request can be processed faster by the agency than one that is complex. Simple requests are typically more targeted and seek fewer pages of records. Complex requests typically seek a high volume of material or require additional steps to process such as the need to search for records in multiple locations. The agency’s FOIA Requester Service Center is available to assist you with any questions about the status of your request or any steps you can take to receive a quicker response.

CREW and CLC are focusing on DOGE and transparency, and maybe you should check out what they have to say and what they're doing.

[fallen-symphony]

Dark Rockman.exe and Empress Roll.

Are you planning to get married to each other?

"Well, it only make sense for the king and queen of the Darkloids to one day be wed."

"Ooh! Ooh! Can I be the flower girl in your wedding, bestie?!"

"Of course, Rosy."

"You really gonna go through with that, Dark Megz?"

"Why not? It's like she said. As king and queen of the Darkloids, it only makes sense. Plus, we were made for each other..."

"Alright, if you're gonna get into that mushy stuff again, I'm leaving!"

"It's okay, Scourgey! You and I can do the mushy stuff, too! After all, you and I were also made for each other!"

"Over my dead body...!

"Wait! Bad choice of words!"

"Oh, I can arrange that, my adorable little mucus bug. I can even make it look like an accident..."

"Wait, Rosy! Don't do this! It's the Christmas season...!"

"ALL THE MORE REASON TO GIVE YOU YOUR CHRISTMAS CRUSHING, SCOURGEY!!"

"Aw, (BLEEP) this! I'm outta here!"

Scourge immediately runs off at Sonic speed while screaming like a little girl.

"GET BACK HERE, SCOURGEY!!! ACCEPT MY LOVE!!! IT WILL ONLY HURT A LOT!!!"

And Rosy immediately chases her Scourgey poo ready to crush him.

"...Those two make a cute couple."

[sentient-rift]

((This isn't exactly a RP ask...so feel free to ignore it...

I was wondering if you might know where I could find the Battle Story Mega Man Battle Network manga? You seem to use the images in your posts...))

(Sorry this took so long. I wanted to make sure I actually had all the links to where I found the images. Unfortunately, I was only able to find Vol.3 and Vol.4, and they aren't translated. I hope they still help.)

[natsaffection]

Redline. pt 1 | N.R

You swore you’d never race again after the crash that nearly killed you. For years, you stayed in the shadows, avoiding the world you once ruled. Then Natasha Romanoff came looking for a driver, and she chose you. You fought her. You refused. But Natasha doesn’t take no for an answer. But coming back means facing everything you ran from: the fame, the pressure, the past. And with the world watching, one question remains: Are you still the driver you once were, or will the past catch up before you can prove it?

Older!Motorsportboss!Natasha x Younger!RacingDriver!Reader

Warnings: Age gap (N= 32, r=23), Crash Trauma, Car racing

Word count: 7k

A/N: Helloo, I really love this dynamic and hope you will too, so I can continue the story..🙆🏻‍♀️

At the moment Natasha saw the contract, she knew exactly how this would end.

She had years of experience in this business, long enough to see through every trick, every tactic, every maneuver. She had seen drivers come and go, talent wasted, careers ruined by greed. She had watched men with potential destroy themselves before they even had the chance to prove themselves. And Jake? He was about to become one of them.

She sat in the dimly lit conference room, the only light coming from her tablet screen as she scrolled through the details of his betrayal. The agency’s report had been sent to her earlier that day, and now, as she skimmed through the contract details, she pressed her lips into a thin line.

Jake wasn’t leaving the team for a better one. He wasn’t making a strategic decision to secure his position. No, he was leaving for money. A weaker team had offered him a higher salary, and that alone was enough to make him walk away. To leave Romanoff Racing. To leave the team that had made him relevant in the first place.

Natasha leaned back in her chair, rolled her shoulders, and let out a slow breath. If he had left for a real opportunity, for something better, she would have understood. She wouldn’t have liked it, but she would have respected it. But this? This was pathetic.

A quiet rustling on the other side of the room pulled her from her thoughts. Yelena sat lazily in one of the chairs, skimming the same documents Natasha had just read. She popped a piece of gum into her mouth and chewed absentmindedly as she turned the page. “So.” Yelena murmured without looking up, “Walker is an idiot.”

Natasha didn’t respond. Yelena chuckled softly, shaking her head as she tossed the folder onto the table. “Seriously, what was he thinking? That you wouldn’t find out?” She tilted her head slightly, studying her sister. “Or did he really think he could outsmart you?”

Natasha tapped her fingers on the table once before picking up the folder and snapping it shut with a sharp click. Slowly, she stood up, tucking the documents under her arm and adjusting her jacket. Yelena watched her, amusement flickering in her eyes. “You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?”

Natasha didn’t even look at her as she walked toward the door. “Yes.”

The garage was too quiet when Jake Walker walked in. It wasn’t the usual silence after a race, the kind that settled in after a long day on the track. It wasn’t the hum of cooling engines or the distant murmurs of the pit crew. No. This silence meant something was wrong. He slowed his steps, scanning the empty space. Normally, there would be a few mechanics analyzing data, prepping the cars. But tonight?

Only she was there. Natasha stood at the workbench, arms crossed over her chest, waiting. She wasn’t in a suit, not in formal attire. She was still in her racing gear, the sleeves of her fireproof suit tied around her waist, the black tank top hugging her toned frame. This wasn’t business. This was personal. A cold feeling settled in Jake’s stomach, but he forced himself to stay relaxed as he stepped closer. “Hey.” he greeted, his voice calm, controlled. “What’s going on?”

She didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she opened the folder in her hand with practiced ease and then, with a precise flick of her wrist, tossed it onto the table in front of him. Jake frowned and looked down. The moment he saw the contents, his stomach clenched. His contract negotiations. His meetings. His plans. Plans Natasha wasn’t supposed to know about. His mouth went dry. “Listen, I can explai-”

“You thought you could outsmart me.” Her voice was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that was more dangerous than shouting. Jake clenched his jaw. “It’s not what you think-”

Natasha finally looked at him. Really looked at him. And for the first time in his career, Jake felt fear. “You could have left for a better team.” she said calmly, tilting her head slightly, her voice devoid of emotion. “I would have understood.”

A pause. A suffocating pause. “But you didn’t.” Jake swallowed, straightening his posture. “It was just negotiations!” he began. “This is standard practice-”

Natasha stepped closer. Not aggressively. Controlled. Calculated. “Do you think I don’t know how this business works?” Her voice was almost mocking. “I’ve been in this world longer than you’ve been relevant. I know the game. And this?” She gestured toward the folder. “This isn’t a smart move. It’s not strategy.”

Another step. “This is greed.” Jake’s hands twitched at his sides, frustration bubbling up. “It’s money!” he snapped. “And in case you forgot, that’s what keeps this whole place running..”

Natasha actually smiled. A small, cold, deadly smile. “No.” she said simply. “I keep this running.”

Jake’s breath hitched for a moment, but he held his ground. “This is a big mistake..” he growled. “You fire me, and I lose everything. My sponsors, my place in the season- you know damn well no one will sign me now! You’re destroying me!”

Natasha tilted her head, as if considering it. Then she shrugged. “Yes.” Jake’s fists clenched, his frustration shifting into pure, bitter anger. “Do you really think you can just replace me?”

Natasha’s smile widened. “I don’t need to replace you.” she said softly, razor-sharp. “I need someone better.” Jake inhaled sharply, his jaw tightening so hard his teeth ached. His hands twitched, as if he wanted to hit something, do something.

But he didn’t. Because even he wasn’t that stupid. Instead, he stepped back. His chest rose and fell heavily, his career crumbling before his eyes. And Natasha? She didn’t care. Jake exhaled sharply through his nose, straightened his posture, and forced his face into a neutral expression. “You’ll regret this.” he muttered.

Natasha smiled. “No, Walker.” she said quietly. “I won’t.” Jake’s jaw clenched. Then he turned and stormed out. The door slammed behind him. Yelena let out a low whistle. “Well..” she murmured, still chewing her gum, “that was dramatic.”

Natasha exhaled slowly, shaking off the last traces of irritation before turning back to the workbench. Yelena stretched and tilted her head. “You do realize you just fired your only driver, right? The championship is in three months, and we now have exactly zero people for that seat.” She popped her gum. “Even for you, that’s a bold move.”

Natasha didn’t respond right away. Instead, she reached for her gloves and pulled them on with a quiet certainty. “I don’t need just anyone.” she finally said. “I need someone who’s willing to risk everything.”

Yelena chuckled softly. “Right. And where exactly do you plan on finding someone that crazy?” Natasha’s lips barely twitched. “Where no one else is looking.”

——

You were crouched beside the open hood of a sleek, jet-black race car, your fingers gliding gently along the edge of the exposed engine. The scent of oil and gasoline clung to your skin, mixing with the fabric of your grease-stained overalls.

“You’re stubborn today..” you murmured, tightening a bolt with a practiced twist of your wrist. A quiet laugh sounded behind you. “She’s talking to them again?”

“Like they’re her children.” another mechanic chuckled. You didn’t look up. “First of all..” You called back, your voice playful but firm, “He prefers to be addressed with respect. And second unlike you idiots, he actually listens to me.”

More laughter. Because that was the thing about you. Everyone here liked you. You weren’t just any mechanic. You weren’t just someone who knew these cars inside and out, someone who could tell what was wrong just by the sound of an engine.

You were one of them.. A racer, a mechanic, an engineer, everyone in the garage respected you. You pulled the final bolt tight, exhaled, and slid out from under the car. “Hey..” a voice called. You turned. One of the engineers, a burly man with a permanent oil stain on his shirt, waved you over.

“She’s ready for a test run.” he said, nodding toward the car you’d been working on. “You up for it?” You hesitated. You always hesitated. One lap. Just to check the steering, the brakes, the feel of the engine. It wasn’t about speed. It wasn’t about pushing limits. It never felt like just a test. “Yeah.” you said firmly. “I’ll do it.”

The grandstands were full. A restless sea of bodies leaning forward, voices rising in a chaotic mix of cheers and curses as the race unfolded before them. But Natasha didn’t see the race like they did. She studied it. Arms crossed, weight balanced perfectly, she stood at the edge of the pit lane, eyes locked onto the track as the cars tore through the corners like bullets.

The floodlights cast sharp shadows over her face, making her expression even colder. Beside her, Yelena leaned casually against the railing, popping a piece of gum into her mouth, watching the race with far less intensity. “This is a waste of time..” Yelena muttered, chewing. “Same game, different track. You’re not going to find what you’re looking for here.”

Natasha didn’t respond. Because for the past few weeks, Yelena had been right. Driver after driver. Race after race. And nothing. No fire. No hunger. No one who understood the difference between fast and fearless. She inhaled slowly, concealing her frustration. She didn’t need an arrogant, hot-headed rookie. She didn’t need someone who thought they were great.

And then..she saw something. A blue car. It moved differently. Not with the reckless aggression of the others, not with the desperate hunger to overtake. No..it was precise. Every corner was a conversation, a fine-tuned balance between speed and control. The driver wasn’t fighting the car. They were one with it.

But something was wrong. Natasha’s eyes narrowed. The movements were too careful, too calculated. Held back, as if the driver was testing the limits, but refusing to cross them. She had seen this before. This wasn’t a driver racing for the win. This was someone racing against ghosts. Yelena noticed the shift in Natasha’s posture and followed her gaze. “Huh..” she murmured. “That’s..different.”

Natasha didn’t look away from the track. “Who is that?” Yelena waved over an official, a man who looked both honored and terrified to be standing so close to the Romanoff sisters. “The blue car!” Yelena said, nodding toward the track. “Who’s behind the wheel?”

The official hesitated. “That’s..Y/n Y/l/n.” Natasha’s jaw tightened slightly. She knew that name. Yelena let out a low whistle, her usual amusement fading into something more serious. “Damn..” she muttered. She turned to Natasha. “You remember her, don’t you?”

Natasha didn’t answer. Of course, she remembered. For years, you had been untouchable. A legend before you had even reached your prime. You raced like you had nothing to lose, like fear was a concept you had never learned. Till you crashed. Not just any crash. A nightmare. An accident so brutal, so catastrophic, that no one thought you would survive.

For weeks, the footage had played on every sports channel. The final lap of the championship race. You were in the lead, seconds from victory, until it happened. A clipped rear wing. A high-speed spin at 320 km/h. The impact was monstrous. Metal crumpled like paper, the car flipping multiple times, sent flying across the track, disintegrating in a cascade of sparks and fire. When the wreck finally came to a stop, it was nothing more than a charred, mangled cage of steel.

And inside? You. Broken, bleeding and unconscious. Two minutes. No pulse. Natasha pieced the details together in her head, the puzzle clicking into place. She knew what an accident like that did to a driver. It rooted itself deep inside them. It changed instincts. It turned the greatest passion into the greatest fear.

Yet despite everything, despite the hesitation in your movements, there was still something in your driving. A familiarity. A certainty in your instincts that no one ever truly lost. Yelena watched the race with new intensity. “This isn’t just a clean lap..” she murmured. “This is art.”

Natasha gave the smallest nod, never taking her eyes off the track. This wasn’t just a test run. This was someone who wasn’t just testing a car. This was someone who understood it. A corner. One that any test driver would take cautiously, just to gather data. But you? You took it like you were still a racer.

Perfectly timed. Perfectly felt. For the briefest second, for a heartbeat you forgot yourself. Natasha saw it in real-time. The moment you drove on instinct alone. The moment you let go. Natasha recognized the exact moment it happened. The way the car suddenly slowed down, the way the caution returned to your movements.

You stopped yourself. Natasha exhaled slowly. “She’s not just testing.” she murmured. “She’s driving like the car still belongs to her.” The man standing beside her sighed heavily. “Yeah,..” he said quietly. “She still does.”

Yelena frowned, watching as you pulled into the pit lane. “That’s not a driver who doesn’t want to race.” Natasha already knew that. She just didn’t say it out loud. Because she had already figured it out. That hesitation, the moment you held yourself back, told her everything she needed to know.

You weren’t here to test cars. You were here because you couldn’t stay away. And yet, the moment you stepped out of the car, the moment your feet hit the asphalt, you buried it again. The helmet stayed on. Your posture remained closed off, controlled. You handed over the keys, exchanged barely a word, and walked straight back into the garage.

Natasha moved. But before she could take another step, she felt a firm hand on her arm. Slowly, she turned her head and met the calm, knowing gaze of the man beside her. His grip wasn’t hard, but it was definitive. The kind that said: Don’t do it. He knew exactly what she was about to do. And he knew it wouldn’t work.

“She’s not looking for a comeback, Romanoff.” he said. His voice was quiet, but heavy. Natasha didn’t pull away, but she didn’t back down either. “She’s already back.” she countered softly. “She’s on the track.”

The man exhaled slowly through his nose. “Not the way you think.” Yelena folded her arms, glancing toward the garage. “Then why is she here?” The man was silent for a long time. Then, after what felt like an eternity, he sighed, rubbing a tired hand over his face. “Because this is the only place that still makes sense to her.”

Natasha remained still. That was an answer she understood all too well. “She disappeared after the crash..” the man continued. “Not just from racing. From everything. No press. No statements. No farewell speech. She just…vanished. And you know what? I think she really wanted to. I think she wanted to convince herself she was done.”

Yelena let out a quiet scoff. “I remember the crash.” she muttered. “Everyone does.” Yeah. Everyone did. Before the accident, your name had been spoken with reverence. A rising legend. A driver who had seemed untouchable. Then, in a single moment. The fall.

Not just any loss. A wreck so violent people had looked away from their screens. A crash that had silenced entire stadiums. “She was dead.” Yelena murmured. “Two minutes, right?”

The old man nodded slowly. “Two minutes. No pulse. The medics pulled her from the wreck thinking they were recovering a body, not saving a life.” Natasha turned to Yelena. “I want to meet her.”

Yelena grinned. “Are you sure? She doesn’t look like she wants to be found.” Natasha’s gaze hardened. “She’s already been to hell,” she murmured. “She can handle me.” And with that, the decision was made.

She moved through it all with quiet precision, out of place but completely in control. She wasn’t dressed for the chaos of the garage, no oil-stained coveralls, no smudges of grease, no heavy gloves. She didn’t belong here, and yet, every step she took demanded the kind of presence that made people move out of her way without a word.

She spotted you immediately, half under a car, legs stretched out, one hand buried deep in the engine bay. The way you worked wasn’t just methodical, it was intimate. The way your fingers moved, the way you tested a part, listened to the engine hum, made minute adjustments you weren’t just fixing a machine. You understood it.

Natasha stopped a few feet away, tilting her head slightly as she watched. “You drive like someone who doesn’t belong here.” You froze. It was small, barely noticeable, the slight hesitation of your wrist before you finished tightening whatever part you had been working on. But Natasha caught it.

Because she was always watching. A slow, measured breath left your lips before you rolled out from under the car, sitting up with your arms resting against your knees. There was grease smeared across your cheek, a few loose strands of hair sticking to your temple from the heat, but none of that mattered.

Because the second your eyes met Natasha’s, you knew. Your posture shifted. Not in shock, not in surprise. In recognition. And then, just as quickly, in rejection. “No.”

Natasha arched a brow, unfazed. “I didn’t ask anything yet.” You grabbed a rag, wiping your hands with slow, deliberate movements before standing up. “You didn’t have to.” Natasha smirked slightly, though there was no humor in it. “You know who I am.”

You exhaled, shaking your head as you grabbed a bottle of water from the nearby workbench. “Everyone in this business knows who you are.” You twisted the cap off, took a sip, and wiped your mouth with the back of your hand before turning your gaze back to Natasha. “And I already know why you’re here.”

Natasha studied you, taking in the subtle tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers flexed slightly before stilling. You weren’t just expecting this conversation, you had already decided against it.

“You need a driver.” you continued before Natasha could even open her mouth. “And you think I should be it.” Natasha didn’t confirm or deny it. She didn’t have to. You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “Not happening.”

Natasha tilted her head slightly. “You didn’t even hear my offer.”

“Don’t need to.” You tossed the rag onto the workbench, your movements final. “I don’t race.”

Natasha stepped forward. “You don’t compete.” You turned away, picking up another tool and adjusting something in the car. “Same thing.”

The silence that stretched between you wasn’t tense, it was a battle. Natasha wasn’t used to people walking away from her. She wasn’t used to people ignoring her. But you? You didn’t hesitate to turn your back.

Natasha narrowed her eyes slightly. “I watched you on the track.” You kept working. “Good for you.”

“You’re not just testing the cars.” Natasha’s voice was quieter now, but sharper, cutting through the noise of the garage like a blade. “You’re still racing.”

Your hands stilled for a fraction of a second. Then, just as quickly, you kept moving. Natasha pressed forward. “I saw the way you took that turn. The way you adjusted, the way you let the car move with you instead of fighting it.” She stepped closer, her voice lowering just enough to make you listen. “A test driver wouldn’t drive like that.”

You exhaled, slamming the hood of the car shut harder than necessary. “Whatever you think you saw.” you muttered, voice tight, “it doesn’t matter.”

Natasha didn’t move. She stood her ground, unwavering. “You belong on the track.” You laughed. It wasn’t amused. It wasn’t light. It was sharp, bitter, the kind of laugh that had too much weight behind it.

You finally turned, your expression unreadable, but your voice was cold when you spoke. “I belonged there. Past tense.”

Natasha held your gaze. “That’s not what I saw.” You wiped your hands again, slower this time, more deliberate. “Then you weren’t looking hard enough.”

Silence. Natasha exhaled through her nose, rolling her shoulders back slightly. “You can tell yourself that all you want, but I know a racer when I see one. And you?” She smirked faintly. “You’re still racing. You just don’t want to admit it.”

Your jaw ticked. For a moment, Natasha thought she had you. Thought she had struck the nerve she needed to. But then, you simply shook your head and grabbed a wrench. “Go find someone else, Romanoff.” You turned back to the car, your shoulders set, your posture final.

This conversation was over. Natasha studied you for a long moment, weighing her options. She could push. She could demand, argue, try to break through the wall you had built.

But she knew better. She knew when to walk away. At least, for now. She exhaled slowly, stepping back. “You know where to find me.”

You didn’t respond. Natasha didn’t expect you to. She turned, walking out of the garage, her steps slow, controlled. She wasn’t done. She wasn’t giving up. Because no matter how much you tried to deny it, Natasha had already seen the truth. You were still a racer. And Natasha Romanoff always got what she wanted.

As she stepped outside, the night air cooler than the thick heat of the garage, Yelena fell into step beside her, hands shoved into the pockets of her leather jacket. She had been watching from a distance, leaning against the wall near the entrance, casually observing the entire exchange.

After a few seconds of silence, she let out a low whistle, smirking. “That might be the first time I’ve seen someone tell you to go to hell and actually get away with it.” Natasha didn’t slow her stride. “She didn’t tell me to go to hell.”

Yelena popped her gum. “No, but she might as well have.” She studied her sister’s expression, intrigued. “So, what’s the plan now? You actually gonna let that be the end of it?”

Natasha didn’t hesitate. “No.” Yelena chuckled. “Didn’t think so.”

Days went by and you were again on the track. The first laps were smooth. You drove with focus, feeling the car’s balance, analyzing every movement, every response. No risks. No unnecessary speed. It wasn’t a race. Just a test run.

And then you saw it. In the rearview mirror. Another car, at the end of the straight, right in the middle of the track. You blinked. That couldn’t be. No other car was supposed to be here. But it was.

Then your radio crackled. “You’re driving like a damn rookie.” Your heart stopped. That voice. You gritted your teeth. “What the hell are you doing here?” She didn’t answer immediately. Her silence was almost worse than her words. “Drive.”

You shook your head, pressing the radio button harder than necessary. “I’m working. Get off the track.”

“Make me.”

Your fingers tightened around the wheel. The red car moved. Slowly, controlled. It slid into your line, blocking your path, positioning itself exactly where you needed to go. “Romanoff..” you growled.

“You think you can ignore me?” Her voice was sharp. “That I’ll just stand by and disappear?”

“I’m not here for a damn game.”

“Oh, but you are. You just don’t know it yet.”

Her car kept moving, staying exactly in your line. No gap. No escape.

“I don’t have time for this shit.”

Natasha laughed, a dark, mocking sound. “Oh, you have time. You’ve wasted years hiding. Not today.”

Your pulse was racing now. A fine tremor ran through your hands, your chest rising and falling faster than it should.

“Get. Out. Of. My. Way.”

“Make. Me.”

Her voice was calm. Almost amused.

“This isn’t a damn negotiation!”

“No. It’s a race.” And then she took off. Suddenly, the red car wasn’t just an obstacle. It was a shadow, shooting past you, positioning itself ahead, dominating every damn turn.

She gave you no choice. You felt your grip on the wheel tighten, your jaw clenching. “You think you can just challenge me?”

“I know you want it.”

Your heart pounded. “Shut up.”

“Drive.”

She pushed you. Drove more aggressively, more recklessly, cutting you off, giving you no damn room to breathe.

“You’ve gotten weak.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. “Shut. Up.”

“You used to be someone I respected.”

“I will shove you off this track if you don’t-”

“Then do it.” She knew damn well you wouldn’t. Your hands were shaking. Your breath was shallow.

“You’re not yourself anymore, are you?” Those words dug under your skin, a pain deeper than any physical wound. You hated her in that moment. Hated her for her arrogance. Hated her for knowing you. Hated her because she was right.

“Do you know what disappoints me most about you?” she continued, as if this was some damn therapy session. “It’s not the crash. It’s not that you fell. It’s that you don’t even try to get back up.”

And that was the moment. The moment something inside you snapped. A break. A damn fire you had suffocated for so long that you had almost forgotten it was ever there. Your foot slammed onto the gas. “Fuck you.”

The engine roared. The car responded instantly, as if it had been waiting for this moment. Suddenly, there was no hesitation. No fear. No voices from the past. Just speed. And a damn red shadow ahead of you, one you would finally chase. The engine roared under your control as you pushed the gas pedal down. Your car shot forward, vibrating with an intensity that traveled through your bones, but Natasha was there.

Like a damn predator. The red car moved with terrifying precision, cutting you off again and again, blocking your best lines, forcing you into her trap. She gave you no room to breathe, no moment of control. This wasn’t a challenge. It was a show of dominance. Every turn, every straight-line maneuver was a damn game. But not just any game. It was her game. And she made sure you lost.

The next corner approached with brutal speed. A sharp right turn, one that would demand everything. Your fingers clenched around the steering wheel, your body was ready, but your mind wasn’t. You were supposed to brake. A fraction of a second earlier than usual to maintain control. But then Natasha moved over. Hard. Aggressive. Too soon. Way too soon.

Your breath caught. What the hell is she doing? Her line was a disaster, too tight, too risky. She forced you to the outer edge, pushing you into a damn dead end. “Brake.” Her voice cut through the radio. Ice-cold. “Brake or crash.”

Your heart pounded. Your instincts screamed, she had you exactly where she wanted. But your body… your damn body wouldn’t listen. Your leg twitched, your foot wanted to press the brake. Just like back then. Just like on the day you last really raced. A flash shot through your mind, the impact, the screeching metal, the blood. The silence afterward. Your hands trembled. Natasha knew. She knew exactly what she was doing.

“Do it.” her voice came through again. “Do it or stop calling yourself a driver.” Your rage exploded. “Romanoff!!!” You yanked the steering wheel, forcing the car into an impossibly tight line, feeling the tires fight for every inch of traction. Your body tensed, everything in you screamed that you wouldn’t make it.

But you did. Your car flew through the corner, just a hair’s breadth from Natasha’s, so close you could swear her gaze burned through the helmet straight into your soul. But she didn’t brake. She stayed with you. She dragged you with her. “Yeah..” you heard her growl as your cars raced side by side down the straight. “That’s it.”

Your whole body burned. Your muscles locked under the tension. This wasn’t a damn race anymore. This was war. And you hated her. Hated that she had brought you here. Hated that you needed it. Hated that you had missed it. The final turn approached. Fast, treacherous. The kind of turn where drivers either proved themselves, or failed. Natasha went in first. Her line was perfect. Almost too perfect.

You could have let her go. Could have let her take the lead. But you didn’t. No. Not today. Not anymore. The anger boiled over, your head screamed against all the voices that had held you back for years. You want me to take risks? Then fine, here you go. You ripped the car into the turn harder than ever before, deeper than anyone would have dared, taking an impossible line, one that couldn’t work.

It didn’t have to work. It just had to prove you weren’t afraid anymore. The tires screamed under the pressure, your car shook, the chassis vibrated as if it would fall apart, but you held the line. And for the first time in this whole damn race, you heard nothing from Natasha. No command. No taunt. Just silence. The finish line came into sight, you and Natasha racing towards it, but you didn’t care.

You had surprised her. For the first time, you had turned the tables. Adrenaline rushed through your blood, your body electric as your cars crossed the line. For a moment, the world was nothing but white noise. Then silence. You tore the helmet off your head before the car even stopped. Your hands were shaking..but not from fear. From anger. Anger at Natasha. Anger that she had dared. That she had pushed you this far.

That she…That she had done it. You jumped out of the car, your pulse pounding as you stormed past her. “See? I-”

“Fuck you, Romanoff.” you spat, your voice trembling with barely suppressed rage. You didn’t look back. Not at her. Not at the car. Not at the damn monster she had awakened in you.

——

You lay on your bed, arms folded behind your head, staring at the ceiling. Since you had come home, you hadn’t spoken to anyone. Not because there was nothing to say. But because you couldn’t. Your head was full. Full of her laughter. Full of the screeching tires, of the way your heart had pounded when you almost lost control. Full of that damn fire Natasha had reignited in you.

You hated her. Hated her because she knew exactly what she was doing. Hated her because she had brought you back to a place you swore you’d never return to. Hated her because it had felt..damn it..alive.

You gritted your teeth and rubbed your face, exhausted. Your whole body was still tense, as if you were about to get back into the car. The tension just wouldn’t fade. For years, you had held back. For years, you had done everything to bury that part of yourself. And then she came along.

Romanoff. And within minutes, she had torn it all down. A knock on the door pulled you from your thoughts. “Y/n, dinner’s ready!” Your mother’s voice. Warm, kind, the kind that usually calmed you. But not today. You didn’t want to go downstairs. Didn’t want to pretend everything was normal, as if yesterday hadn’t happened. But if you didn’t, there would be questions. And questions were the last thing you needed.

So you forced yourself out of bed, pulled on a sweatshirt, and shuffled down the stairs. The kitchen was warm, the smell of food lingering in the air. Your mother was still at the stove, your father already sitting at the table, scrolling through his phone, while your little brother sat next to him, tapping his fork against his plate.

You sat down silently, grabbed a bowl of food, and started eating without looking at anyone. Maybe they wouldn’t notice. Maybe tonight would just be a normal evening. “Y/n were driving again yesterday!” The fork in your hand froze. A cold shiver ran down your spine. Slowly, painfully slowly, you lifted your gaze.

Your little brother grinned at you, completely unaware of what he had just done. “Yeah, she was on the track! I saw it! Her car was really fast!”Silence. A different kind of silence. The kind that comes before a storm. Slowly, your father put his phone down. Your mother turned away from the stove, still holding the spoon in her hand, her eyes wide with shock.

“What?” Her voice was quiet. Too quiet.

“It was just a test run..” you tried to keep your voice calm. “Nothing serious.”

“A test run?” Your father leaned back, his brow furrowed deeply. “Since when are you driving again?”

“I’m not.”

“Oh yes, you are!” your brother chimed in cheerfully. “And you’re really good! I even saw videos!”

“Jacob, shut up!!” You snapped. Your mother looked at you like she didn’t recognize you. “We talked about this.”

“I know!”

“No, apparently, you don’t!” Her voice was sharper now. “I thought you wanted to leave it behind. I thought you were done with all of this.” Your jaw tightened. “I am.”

“You were driving.”

“It was nothing.”

“It was something..” your father cut in now, his tone cool, controlled, but you could hear the underlying frustration.

“After everything that happened? After the accident?” Your mother’s voice was rising now. “And now you’re telling us it was nothing?”

Your hands curled into fists under the table. “I didn’t want to, okay?” you finally said, your voice lower. “She…she pushed me into it.”

“She?” Your father frowned. “Who?”

You swallowed hard. You could have lied. Could have made something up. But what would have been the point? “Natasha Romanoff.” The name dropped into the room like a weight. Your father took in a sharp breath. Your mother froze for a moment, as if she wasn’t sure she had heard correctly. “Natasha Romanoff?” Her tone wavered somewhere between disbelief and concern.

“Yes.” Your father slowly shook his head, like he couldn’t believe it. “That woman is…Y/n, she’s dangerous.”

“She’s a damn legend..!” your brother chimed in excitedly, as if you had just spoken about a hero. “Jacob, you stay out of this!” your father snapped, shooting him a quick glance before his focus returned to you. “And she’s the one who got you back in a car?”

You felt the anger rising inside you, but it wasn’t the explosive, loud kind. It was deeper. Simmering. Because they made it sound like you had no choice. But you did. And you made it. “I did it myself..” you murmured.

“Against her?” Your mother stared at you in disbelief. You nodded. Her face paled. Your father let out a short, humorless laugh. “Oh, that’s fantastic. First, she races you, then she pushes you to keep going? What the hell does this woman want from you?”

“I don’t know.” The lie came too easily. But you did know. Natasha had told you. She wanted to bring you back. And the worst part of it all, the part that made your stomach turn, was that some part of you wanted it too.

Your mother rubbed a hand over her face, exhaustion clear in her posture. “I don’t understand…after everything that happened, why would you even let her get to you?” Because she cornered me. Because she pushed me. Because she saw what I couldn’t admit. But you didn’t say it. “It was a mistake.”

Your own voice sounded hollow. Your father studied you for a long moment, as if he were searching for something between the lines. But then your mother slowly shook her head. “If you drive again…” Her voice was firm. “If you really go back…then that’s it.” The words cut through you like a blade.

“What?”

“Then you’re on your own. You’re completely on your own.”

You looked at her in shock. “That’s not fair-”

“It is.” She said, her gaze steady, sharp. “Because we’re not doing this again. We almost lost you once. Almost buried you. I will not sit back and watch you put yourself in danger again.”

It felt like the air had been sucked out of your lungs. You knew they were worried. You knew, to them, this was never just a sport, it was the thing that almost took their child from them. But this? This was an ultimatum.

“This isn’t fair!” you muttered, your hands clenched into fists beneath the table. “Life isn’t fair.” your father said simply. And that was the end of the discussion. Silence settled over the table, thick and suffocating. Your food tasted like nothing. Slowly, you stood up, pushing your chair back. “I’m tired.”

“Y/n-”

“Good night.” You left them at the table, feeling their stares on your back as you climbed the stairs. As soon as your door closed behind you, you collapsed onto the bed, rubbing your hands over your face. Damn it. You had never been this angry before. Not just at them. At yourself. Because a part of you knew your mother was right. But another part…Another part knew it was too late.

Days passed, but you couldn’t shut it off. Every time you were on the track, she was in your head. When you walked through your front door, you thought you’d finally get a quiet afternoon. No cars. No Natasha. Just you. “Do you really think she’s happy?”

You froze in the doorway. Your fingers tightened around your keys. Slowly, almost unwillingly, you stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind you. The voices were coming from the living room. You could hear your mother, upset, almost pleading. Your father? Silent. And then..Natasha. She was here. Oh, hell.

You forced your legs to move, following the sounds into the living room. And when you turned the corner, you saw the scene before you. Your mother sat on the couch, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line. Your father stood by the window, hands in his pockets, his shoulders tense.

And in the middle of the room, completely relaxed, as if she belonged there, sat Natasha. She had one leg crossed over the other, hands resting loosely on the armrests. Her posture was calm, controlled..but her eyes? Her eyes were ice. She knew she wasn’t welcome here. But she sat there like it didn’t matter. Your mother shot her a withering glare. “My daughter is happy! She chose to leave this madness behind.”

Natasha blinked slowly. Then she looked at your father. “And you? Do you believe that?” Your stomach twisted. Your father said nothing. He had been silent the entire time. Your mother had been the one who stayed at your bedside after the crash. The one who held your hand when the doctors said you might never walk again. The one who swore you’d never sit in a cockpit again.

But your father? He had accepted it. Never questioned your decision. Supported you, but never really talked about it. Now, he looked at you. Not at Natasha. You. And in his eyes, you saw something you didn’t expect. He was searching for an answer. Your throat felt dry.

“Dad..” you murmured. “Tell her to leave.” But he didn’t. Natasha studied him carefully. Her voice was quiet, almost gentle. “You know, don’t you? You see it.”

His brow furrowed. “See what?”

“That she’s lying to herself.”

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. “Look at her.” Natasha continued, still watching him. “You say she’s moved on. That she’s chosen to stop racing. But do you really believe that? Or is that just the story you tell yourself so you don’t have to worry anymore?”

“Stop this..” your mother snapped. “She made her decision. You act like you know her better than her own family!”

Natasha slowly turned her head. Her gaze was hard, but not angry. Just cold. Precise. “I don’t know her better.” she said. “But I know what I saw yesterday. And that was not someone who quit.”

Your hands curled into fists. “It was a mistake.”

“Then why are you still thinking about it?”

Silence. You could hear your mother take a deep breath, her fingers clenched around the glass on the coffee table. “I don’t understand you..” she whispered. “Why are you doing this? Why won’t you just leave her alone?”

“Because she can’t.” Natasha said simply. Your breath caught. “People like her don’t just stop.” Natasha continued, her voice now quiet, intense. “They can try. They can tell themselves it’s over, that they can live a different life. But deep down, they know better.”

Her gaze shifted back to you. “You know better.” Your heart pounded. Your nails dug into your palms. “No.”

Natasha tilted her head slightly. “Yes.” She reached into the inside of her bag, pulled out a folder, and placed it slowly on the coffee table. “This.” she said calmly, “is a contract.” You stared at it as if it were a weapon. “A seat. A team. A new chance.” Natasha continued. “You don’t have to take it. I won’t force you.”

Your mother sucked in a sharp breath. “You don’t seriously expect-”

“No.” Natasha interrupted her. “I don’t expect anything, Mrs. Y/l/n.” Her eyes were back on you. “But I know what’s going to happen. You’ll ignore it. You’ll pretend you don’t want it. But every night, this damn thing will be in your head. You’ll think about it. About the race. About the feeling. And one day, you won’t be able to deny it anymore.”

Your pulse roared in your ears. Your mother shook her head vehemently. “Please leave now..” Your father still said nothing. He was looking at you. And you knew that he knew. That he had always known. You didn’t want it. You really didn’t. But you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

And Natasha knew it. “Take the contract.” Natasha said quietly. “Or tear it up. But if you do, do it because you’re sure. Not because you’re afraid.” You swallowed hard. Your hands trembled slightly as you reached for the folder. But you didn’t open it. You turned away. And without another word, you left the room. The contract felt heavy in your hand. Behind you, complete silence.

Then, you heard Natasha stand up. “I won’t try to convince you again.” she said calmly. “But I promise you one thing. If you tear it up, it won’t go away. This feeling. It will never leave you alone.”

You exhaled shakily. Heard the front door open. Heard it close again. And then Natasha was gone. You stood in the darkness of the hallway, the paper still in your fingers. You wanted to get rid of it. You wanted to ignore it. But your hands wouldn’t move. Because you knew Natasha was right.

-

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Part 2

[literaryvein-reblogs]

How to Read a Scientific Article

THE THREE-PASS APPROACH

The key idea is that you should read the paper in up to 3 passes, instead of starting at the beginning and plowing your way to the end.

Each pass accomplishes specific goals and builds upon the previous pass:

The first pass gives you a general idea about the paper.

The second pass lets you grasp the paper’s content, but not its details.

The third pass helps you understand the paper in depth.

At the end of the first pass, you should be able to answer the 5 Cs:

Category: What type of paper is this? A measurement paper? An analysis of an existing system? A description of a research prototype?

Context: Which other papers is it related to? Which theoretical bases were used to analyze the problem?

Correctness: Do the assumptions appear to be valid?

Contributions: What are the paper’s main contributions?

Clarity: Is the paper well written?

Purpose of the Sections of Empirical Articles

Section — Use it for

Abstract — This is a great section to read to find out if the article will be relevant to your own research.

Introduction — This section gives you an overview of work that has been done on topics relating to the hypothesis of the article, and will often lead you to other relevant work that has been done in your area of interest.

Method — This section will help you understand the design of the experiment. This is particularly useful if you'd like to replicate the study.

Results — The results will tell you what the author/s found in the course of their experiment.

Discussion — The discussion section is typically easier to read than the method and results section, and it will help the reader understand the implications of the results of the experiment.

References — This is a great place to look to find articles that are related to the one you are reading. If you're looking to build your own literature review, the references are a great place to start.

The Anatomy of a Scientific Paper

Some initial guidelines for how to read a paper:

Read critically: Reading a research paper must be a critical process. You should not assume that the authors are always correct. Instead, be suspicious. Critical reading involves asking appropriate questions.

Read creatively: Reading a paper critically is easy, in that it is always easier to tear something down than to build it up. Reading creatively involves harder, more positive thinking.

Make notes as you read the paper. Use whatever style you prefer. If you have questions or criticisms, write them down so you do not forget them. Underline key points the authors make. Mark the data that is most important or that appears questionable. Such efforts help the first time you read a paper and pay big dividends when you have to re-read a paper after several months.

After the first read-through, try to summarize the paper in one or two sentence.

If possible, compare the paper to other works.

Write a review that includes:

a one or two sentence summary of the paper.

a deeper, more extensive outline of the main points of the paper, including for example assumptions made, arguments presented, data analyzed, and conclusions drawn.

any limitations or extensions you see for the ideas in the paper.

your opinion of the paper; primarily, the quality of the ideas and its potential impact.

The guide below details how to read a scientific article step-by-step.

First, you should not approach a scientific article like a textbook— reading from beginning to end of the chapter or book without pause for reflection or criticism. Additionally, it is highly recommended that you highlight and take notes as you move through the article.

Skim the article. This should only take you a few minutes. You are not trying to comprehend the entire article at this point, but just get a basic overview. You don’t have to read in order; the discussion/conclusions will help you to determine if the article is relevant to your research. You might then continue on to the Introduction. Pay attention to the structure of the article, headings, and figures.

Grasp the vocabulary. Begin to go through the article and highlight words and phrases you do not understand. Some words or phrases you may be able to get an understanding from the context in which it is used, but for others you may need the assistance of a medical or scientific dictionary. Subject-specific dictionaries available through our Library databases and online are listed below.

Identify the structure of the article and work on your comprehension. Most journals use an IMRD structure: An abstract followed by Introduction, Methods, Results, and Discussion. These sections typically contain conventional features, which you will start to recognize. If you learn to look for these features you will begin to read and comprehend the article more quickly.

 Read the bibliography/references section. Reading the references or works cited may lead you to other useful resources. You might also get a better understanding of the basic terminology, main concepts, major researchers, and basic terminology in the area you are researching.

Reflect on what you have read and draw your own conclusions. As you are reading jot down any questions that come to mind. They may be answered later on in the article or you may have stumbled upon something that the authors did not consider. Here are some examples of questions you may ask yourself as you read:

 Have I taken time to understand all the terminology?

Am I spending too much time on the less important parts of this article?

Do I have any reason to question the credibility of this research?

What specific problem does the research address and why is it important?

How do these results relate to my research interests or to other works which I have read?

6. Read the article a second time in chronological order. Reading the article a second time will reinforce your overall understanding. You may even start to make connections to other articles that you have read on this topic.

Identify Key Information

Whether you are looking for information that supports the hypothesis in your own paper or carefully analyzing the article and critiquing the research methods or findings, there are important questions that you should answer as you read the article.

What is the main hypothesis?

Why is this research important?

Did the researchers use appropriate measurements and procedures?

What were the variables in the study?

What was the key finding of the research?

Do the findings justify the author’s conclusions?

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 6 ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[mia-can-yap-too]

What?:- The blue lock boys have turned to reddit to see if they're the problem or not.

Warnings:- fluff, crack, sfw, gender neutral reader, moot cameos but thats not a warning its a blessing, all characters aged 20 + just cuz, aikus abs, google docs, also no html cuz mia is lazyyy

Who?:- Isagi Yoichi, Oliver Aiku

a/n:- 200+ followers special gang, i love all 200+ of yall. also there will be multiple parts of this fic, 6 in total i think, so heres two of them for now!

pngs by me

star dividers by @saradika-graphics

Isagi Yoichi

You and Isagi just had your first real date.

It went wonderfully, and he was so sweet, too. He picked you up, paid for dinner, walked you home, held your hand (for the first time, actually), and gave you a smile that made your stomach do a stupid flip.

Everything was perfect. He was perfect.

Hot. Financially stable. Tall (enough). A gentleman. He had you swooning the whole night.

Until he texted you this.

Yoichi

hi! just wanted to say i had a great time!

also uh pls dont be mad

but can you fill this out when youre free???

[Date Debrief : Strengths and Areas for Improvement – Google Form]

You opened it out of curiosity. You shouldn't have. But you did.

And it was dead serious.

Date Debrief : Strengths and Areas for Improvement

by:- Isagi Yoichi (aka your #1 striker)

1. On a scale of 1 to 10, how punctual was I?

○ [ ] 1 – You were late and I thought you ghosted me.

○ [ ] 10 – You showed up like a protagonist in a shojou anime. I will marry you.

2. Did I talk about soccer too much?

○ [ ] – Yes

○ [ ] – No, but you came close to it.

○ [ ] – What do you mean "too much"? You gave tactical analysis on the waiter's footwork.

3. What was your favorite part of the date? (select all that apply)

○ [ ] The food

○ [ ] The walk home

○ [ ] The part where you got flustered trying to hold my hand

○ [ ] When you said "I'm not competitive" and then raced me to the side walk.

○ [ ] The moment where I realized you're my endgame and not just a side quest.

4. Areas for Improvement? (short answer)

There was a sample response in italics:-

[You could've complimented me more than hyper analyzing why we were both such a perfect match with information from trusted sources like my best friend. Also, maybe don't stare at my thighs as much next time.]

5. Would you go on another date with me?

○ [ ] Yes

○ [ ] HELL YEAH

○ [ ] Fill in this response with excessive emotional detail so I can reread it later and scream into my pillow.

You fill it out and sumbit it. He answers less than 45 seconds later.

Yoichi

okay so based on the data

i think i can increase hand holding frequency by 69% next time

also i wont call the kiss a 'strategic breakthrough' again

promise

★☆★☆★☆

Top Comment

u/ @beepbopzlorp :- Akqnshwkbwoq YTA but in a loving way????? Bro thinks he's dating a football LMFAOOO

Oliver Aiku

You and Aiku are in the middle of yet another mild argument.

Nothing dramatic, only you calmly explaining that maybe, just maybe, he shouldn't be flirting with the barista while holding your hand.

You're standing in the middle of your living room, arms crossed and frustration building.

"I feel like... if we're dating, there should be some boundaries. Like mutual respect? Is that crazy?" you frown at him.

Oliver casually runs a hand through his hair, and it's clear from his expression that he is barely listening.

"Mhmm. Totally. Mutual. Absolutely, babe," he yawns, turning his head to the side.

"Oliver! You don't even listen to me! Do I matter at all to you?"

"Babe, I was listening. Why do you have to be so–"

Just then, Oliver catches a glimpse of himself in the hallway mirror.

Shirtless. Slight sheen of sweat from training. Hair artfully messy.

He pauses. The room goes silent. His brow raises.

Then he flexes.

Right there. Mid argument. Slow and practiced. Left bicep. Right bicep. Abs. He's admiring the way the light was hitting him as if he was in a cologne commercial.

You pause. Your soul leaves your body.

"Are you... serious?"

He doesn't even seem ashamed. "Babe, I'm not even trying to be hot. It's just happening. Naturally."

You scowl at him. Where does he get the audacity from?

"You forgot what I was mad about, didn't you?"

He thinks for a moment. "...Was it jealousy? I don't blame you, it's a natural response to greatness."

Frustrated, you leave the room and he calls out for you.

"Don't go! I was gonna hit a back flex next!"

☆★☆★☆★

Top Comment

u/ @satocidal :- YTA and delusional. But, can I at least see if the abs were worth ruining your relationship over??? heres my email.

a/n:- will try my best to put the other parts out as soon as possible but enjoy these for now

Oh, you’re curious about my past works? Well, luckily for you, all the deliveries are neatly archived! Just head over to the Archive of Deliveries and browse through what I’ve sent out in the past. Enjoy the trip down memory lane!

[f1daydreamer]

Ready to be a Father

Kimi Antonelli was in the middle of an intense testing session in Bahrain, his focus razor-sharp as he navigated the track, gathering valuable data for the team. The mechanics and engineers monitored his every move, analyzing every fraction of a second, every minor adjustment. The pressure was immense—after all, this was his first year in Formula 1, and expectations were already sky-high.

During a short break, he sat in the garage, helmet resting on his knee as he grabbed a water bottle. His phone buzzed on the table next to him. He wasn’t one to check his messages during testing, but something made him glance at the screen. The moment his eyes landed on the picture you had sent, his entire world tilted.

A tiny, pink baby onesie.

With the caption: You're going to be a daddy! 🩷

His breath caught in his throat, heart hammering against his ribs. His hands trembled slightly as he re-read the message, his brain struggling to process what he was seeing. Pregnant? You were pregnant? His mind short-circuited. He was only eighteen. You were only seventeen. He had just started his career, barely getting used to the chaos of F1. And now… a baby?

A mix of emotions crashed over him like a tidal wave. Panic. Shock. Fear. And then, something else—something warm and overwhelming. Love. The idea of having a family with you, of holding a tiny baby in his arms, made his heart swell. He swallowed hard, his mind racing. Could he do this? Would he be a good father? Would you be okay? He had so many questions, so many worries, but one thing was certain—he loved you, and he would do anything to make this work.

With shaking hands, he took a deep breath and, without really thinking, forwarded the picture to his parents. Mom, Dad… I have to tell you something important. Y/N is pregnant.

Immediately, his phone exploded with notifications. His mother was calling him nonstop, and his father sent a string of panicked texts.

Kimi Lorenzo Antonelli, ANSWER YOUR PHONE RIGHT NOW!

HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?

You’re EIGHTEEN, Kimi!

KIMI, WE ARE GETTING ON A PLANE.

Kimi felt like he was going to pass out. His hands were sweating, and his helmet slipped off his knee onto the floor with a loud clatter. His engineer, noticing his pale face, frowned. “Kimi, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I think I just did,” Kimi muttered.

He barely made it through the rest of the testing session. His engineers kept asking if everything was alright, and he brushed them off with forced smiles. The second he was done for the day, he bolted to the nearest store, heart pounding in his chest. He found a small, soft teddy bear, something perfect for a newborn to cuddle. Holding it in his hands, he made a silent vow to be the best father he could be.

When he finally arrived home, his hands were shaking as he unlocked the door. You barely had time to turn around before he was wrapping you up in a tight embrace, burying his face in your shoulder.

“I can’t believe it,” he murmured against your skin. “I—I don’t know how we’re going to do this, but I swear, I’m going to be the best dad. I’ll do anything for you, for our baby.”

You froze. “Our… baby?”

He pulled back slightly, looking down at you with the softest expression you had ever seen. “I know it’s unexpected, but I swear, I’ll be there for everything. Doctor’s appointments, late nights, everything. I’ll make sure you and the baby have everything you need.”

Your mind reeled, trying to piece together what was happening. Then, a small bark broke the silence.

Your eyes flickered towards the couch, where a tiny golden retriever puppy sat, its tail wagging. And there, draped over its tiny frame, was the pink baby onesie.

Realization hit you like a lightning bolt.

“Oh my God,” you gasped, slapping a hand over your mouth. Your shoulders started shaking with laughter. “Kimi, no! The onesie wasn’t because I’m pregnant—it was for the puppy! I was trying to surprise you with our new pet!”

His face turned a deep shade of red. “Wait… what?”

Tears of laughter streamed down your face as you clutched his arm. “Kimi, you actually thought I was pregnant?”

Kimi groaned, covering his face with his hands. “I just had an entire existential crisis for nothing.”

You grinned, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “A very cute crisis, though.”

Just as Kimi was about to respond, the apartment door burst open with a loud BANG.

“KIMI LORENZO ANTONELLI!”

Kimi jumped, nearly dropping the teddy bear as his parents stormed inside, looking completely frazzled. His mother, eyes blazing with fury, marched up to him and smacked his arm. “You thought you could just TEXT US something like this and NOT ANSWER YOUR PHONE?!”

His father, though slightly calmer, was running a hand through his hair, looking at you with wide eyes. “Kimi, what were you thinking?! You’re both so young! We are about to rearrange our whole lives for this!”

You were doubled over in laughter at this point, tears streaming down your face. Kimi held up his hands. “Mom! Dad! It was a misunderstanding! Y/N isn’t pregnant!”

His mother stopped mid-rant, eyes narrowing. “What?”

Kimi pointed to the couch, where the tiny puppy was now chewing on the onesie’s sleeve. “The onesie was for the puppy! Y/N was surprising me, and I misunderstood!”

Silence.

Then, his mother smacked his arm again. “IDIOTA! Do you know what you just put us through?! We nearly had a heart attack on the way here!”

His father let out a deep sigh of relief before shaking his head. “You’re lucky we love you, Kimi.”

You wiped at your tears, still giggling. “I think this is the funniest thing I’ve ever witnessed.”

Kimi groaned. “I’m never going to hear the end of this, am I?”

His mother crossed her arms. “Not from me.”

His father smirked. “Or from me.”

You grinned, wrapping your arms around Kimi’s waist. “And definitely not from me.”

Kimi let out a dramatic sigh. “Great. Just great.”

But despite his embarrassment, he couldn’t help but smile. Because even though this wasn’t the life-changing moment he thought it was, he still had you—and now, a tiny puppy that you would raise together. And maybe, just maybe, one day, the real onesie moment would happen.

Just… not today.