#disaster composers

[chiscribbs]

Disaster Twins Karaoke Battle (alt title: Getting Hyped for the Next Lair Games)

These sketches are old, but I couldn't let National TMNT Day pass without showing my appreciation in some way. I drew these some months ago, while listening to the song Stalemate from the Death Note musical yes, that's a thing, go check it out on loop, and forgot to post them. The song is a bop and I could so easily see the twins loving it, and loving to perform it even more. Massive theatre nerds, the both of them, no one can convince me otherwise.

(In my mind, Leo is singing Jeremy's part and Donnie is singing Jarrod's, but it's interchangeable.)

[sarathrwizard]

From Dream to Nightmare (epic/powerful/somber music)

Created to go along with the I Care (Rottmnt comic) that I have been working on!

Made to accompany Chapter 4 part 2

I hope you like this dramatic music! ❤

[goldammerchen]

i think erzsi can be vulnerable for or during sex like any other person, but talking about dom&sub dynamics in specific (aka sex roleplaying lol), imo anything too hardcore will activate her "i'm going to fucking kill you" mode, besides making her panic a bit. a combination of them being like that, and an another bit of trauma.

tldr: hc switch but dom leaning?

[gnomeskillet]

I love the way Kim watches Harry swooning over Martin Martinaise and just stands there trying not to laugh at him. You just know the words “bisexual disaster” are going through his head.

[iniziareold]

Tag drop: Guizhong (Genshin Impact), the love of my life and all of Liyue's.

[seishun-emergency]

i hope hinata aoi knows that he is so loved

[pucksandpower]

Breaking Point

Charles Leclerc x Ferrari!Reader

Summary: Charles Leclerc finally reaches his breaking point after the disaster that was the United States Grand Prix. Something needs to change … and that’s where you come in

“Again, again!” Charles’ voice rings out, echoing through the debrief room, “How can we mess this up? I was on pole!”

Fred Vasseur looks down, sighing, but trying to maintain composure. “Charles, it was a miscalculation—”

“A miscalculation?” Charles retorts, eyes blazing, “This has been a trend all season, Fred. It’s not a one-time mistake. It’s systemic.”

Carlos, looking uncomfortable, tries to chime in, “It wasn’t just about strategy, you know the car—”

“Oh, I know the car,” Charles snaps, “And it was built against my driving preference. But it’s not just that. It’s everything. The poor race strategy, the unnecessary swap, and now being disqualified as if my day has not been bad enough!”

Enrico Cardile, the team’s technical director, steps forward, “Disqualification was not anticipated. We followed the regulations to the best—”

“Enough with the excuses!” Charles’ voice cracks with emotion. The weight of the season, the betrayal he feels, finally makes him see red. “Every time there’s an excuse. We’re a team and yet somehow it feels like I’m constantly battling not just our opponents but Ferrari as well.”

A deep silence settles.

The head strategist, Ravin Jain, finally speaks up hesitantly, “We thought the one-stop made sense. The data suggested—”

“Data,” Charles interrupts bitterly, “The same data that led to a decision that every other team on the grid laughed at! Did the data also suggest swapping me with Carlos? Or was I being punished for being able to manage my tires?”

Carlos, despite himself, looks hurt. “I didn’t ask for the swap,” he mutters.

Charles takes a breath, looking at his teammate, “I know. It’s not your fault, hermano. But I need to trust the team’s decisions. And right now, I don’t.”

Sporting Director Diego Ioverno tries to mediate, “It’s been a tough season, Charles. Everyone is understandably stressed. Let’s sit down, review everything together, and find a way forward.”

Charles shakes his head, “That’s what we said last time. And the time before that. And the twenty times before that! Empty promises, meetings, discussions, and then what? Nothing gets done and there is another disaster waiting to happen.”

Fred tries one more time, “We’re as frustrated as you are. We’re a family. We’ll figure this out.”

Charles scoffs, “I can’t keep being let down and used. Not like this.”

The room falls silent once more, a heavy cloud of disappointment and tension hanging in the air.

Carlos reaches out, placing a hand on Charles’ shoulder, “Things will get better.”

Charles meets Carlos’ gaze, nodding slightly. But the fire in his eyes has not dimmed, “I need to believe in this team again. But right now ...” He pauses, “I have a call to make.”

He turns, leaving the room filled with introspective silence. The team is left behind, grappling with their own emotions, knowing that actions will always speak louder than words.

***

Charles steps out into the warm evening air, taking a moment to compose himself before dialing a number he knows by heart but hasn’t touched in months.

“Hey,” Charles’ voice is a low rasp, every ounce of weariness evident.

Then a pause, as he listens to the voice on the other end.

“Yeah, it’s me ... look, I know what I said earlier this season. About handling it myself.” He takes a deep breath, letting the weight of it all settle.

A longer pause, broken by Charles’ intermittent nods and “Uh-huhs.”

“Every race feels like it’s been one disaster after another. And it’s not just the car, it’s everything. I can’t ... I can’t keep doing this to myself.”

He listens closely.

“I told them today, laid it all out. But it’s like talking to a brick wall. They listen, they nod, and then? The same mistakes. Over and over.”

He shifts his weight, the sound of his shoes scraping on the gravel echoing softly.

“I know, I know I told you not to get involved ... but maybe ... maybe that was a mistake.” He sounds defeated, a man at the end of his rope. “I need help. Real help. Maybe it’s time you step in.”

Charles is silent, absorbing whatever the person on the other end is saying.

“No, it’s not about leaving the team,” Charles’ voice is earnest, desperate even. “It’s about respect. Trust. It’s about feeling like I’m not constantly fighting against the tide, not just against other teams but within my own garage.”

A long pause.

“What I mean is, maybe some changes within the team would be good. Fresh perspectives. New faces, perhaps. Somewhere I can trust the decisions, the strategy ...”

He sighs.

“I just want to race, you know? Without all this drama. Without constantly wondering if I’m being set up to fail no matter what I do.”

Another pause as he listens, nodding, lost in the gravity of the decision he’s about to make.

“Thank you. Really. Let’s talk tomorrow? Lay out all our options?”

There’s a moment of quiet, only the sound of his breathing, the distant hum of the circuit, the world slowly dimming around him.

“Thanks. Goodnight, Y/N.”

***

“Emilia,” you call out, and before a moment passes, your ever-efficient personal assistant is by your side.

“Yes, Y/N?” Emilia asks, perfectly poised.

“I need the jet prepared. We’re heading to Mexico City,” you say, voice steady and determined though inside, the turmoil from the phone call with Charles still lingers.

Emilia raises an eyebrow slightly, a silent question in her eyes. “Any particular reason?”

You sigh, looking away for a moment, reflecting on the weight of the legacy you carry. “Scuderia Ferrari needs my direct attention. I trusted them to handle things, but ... it’s clear that has not been happening.”

Her eyes flash with understanding. “Of course. I’ll have the jet ready. When do you wish to depart?”

“Tomorrow morning, early.”

She’s already typing into her tablet. “I’ll book you the Presidential Suite at the Four Seasons. Will you be needing a meeting space there?”

“Absolutely,” you nod. “On Wednesday, before the Grand Prix. Organize for all team personnel to meet in the hotel conference room. And Emilia ... they are not to know the reason for the meeting or that I’m the one calling it.”

Her eyes gleam with a hint of mischief, “Mystery and surprise. I love it. Consider it done.”

A small, wry smile tugs at your lips. “Thank you. And can you make sure Charles knows about my arrival? But ask him to keep it quiet.”

“Of course. Anything else?”

You pause, taking a moment to consider. “Just one more thing. Make sure we have everything we need to review the team’s decisions and strategies for this season. Every little detail.”

Emilia nods. “Absolutely. Everything will be arranged as per your instructions.”

You take a deep breath, “Thanks, Emilia. This … it’s about preserving a legacy, and right now, that legacy is on shaky ground.”

She places a reassuring hand on your shoulder, “If anyone can steer this ship right, it’s you.”

***

The door to the conference room opens with a low creak, and the room immediately falls silent. Everyone turns to see you entering, your presence commanding every ounce of attention.

“Good afternoon,” you begin with ice-cold authority. “Thank you all for meeting on such short notice.”

There are murmurs of acknowledgment but no one dares speak up.

“I’ve reviewed our performance this season,” you continue, pacing the length of the conference room, letting each word sink in. “And to say I’m disappointed would be an understatement.”

Fred shifts uncomfortably in his seat, eyes darting around the room. You lock eyes with him, “Fred, you promised change. But the only change I’ve seen is our team’s steep decline.”

“I understand your frustration,” Fred stammers, “We’ve faced challenges—”

You cut him off sharply, “Challenges? Every team faces challenges. What matters is how you overcome them.”

Several team members look down, uncomfortably shuffling papers and avoiding eye contact.

You turn to the strategists, “Your decisions have cost us dearly, time and time again. Your inability to read a race situation, to adapt, to strategize effectively ... it’s quite frankly appalling.”

One of the strategists, a middle-aged man named Roberto, speaks up defensively, “We did our best with the information we had.”

Your eyes narrow, “Your best? Tell that to Charles, who has been left out in the cold race after race.”

Moving on, you address the engineers and designers, “Our car has issues that should have been rectified at the beginning of the season. Yet here we are, still struggling.”

An aerodynamicist named Lucia, clearly agitated, stands up. “We’ve been working tirelessly, trying to find solutions.”

You level her with a gaze, “Then maybe it’s time we look for people who can find those solutions more efficiently.”

Lucia’s face reddens, “You can’t just—”

“Actually I can,” you interrupt, “And I will.”

Your attention turns to Xavi, Charles’ race engineer, who has been noticeably silent. “Xavi, your dynamic with Charles has not been the slightest bit helpful. His feedback, his needs ... they’ve fallen on deaf ears.”

Xavi, trying to defend himself, says, “It’s a two-way street. Charles can be difficult.”

You shake your head, “Charles is a world-class driver. It’s your job to bridge any gaps, not widen them. I checked and it turns out that constantly repeating we are checking like a broken record is not beneficial for race performance!”

Taking a deep breath, you make your announcement, “Effective immediately, Roberto, Lucia, and several other strategists, engineers, and aerodynamicists that a personal audit revealed as detrimental to team performance relieved of their duties. Xavi, you too are let go.”

There are gasps around the room, the weight of your words sinking in. Roberto stands, fuming in anger, “You can’t just dismantle this team!”

You lock eyes with him, “I’m not dismantling. I’m rebuilding. And if that means letting go of every one of you who can’t uphold the standards of Scuderia Ferrari then so be it.”

Fred finally speaks up, “And what about me?”

You lean in, “Consider your position on very thin ice. I expect results. And fast.”

You straighten up, the room thick with tension, “Scuderia Ferrari is not just a team, it’s a legacy. My great-grandfather would be rolling in his grave to see what has been done to his beloved team. I will not stand by and watch it crumble.”

With a final, piercing gaze around the room, you pivot on your heel and exit with a flick of your hair.

***

You lean against the cool wall, taking a moment to gather yourself after the emotional intensity of the meeting. The hallway is quiet save for the distant hum of voices but soon familiar footsteps make their way around the corner.

“Charles,” you call out softly as spot the driver.

His green eyes, clouded with a mix of emotions, meet yours. “Y/N.”

“Are you okay?”

He hesitates, “I wasn’t expecting all of that.”

You nod, “It was long overdue. I should have intervened much sooner.”

Charles runs a hand through his hair, clearly trying to process everything. “It’s ... a lot. I didn’t think you would actually step in like this.”

You sigh, “I hoped I wouldn’t have to. But my bisnonno once said that aerodynamics are for people who can’t build engines, and right now, it sure seems like Ferrari can’t do either.”

Charles chuckles dryly, “You have a point. It’s been ... frustrating.”

You gently touch his arm, trying to reassure him, “Enzo also believed that dreams become bigger, much bigger, to build a car that doesn’t slow in the curves, that flies without leaving the ground. I want that dream for you. For us.”

He looks at you, “It’s all I’ve ever wanted. A car that allows me to race to my full potential.”

You nod, thinking of the iconic red car and its tremendous legacy, “I know. And we’ll get there. Remember, racing cars are neither beautiful nor ugly. They become beautiful when they win.”

A smile tugs at Charles’ lips, “I haven’t won in too long. I almost forget what it feels like.”

You step closer, “That is going to change. I’m here for the long haul. To rebuild, restructure, and reclaim the Ferrari legacy. Glory will be dressed in red once more.”

He nods and swallows thickly. “Thank you, Y/N. It means more than you know.”

You smile softly, “We’re a team. And I promise to do whatever it takes to see us on top again.”

***

Early that Friday at Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez, you gather the team in the garage.

“Good morning, everyone,” you begin. “I know it has been a whirlwind these past few days but I want to set the tone for this weekend.”

Fred, still adjusting to the new dynamic, nods silently from the back.

“We haven’t had the time to implement any physical changes to the car,” you continue, “But they are coming. For now, the difference will be about being smart … being strategic.”

Charles listens intently, his gaze occasionally drifting to the newcomers in front of him.

Speaking of the new additions, you gesture to the two people standing on either side of you, “I’ve brought on Marit Nilsen as our Principal Strategy Engineer and Claudio Segreti as Charles’ new race engineer. Not only are they exceptional engineers but also global chess masters.”

There are murmurs of surprise and interest among the crew. The world of Formula 1 and professional chess has rarely, if ever, intersected.

Marit, a tall woman with striking blonde hair, steps forward, “Chess is all about strategy, foreseeing the opponent’s moves and countering them. That’s what we’re here to do but on the track.”

Claudio, with his dark hair and deep-set eyes, adds, “Every move and decision we make will be precise. We’ll anticipate, adapt, and overcome.”

Carlos clears his throat, “So what’s the plan for free practice?”

You smile, “Today, we observe. We learn. We see where the car stands, where our strengths and weaknesses lie.”

As free practice commences, there’s a different energy in the garage. Marit, with her sharp analytical mind, quickly picks up on patterns, working closely with Claudio and Carlos’ engineer to ensure both drivers get feedback they need.

There’s a visible shift throughout the weekend. The team, rejuvenated by fresh perspectives, operates with a renewed vigor. And while the car may not have upgrades yet, new strategy quickly begins to make a difference like anticipated.

Qualifying sees Charles securing P3, an unexpected but welcome result. The garage is full of cautious hope but Marit and Claudio remain focused, already planning for the race to come.

Race day dawns and the tension is thick. You pull Charles aside, “Remember, things have changed. Believe in the strategy and the moves we make.”

He nods, “I trust them. And I trust you.”

As the lights go out and the cars roar to life, Charles delivers a performance that’s both calculated and aggressive. Every pit stop and every overtake is orchestrated like a chess match.

The race sees Charles finishing in P2 and Carlos in P4, a significant improvement from recent races.

The garage is a mix of tentative elation and relief.

Marit thoroughly reviews the race data, “This is just the beginning. Once the car upgrades are in place, the board will be ours.”

The sun sets on the Mexico City Grand Prix, but for Scuderia Ferrari, a new dawn is on the horizon.

***

“Fabiano Turati,” you muse, looking at the impressive portfolio before you. “Aerospace engineer, a key player in the development of hypercars for Agnellotti Motors, a professor at Politecnico di Milano. But never in F1?”

Fabiano, with salt and pepper hair and an air of quiet confidence, smiles slightly. “It’s not for lack of offers. I have just always believed in pushing boundaries outside of traditional paths.”

You lean back, intrigued, “So why Ferrari now?”

His eyes scan around the garage, “A challenge. An opportunity. A legacy to uphold. And, to put it simply, I think I can make a difference.”

You nod, appreciative of his candor. “We have three races left this season: Brazil, Las Vegas, and Abu Dhabi. Realistically, how much can we improve?”

You can practically see the gears in his brain turning, “In terms of complete redesign? Not much. But in terms of optimization and efficiency? Quite a bit.”

By the Brazilian Grand Prix, Fabiano’s influence is evident. While not a complete transformation, the SF-23 sports streamlined wings and a refined rear diffuser, maximizing what the current design allows.

“Initial feedback is good,” Charles reports after the practice session. “There’s a notable difference in the corners.”

Carlos chimes in, “The balance feels better.”

The improvements are evident, with both Ferraris finishing just off the podium. But Las Vegas poses a new challenge: a circuit unfamiliar to all teams and drivers.

“This is anyone’s game,” Marit says, examining the track layout.

Fabiano nods, “This weekend will be all about adaptation.”

The Las Vegas Grand Prix is an exhilarating rollercoaster. Charles fights for a podium finish, narrowly missing out but showcasing the SF-23’s newfound prowess, while Carlos secures a solid sixth.

As the season finale in Abu Dhabi looms, anticipation runs high. The Yas Marina Circuit will end the year with a test of Ferrari’s mettle.

Post-race, with both Ferraris finishing on the podium after avoiding a pile up that took out multiple opponents, there’s a sense of satisfaction but also of hunger.

“We’ve made progress,” Fabiano says as the garage winds down. “But next season, we’ll aim for a car that is not just evolved but fully revolutionized.”

You smile, “With you on board, I truly believe we can. The future is bright for Scuderia Ferrari.”

***

“Look at her,” Fabiano muses, admiration clear as the blueprint for the SF-24 is spread out before you both in your Maranello office.

“She’s a beauty,” you agree, tracing your fingers over the schematics. “If she performs half as well as she looks ...”

“She will,” Fabiano leaves no room for doubt. “We’ve streamlined the aerodynamics, enhanced the power unit, and made significant weight reductions.”

Carlos walks in with a grin on his face, “Is this the beast we’re taming next season?”

“That’s the plan.”

Charles catches your eye from where he lingers by the door. “It’s a fresh start,” he murmurs, approaching the table almost reverently. “I feel it.”

Over the following weeks, you rarely leave the factory other than to sleep and shower. You immerse yourself with the team, observing wind tunnel tests, joining strategy sessions, and even trying your hand with pit stop drills.

One evening, after a particularly long meeting, Charles finds you in the lounge, sipping an espresso. “Mind if I join you?”

You gesture to the seat across, “Of course not.”

He sits and just looks at you until you get the urge to fidget. “I’ve been thinking,” Charles begins, “About the changes, the car, and ... us.”

You raise an eyebrow, “Us?”

Charles smiles slightly, “You and I. We’ve spent so much time together these past weeks. I’ve gotten to know you, not just as Y/N Ferrari but as ... Y/N.”

You flush and not just from the hot coffee, “I feel the same. It’s been ... refreshing. Getting to know the man behind the helmet.”

He leans forward, elbows on the table, “There’s this great little place just outside Maranello. Quiet, hidden. I was thinking, maybe, dinner?”

Your heart skips a beat but you maintain your composure, “I’d really like that.”

The winter in Maranello unfolds, and as the SF-24 takes shape, so does the bond between you and Charles.

Between brainstorming sessions and late-night discussions about optimal setups, there are stolen moments: shared glances, lingering touches, and dinners that stretch long into the night talking about anything and everything.

Carlos teases, “Seems like the new car isn’t the only thing igniting sparks.”

You roll your eyes but there’s no hiding the smile tugging at your lips. You don’t try to deny it. Why bother when you hope it might be true one day?

***

r/formula1

Posted by RaceRundown · 6 hours ago

First look at the SF-24! Thoughts?

⇧ 17.6k ⇩ | Reply | Give Award | Share | Report | Save | Follow

RedFever · 6 hours ago

This could be the machine that keeps Ferrari at the top. Just look at those lines!

⇧ 2.5k ⇩ | Reply | Give Award | Share | Report | Save | Follow

PitStopPundit · 5 hours ago

Getting major 2004 vibes from this. Could be a dominant year for the Scuderia!

⇧ 3.4k ⇩ | Reply | Give Award | Share | Report | Save | Follow

***

You step into the air-conditioned motorhome, grateful for an escape from the Bahraini heat. Charles and Carlos, race suits unzipped around their waists, are animatedly discussing their first day of preseason testing with the SF-24.

“Last year, we didn’t have to sandbag because the car was, well … genuinely that slow,” Charles laughs. “But this time around ...”

Carlos grins, finishing his sentence. “This time, we have an ace up our sleeves.”

You nod, “Just remember, it’s only testing. We still have to see where we truly stand.”

The race weekend finally kicks off and the paddock is full of speculation. After a deliberately unimpressive showing during testing, no one expects Ferrari to be a front-runner.

Yet, when the lights go out, the SF-24 does not just impress …. it dominates. Charles takes P1 with Carlos not far behind in P3. And the world takes notice.

The next few races see a rejuvenated Ferrari. In Saudi Arabia, Charles and Carlos deliver a nail-biting duel with Red Bull, securing a double podium. Australia is a tougher battle, with Mercedes coming to form, but Charles clinches a respectable P4.

The Asian leg of the season has its highs and lows. In Japan, despite a torrential downpour, Charles masterfully handles the wet track to clinch the top step. On the podium, he points up at the sky and then shapes his fingers — first into a one and then a seven — a silent tribute to his late godfather and mentor.

However, China proves challenging and sees the SF-24 struggling unusually with tire degradation. But as Miami approaches, the team regroups and Charles takes a commanding win under the Florida sun.

Then comes Imola, the first of Ferrari’s home races.

As the sun shines brightly over the circuit named after your great-grandfather and grand uncle, you find yourself walking the track alongside Charles. The weight of racing on home soil evident in his eyes.

“Everything okay?” You check, sensing his nervous energy.

He looks at you and taking a deep breath. “Racing in front of the Tifosi at home always feel different. I want to make them proud.”

“No matter what happens today, they will be proud of you. The whole team will be proud of you. We’ve come so far.”

He smiles, visibly lighter. “Then let’s give them a race to remember.”

And it is nothing short of spectacular. Charles starts P2, but with determination and brilliant strategy, he overtakes Max in the final lap and secures a victory for Ferrari on home soil.

The roar of the crowd, the sea of red flags, the tears in Charles’ eyes as he stands atop the podium — you make a promise to never forget this moment.

As the sun sets on Imola, the Scuderia Ferrari team comes together, basking in their victory.

As Charles, champagne-soaked and beaming, pulls you in for a damp hug, it is clearer than ever that this season is only the beginning of a beautiful journey ahead.

***

“Norris is approaching on a flying lap. Make sure not to impede,” Claudio’s voice comes through crisp and clear over the radio during the dying moments of Q3 for the Monaco Grand Prix.

You can practically feel Charles’ concentration from where you’re seated on the Ferrari pit wall. The narrow streets of Monaco leave no room for error … Charles knows this better than most.

“Copy,” Charles responds, adjusting his position on the track just enough to give Lando the space he needs to pass while keeping his own momentum.

The clock is ticking and Charles needs a perfect lap if he wants to clinch pole position.

“Tires are feeling good. Pushing now,” Charles says, rounding the first corner with precision. The SF-24 dances around the iconic circuit, the roar of its engine echoing through the streets.

From Casino Square to the hairpin and through the tunnel, Charles’ driving is flawless. Every apex hit and every corner nailed.

“Final sector, Charles. Make it count,” Claudio encourages.

And he does. Crossing the line and jumping to the top of the timing board.

The garage cheers but there’s no time to waste. Tomorrow’s race is what truly matters.

***

Race day in Monaco is always special, but today, with Charles starting from pole, there’s an electric tension in the air.

“Lights out in ten,” Marit announces over the intercom.

Charles, already in the zone, simply nods.

And then he’s lined up on the front row.

The lights illuminate one by one. Then, in a heartbeat, they go out.

The race is on.

Charles gets a strong start, holding off challengers through the initial turns. The streets of Monaco are notoriously difficult for overtaking, so track position is everything.

“Maintain the pace. Tire management is key,” Claudio advises as the laps progress.

As the race unfolds, strategy becomes crucial.

“Plan to box in two laps,” Marit instructs through Claudio. With with Verstappen close on his tail, everything must be executed perfectly.

The pit stop is lightning-fast, the crew working in synchrony. Charles emerges just ahead of Max, who had followed him into the pits.

Throughout the race, Charles’ skill shines. He manages his tires, navigates the backmarkers, and keeps a razor-sharp focus.

The final laps approach. The team, the spectators, the entire Principality holds its breath.

The chequered flag waves and Charles crosses the finish line to takes his first home win. The elation, the pride, the sheer emotion of the moment is overwhelming.

“Monaco, Charles! You’ve won Monaco!”

Tears in his eyes, Charles responds, voice choked, “We did it! This is for Monaco. This is for Ferrari. Grazie mille. Merci beaucoup.”

The team gathers beneath the podium, celebrating their victory and the hometown here. Charles quickly sprays the two drivers beside him before aiming the bottle at the sea of red cheering in front of him and soaking his team in champagne.

He thinks back to how this weekend ended last season and let’s his elation wash away the years of dejected he faced before.

Things are different now.

***

“I’ve never seen Monaco come alive like this after a win,” you shout over the pulsating music in one of the city’s many upscale clubs.

Charles grins, leaning in closer so you can hear him. “It’s the magic of a home race victory!”

As the night turns to early morning, alcohol flows freer and the laughter grows louder.

The Ferrari team loves any reason to celebrate and they’re certainly making the most of the location.

Charles pulls you to a quieter corner of the VIP section. “Have you ever danced with a Monaco Grand Prix winner?”

You roll your eyes at the attempt at flirting but laugh as you accept his outstretched hand. “There’s a first time for everything.”

The two of you dance, losing track of time.

The world blurs around you. All that matters is the magnetic pull between you two which has been simmering for so long that it is threatening to overflow.

Charles pulls you closer, his lips brushing your ear. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you.”

You relish in the warmth of his breath against your skin. “What’s that?”

“I’m drawn to you,” he admits, eyes searching yours. “Not just because of tonight but ... there’s something between us. I feel it. And I think you do too.”

You swallow hard. “I do.”

He hesitates before wrapping an arm around your waist, “Come with me.”

Without a word, you both exit the club, making your way to his apartment. The air between you is thick with anticipation but also vulnerability … openness.

Once inside, he gently pushes you against the wall, lips crashing onto yours. It’s passionate and intense, like a dam that has been waiting to break.

Charles pulls away slightly, “Are you sure about this?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” you whisper, eyes locked with his. “But ... Charles, not just for tonight. I don’t want this to be just a result of a victory high or the Monaco night air.”

He cups your face, thumb brushing your cheek. “I don’t want that either. This isn’t about the race or the party. It’s about us. I think it’s been about us for a while now.”

“Then why didn’t you say something sooner?”

He chuckles softly. “You think it’s easy, being around you every day, wanting to be close but maintaining a distance for the sake of professionalism? To spend every evening when we’re in Maranello sitting across from you at dinner and wishing that I could call it a date? But tonight,” he pauses, eyes searching yours, “Tonight felt different.”

You waste no time to draw him closer. “No more waiting then.”

***

Canada’s Circuit Gilles Villeneuve echoes with the roar of engines and the cheers of fans. Charles dominates the track, mastering the chicanes and the notorious Wall of Champions.

But the race isn’t straightforward. Mid-race, strategy suddenly changes when an unexpected rain shower soaks the track. However, the new strategy team you’ve brought in makes all the right calls and Charles takes the chequered flag.

In the Spanish sun, it’s a different story. The high-speed corners expose a slight flaw in the SF-24 which leaves Charles fighting valiantly but finishing third.

Despite the setback, you see determination in his eyes. “We’ll get them in Austria,” he promises.

True to his word, at the Red Bull Ring, he dominates. The SF-24 suits the straights and fast corners. Charles takes pole and leads every lap, building a gap that the competition can’t close. The victory feels even sweeter given the circuit’s name.

Silverstone proves challenging. There’s fierce competition, and while Charles doesn’t win, he’s involved in one of the most thrilling wheel-to-wheel battles of the season with Max Verstappen. They exchange positions multiple times, showing pure racing talent. In the end, Charles finishes a proud second after a photo finish.

The Hungarian Grand Prix tests the team. Tire strategy becomes paramount. The SF-24 shows vulnerabilities in the surprisingly sweltering conditions. Still, Charles’ impeccable driving and some cunning strategy calls earn him a place on the podium.

At the Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps, Charles shines brilliantly. He conquers Eau Rouge and Raidillon like few can, making it seem effortless. The SF-24 feels perfectly balanced and he takes another win, smiling at the Ferrari flags waving high in the crowd as the Monegasque and Italian anthems play.

Through it all, you see Charles grow not just as a driver but as a leader and beacon of hope for the team and global fanbase. He is not just driving for himself or for Ferrari, he drives for everyone who believes in him.

***

The warm Italian sun pours golden light onto the expansive villa overlooking Lake Como. The water below sparkles, mirroring the sky. For a brief moment, the hectic world of Formula 1 feels miles away.

You’re lounging under an oversized umbrella, Aperol Spritz in hand, while Charles emerges from the pool, beads of water cascading down his toned physique.

“That swim was perfect,” Charles grins as he flops down beside you.

“You were in there for ages! Trying to turn into a fish?”

He shakes his head like a wet puppy, making you squeal as you try to escape the splashes. “Just preparing for our yacht trip. Besides, I have to burn off all those pasta dinners we’ve been having or else I won’t fit in the car by the end of the month.”

“The troubles of a professional athlete,” you laugh, “I’ve been indulging and I’m not even sorry.”

That evening, the two of you share a quiet moment on the terrace. Soft jazz floats from inside and cicadas buzz rhythmically.

“Remember our first race together?” Charles starts. “It feels like a lifetime ago.”

“I never imagined we’d be here. But I am so glad that we are.”

He meets your gaze, his eyes reflecting the same heat you feel. “Me too. These moments, away from the track with you ... they’re special.”

The following week, you find yourselves on a luxurious yacht off the coast of Sardinia. Charles’ family and both of your friends are aboard. The sun decks echo with laughter, music, and the soft lapping of waves. There is never a quiet moment and you relish in the sounds of happiness.

As you stand by the railing, watching Charles and Joris race each other on jet-skis, Arthur slides up beside you. “So, how’s life with my big brother?”

You laugh, “It’s an adventure every day. But honestly, I wouldn’t change a thing. It’s wonderful. He’s wonderful.”

Arthur nods, “I’ve never seen him this happy, you know?”

You smile warmly, your gaze drifting to where Charles has somehow fallen into the water and is now splashing his friend. “He brings out the best in me, just as I hope I do for him.”

***

The gentle lapping of the Mediterranean waves seems like a distant memory as you find yourself in Zandvoort.

“Quite the change of scenery, isn’t it?” Charles chuckles, standing beside you as the sea breeze of the Dutch coast tousles his hair.

You laugh, “A bit but I’ve missed it. Nothing beats the excitement of a race weekend.”

And what a weekend it was. Charles, against all odds, comes out on top at Max Verstappen’s home race. The Dutch crowd offer begrudging respect as Charles takes the top step.

And then, Monza.

Monza is different. There’s an electricity in the air that cannot be replicated anywhere else. It’s the home race of Ferrari … the cathedral of speed.

“Do you know,” you tell Charles as you both walk through the paddock, “I used to come here with my grandfather as a child. This track ... it’s steeped in history. I’ve always loved it.”

“Winning here was like nothing else I have ever experience,” he reflects. “Let’s do it again. We’ll write our own chapter in history this weekend.”

Qualifying is a nail-biter. Charles pushes the SF-24 to its limits, dancing on the edge of control.

“How are we looking?” Charles checks in.

“You’re on provisional pole,” Claudio responds over the radio. “But push on the last sector. Max is close and getting closer.”

And push he does. Charles clinches pole with a margin that leaves no doubts about the capabilities of both the driver and the car.

Race day, the atmosphere is fever-pitched. The Tifosi, in their sea of red, wave their flags and banners, chanting Charles’ name like a prayer. As the lights go out, the battle rages. The strategy is aggressive, a one-stop that requires Charles to defend position in the latter stages of the race.

“Lap 45. Push now, we need widen this gap,” Claudio instructs.

The tires scream in protest as Charles further carves out a lead. But as the laps tick down, Verstappen and Piastri close in.

“Drive smart and hold them off. Four laps to go. You’ve got this,” Claudio urges him on.

Going wheel-to-wheel with Max through the Ascari chicane, Charles pulls ahead. The Tifosi roar, their energy and sheer will pushing him on.

“Last lap. Bring it home!”

And he does.

As Charles crosses the finish line, the crowd erupts. The track is soon packed with red as fans flood the track, surrounding the podium.

From the sea of faces, one voice stands out — yours, “You did it, Charles. Monza is yours.”

He lifts the trophy high, a tear in his eye, “We did it. This is for Ferrari … for the Tifosi … for us.”

***

The streets of Baku and the lights of Singapore both witness the magic that Charles and the SF-24 weave together. Two more wins, two more steps closer to the championship.

And then you find yourselves in Texas.

“Do you remember this time last year?” Charles asks.

“How could I forget? It was the phone call that changed everything.”

Charles laughs but there’s a weight to it, “For both of us. It was a disaster ... pole to sixth and then the disqualification. All because of...” He doesn’t finish the sentence, the mismanagement of the team a heavy shadow neither of you can forget.

“You’ve grown since then,” you point out gently, “The team has grown. Look at where we are now.”

He nods, taking a deep breath, “One year. So much has changed. From one of the worst days in my racing career to ... this.” Charles gestures around, to the revamped team, the transformed car, the very atmosphere of competence that permeates every corner of the Ferrari garage.

“I can’t believe we’re here,” he whispers, “The championship is within our grasp. Right back where it all went wrong.”

You take a moment to pull out your laptop and open a data sheet, “Here’s the breakdown. If Max gets P2 in both the sprint and the race, you need P1 in both. That’s how we seal the championship this weekend.”

Charles’ eyes scan the spreadsheet, “That’s ... a tall order.”

“But not impossible. Not for you and not for this team,” you assure him.

He chuckles again but it’s brighter now, “With you in my corner? I know anything is possible.”

***

The energy is electric when qualifying day arrives in Austin. You find Charles in his driver’s room, eyes closed in focus as he visualizes the track.

“You ready for this?”

His eyes pop open, determination burning in them. “Ready. Let’s show them what we can do.”

Qualifying unfolds in a blur of fast laps and bated breath. Charles pushes the limits, wrestling the SF-24 around the bumpy circuit.

“Time for one more lap. Give it your all here,” Claudio radioes through.

Jaw set, Charles squeezes all he can from the SF-24. Silence falls as he crosses the line … broken by cheers as his new lap time is set.

Pole position for the second season in a row.

Charles sheds his helmet and rips off his balaclava. “Yes! That’s how we start a weekend!”

The sprint shootout and race similarly see Charles launch cleanly from P1, building a gap early.

“Verstappen is matching your pace, don’t let him get within DRS range,” Claudio advises.

“Copy,” Charles responds, focused.

A late charge from Max raises tensions but Charles keeps him at bay, taking the chequered flag and the eight points.

“That’s the way to do it!” You shout as Charles enters the garage.

“Grand Slam in the sprint, now time for the main event,” he grins.

You rally the team Sunday morning. “Remember, the start is crucial. The car that lines up in P2 has led by the end of lap 1 for five years in a row. We need full focus.”

It seems like barely any time has passed before Charles takes his spot on the grid. Lights out, tires screeching, he holds the lead through the first lap madness.

“Nicely done,” Claudio praises. “Manage those tires now.”

The pit stop strategy is executed flawlessly. Charles takes his second stop, emerging ahead of a charging Verstappen.

“Ten laps remaining,” Claudio counts down.

Charles responds with measured confidence, “Let’s bring it home.”

In the closing laps, he is poetry in motion, hitting each apex and maximizing every straight. Max closes in but Charles is perfect to the millimeter.

“Charles Leclerc,” Claudio’s voice cracks with emotion, “you are the World Champion!”

Eyes wet, Charles radios in, “Yes! Yes! Yes! We did it! Thank you guys! This is unbelievable! Grazie, grazie mille, grazie a tutti! It’s been an incredible season with all of you. This is for the team, for Ferrari, for all the fans, and for everyone who has supported me. We brought it back to Maranello! I’m speechless ... grazie, thank you!”

In the garage, celebrations in full swing, you lean in with a laugh, “Don’t worry, I checked with the FIA — the plank is up to regulation this time.”

Grinning, Charles pulls you into a passionate kiss as the team hoots and hollers around you.

The World Champion smiles so bright he makes the Texan sun look dull in comparison.

You would do anything to make sure he feels like this every season. You will do anything to make sure he feels like this every season.

***

The winter sun casts a warm glow on Maranello as you walk beside Charles into the Ferrari factory. The off-season buzz of activity fills the air as the team prepares for next year’s challenges.

Charles looks at the sleek lines of the new SF-25 with anticipation. “She’s beautiful. I can’t wait to see what she can do.”

“This one’s special. She’ll be fighting for the championship again.”

“Yeah?”

“You heard me right,” you say with a smile. “I made you a promise. Last season was just the beginning.”

As Charles turns for a briefing, you spot Fred across the room. Your relationship has evolved and he now respects the authority you wield for the team’s benefit.

Approaching, you extend a hand. “I wanted to say, you’ve led the team well this past season.”

He grasps it firmly. “We share this success. Thank you for being the catalyst we needed”

You know there will still be challenges ahead. But Ferrari has been reinvigorated. Its racing spirit has been reignited.

That evening, Charles joins you on the terrace of the home you both share when in Maranello and wraps you both in a warm blanket to fight the chill. “Can you believe what a year it’s been?”

You shake your head. “It’s been a dream.”

He pulls you close. “The dream is just beginning and it’s a dream I hope we never wake up from.”

[gallusrostromegalus]

You don't think matcha is tea????

Matcha isn't a Tea in my humble Opinion.

Matcha is an experience.

The year is 2009, the place is the University of Hawai'i at Manoa in Honolulu, and I am recovering from a still-undiagnosed disease that left me with a 100+ degree for over three weeks, extreme weight loss and permanent Brain Damage.  I have signed up for an introductory Art History class because I need an additional Humanities credit.

It's called "The History and Philosophy of the Japanese Tea Ceremony", and for a class I can only sort of remember, it stands out.

So I'm in professor Roberts' Japanese Tea Ceremony  class, looking and feeling like death warmed over, but I'm genuinely interested in the subject matter and show up to every class because I have nothing better to do, and ask questions and turn in my homework, even if neither are particularly coherent at times, and rapidly become his favorite student.  The thing I learned in public school was how to show up to events even if I don't want to, analyze tests and other written materials for patterns and charm educators by holding up my end of a conversation, skills that have served me in the modern world far more than learning actual course content would have.

The Tea Ceremony, historically, takes a good month to prepare and the entire evening to carry out- the guest list is curated to create social bonds and intellectual stimulation alike, a poem is composed for the season, and a seasonal flower arrangement created to decorate the space. When the guests arrive, they must all crawl through a small door to enter the tea garden, regardless of profession or rank.  Hands are ritually washed in spring water, and there is a slow processional walk through the garden, to admire the artistry of the landscaping, and the composition of seasonal elements to create this particular night of beauty.  The entire ceremony is about appreciating both the joy of existing right now, in this time and place, and the unification of the self and the universe and the endless cycles of nature. 

The guests arrive at the tea house and meet the Tea Master, who will be making the Matcha that evening. The guests are seated in particular order, the Most Revered Guest- sometimes a high-ranking official, sometimes a visiting scholar or artist- is seated closest to the Tea Master.  The Poem is read aloud.  The Flowers are admired.  The tools for making the Matcha are taken out, examined as objects of art, and their history told.  The matcha powder itself is taken out- the case examined, the cultivation of the tea discussed, and only then does the Tea Master make the Tea. 

Matcha is not brewed- it's a fine powder made of crushed green tea leaves, and the powder is whisked together with not-quite-boiling water in a bowl to create a much more substantial and flavorful drink.  This drink is presented to the Most Revered Guest first, who is expected to take a sip and, in a moment of Zen spiritual clarity, comment on its flavor and how all the elements of the tea, art, garden and season all complement each other, and perhaps offer some sort of philosophical statement.

At least,

That's how it's supposed to go.

About a month before the spring semester is over, Professor Roberts announces that he has a surprise for his class- a good friend of his, a Professional Tea Master, will be visiting Hawai'i, and has agreed to perform a Tea Ceremony for our class!  I am very excited. The other 10 people in class are varying levels of amiably confused to distressed by having to go to An Event (TM) for a grade, but agree. One of my classmates, an astrology hoe named Jessica, pointed out that with the 11 students, Professor Roberts, and the Tea Master, there will be 13 people present, which is basically inviting disaster.

"Jessica." Sighed Professor Roberts. "It's a Tea Ceremony. What disaster could happen?"

Despite Jessica's misgivings, Preparations for the ceremony went on.  We learned about Ikebana while deciding on the Ceremonial Bouquet and tried our hands at it with what Professor Robert could get at the grocery store for $12. We learned about calligraphy and different types of poetic compositions while making the Seasonal Poem, and stain the hell out of the classroom carpet learning the brush strokes.  We learn about different types of Matcha Bowl sculpting and glazing and we are not allowed to touch the demonstration bowls or the kiln because Professor Roberts was beginning to suspect that some of his students (me)  were suffering from coordination issues. I apply myself with zeal, if not necessarily talent.  I was, at the time, an Art Major, but my professors in the art department had been grading me on a secret "this bitch almost died last semester and is re-learning how to hold a pencil" curve, and boy howdy did I stumble and break leaves and splatter ink like it.

Despite my ongoing unmonitored recovery, Professor Roberts viewed my enthusiastic class participation with rose-colored glasses, and about a week before the ceremony we had a class where he brought out the used Kimonos and Obi and other forms of japanese dress he'd borrowed from the theater department so that we would be traditionally dressed(ish) and experience the ceremony authentically(ish).  While people were trying on clothes to see what would fit, he took me aside and told me he wanted me to be in the position of Most Revered Guest, the person who makes the zen statement upon which the entire event hinges.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" I asked.

"You're the only person who doesn't fall asleep in class and you talked about how the flowers stagger their blooms to not compete for the bees- you're perfectly engaged and conscious of the seasons!" He said, blindly. "You will need different shoes though."  He indicated my flip-flops.  "I won't make you learn how to walk in Geta, but nothing with Heels. Ballet flats are fine."

"...These are the only shoes I own." I said.

Professor Roberts stared at me.

"-I used to have a pair of sneakers but I think a homeless guy stole them while I was at the beach last month."

"What?" Roberts blinked.

"He probably needed them more than I do. I'll see if I can borrow some flats."

"...I don't think I've ever met a woman with less than 10 pairs of shoes."  Said Roberts.

"I'm not a woman, I'm and undergrad." I said, still three years away from learning the term 'Nonbinary'.  "Those are Jordan's only pair of shorts, you know." I pointed at my classmate, who had been wearing the one (1) pair of basketball shorts for the entire semester.

"I WASH THEM." Jordan shouted defensively, wearing the longest Men's Kinmo the theater department had, which barely came down to the top of his calves.

"Oh God." Said Roberts, a horrifying new world opening up to him like a tub of Expired sour cream.

*

It was the day of the Ceremony.

The Seasonal Theme we'd worked on was "The Turn Of Summer", and the weather was complying maliciously. 

Normally, Tea Ceremonies are scheduled for the more temperate evening, but due to the school needing to host something in the adjoining cultural center later, we could only use the Tea Garden in the middle of the afternoon, and the summer sun was a sweltering 98 degrees and a similar level of Humidity.  The Camelias were melting.

Where Jordan had difficulty finding a Kimono that suited his ent-like proportions, I'd had the opposite problem and the only Kimono short enough to not trip my Hobbit-sized self was a Child’s size.  My roommate had helped me get into the Kimono and Obi before the ceremony, and leant me a pair of her Ballet Flats, but we discovered an issue- this Kimono was designed for a flat-chested prepubescent youth, and even though I barely scraped 5'0", I had the robust proportions of an Irish Peasant, and the only way to avoid displaying a frankly offensive amount of cleavage was to use the widest Obi we could find and sort of tuck my boobs into it. 

"Hm" I said. "Kind of hard to breathe."

"Yeah, but you're sitting for most of it, right?  It can't last more than an hour, so just like, shuffle and don't talk much?"  She suggested.

To her credit, the first forty-five minutes of the ceremony only involved shuffling through the gardens and not talking while the Tea Master lectured us on some of the finer points of the garden's design. 

But then we got to the Tea House- a small structure only barely able to accommodate the 13 of us, which was in the shade but hotter than the outside because of the roaring fire in the middle of the room, where the water for the Matcha was boiling.  The room was surrounded by a narrow sort of porch, part of which hung over the Koi pond, where several massively overfed carp blurbled expectantly for treats at the arrival of humans. I sat down, legs folded under me like Professor Roberts had insisted, and realized that this pushed the Obi UP, and now my rib cage was being compressed in all directions.

I tried to pay attention to the rest of the ceremony, but two and a half hours is an awfully long time to listen about lecturers you've already heard when your body is undergoing a sort of internal horserace to see if the heatstroke, sciatica pain and numbness, allergies or suffocation-by-compression will cause you to pass out first.  My legs had gone numb below the knee by the time we were done with the flower arrangement.  My entire legs were numb before we were done with the Poem.  By the time the Tea Utensils came out, I was seeing spots of colored light in my vision and could only breathe if I focused on it very, very hard.

But! The ceremony was genuinely interesting! and Professor Roberts was counting on me!  So I did my best not to sway or throw up from watching the Tea Master whisk the Matcha, and dutifully took the bowl with a pair of hands that felt like slabs of ham that I was attempting to puppet from another dimension, and took a sip.

They say that Smell and Taste are far more closely connected to the emotional centers of the brain than any other sense, and I believe it because the instant I inhaled both the grassy, powdery smell, and tasted the moderately viscous bubbly liquid, I experienced an intense flashbulb memory back to a previous late May-

The Year was '98, the place was my elementary school art room, and we'd been using the seasonal hot weather to paint on a massive scale as the art dried quickly- each third-grader had been given a roll of butcher paper, a cheap brush, squirts of non-toxic paint and a water cup, and allowed to go hog-wild on our murals, and the rush of creative energy and the imminent sense of freedom as the semester drew to a close truly embodied the summer of youth, carefree but with an almost psychotic fervor, where lack of care was both freeing and dangerous as you lost track of your surroundings in the act of creation-

Which isn't a bad seasonal-philosophical connection statement to make, but the actual words that came out of my mouth were:



"Wow. This tastes exactly like paint."



The first sound I heard after the moment of silence was the cartoonishly loud gasp of horror from Professor Roberts, which was almost immediately drowned out by the thunderclap of laughter from the Tea Master, slapping his thighs and wiping tears from his face, unable to stop. I desperately tried to explain the connection between the fact I might be dying of heat stroke right now, and how I ended up drinking my paint water back in Mrs. Krantz's art class because back then I was also dying of heat stroke, but mostly ended up wheezing half-formed sentences as the rest of the class took sips and offered opinions varying between "Wow, that's thick. Like a Hot smoothie." and "Oh yeah, it tastes like summer. Like how a freshly-mowed lawn smells like summer." Professor Roberts slowly melted into a pile of shame, and the Tea Master slapped him on the back, still howling with laughter.

"They're honest! Nobody else will be honest!  This is magnificent!"  he wheezed.

Eventually, everyone had their taste, and the ceremony was concluded.  The second the Tea Master had packed up his tools and stepped outside for a breath of fresh air, Professor Roberts was in my face.

"HOW COULD YOU SAY THAT?" he hissed, grabbing my arm and pulling me up. "GO APOLOGIZE RIGHT NOW!"  he shoved me out onto the porch where the Tea Master was looking at the Koi, who had started bubble-begging aggressively again.

Except that my legs felt like blocks of wood that my pelvis was renting from another planet where legs hadn’t been invented yet, my vision was entirely static between the dehydration and lack of oxygen, and my vestibuar system had fucked off an hour ago, leaving me to stay upright by purely by the virtue of the over-tightened Obi.  So instead of bowing and apologizing profusely like my professor expected, what I actually did was stumble out of the room, say something like "Hsdfkf" and topple head-first into the koi pond.

Fortunately, the impact of the bottom of the pond with the top of my skull activated a sort of last-resort emergency self preservation system and I inhaled with enough force to break the Obi-Jime and probably a couple ribs from the pain that hit both my sides like lightning.  Unfortunately, the thing I was inhaling was fish-shit riddled Pond Water, so my emergency self-preservation system ordered an even harder Exhale. 

The Tea Master, to his immense credit, had immediately jumped in after me, and pulled me upright just in time for me to forcibly exhale half a gallon of rancid pond water directly into his face, then start screaming.  Screaming is an extremely appropriate reaction to have when injured, because it alerts everyone that you require medical attention, but is very unpleasant to experience from four inches away, which is probably why he then immediately dropped me.

Fortunately the pond wasn't very deep and this time I sat there, scream-gasping as my lungs reinflated, Koi fish burbling and sucking at me with tremendous excitement, until the EMT from the campus clinic arrived, a vanguard before the actual ambulance.

"Okay uh. You're bleeding." he said, cautiously wading into the pond.

I opened my eyes to find that I had apparently acquired a large and profusely bleeding head wound, which had activated some long-suppressed Shark Instincts in the Koi, which were eagerly gumming at the streams of blood and trying to suck on my forehead. "Good thing they don’t have teeth." I said in the distant bliss that only zen masters and people with serious head injuries get to experience.

"Do you want a towel?" he asked, helping me up.

"No, this is rather refreshing, actually." I said, still absolutely smashed on endorphins, Koi still enthusiastically swarming at my kneecaps.

"I mean like for your-"  the EMT Gestured Vaguely at my torso.

I looked down and realized that not only had I broken the Obi-jime, the entire Obi had come undone and was floating several feet away, and I was only wearing the Kimono, fallen completely off my shoulders and was only being prevented from performing a full Lady Godiva by the valiant efforts of the safety pin my roommate had put in to keep it folded correctly while we figured out the Obi.

"Professor Roberts?" I stood up all the way, soaking wet, bleeding from my forehead with such force as to create actual streams of blood down my face, neck and chest, tits out, and addressed the poor man standing, white-faced on the deck above the pond.  "I don't think I'm going to be in class on Monday-" I paused to fish a small Koi that had gotten trapped in the remains of the now-ruined Kimono, and tossed it back into the pond. "-Can I schedule a make-up exam for the Final?"

"FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, GET IN THE AMBULANCE!" He screamed.

I was x-rayed for a skull fracture, but my lifelong membership to the Lactose Tolerance Club had protected me, and I happily texted my roommate to come pick me up as "They x-rayed my head and found nothing" while the doctor stitched part of my scalp back together.

The following morning, I discovered that Professor Roberts had graded my exam before I took it.  100%. Truly, the best way to get a good grade on your finals is to get a serious head injury.



So, Matcha is not a Tea, in my humble opinion.

Matcha is an Experience.

And sometimes that experience is drinking something almost exactly like paint, ruining an important cultural ceremony, traumatizing your professor,  and introducing a bunch of fish to the taste of human flesh.



***

If this made you laugh, there are more funny stories on My Patreon, or you can help support me by tipping my Ko-Fi. Thank You.

[foone]

Games are kinda weird as a creative medium because it's one of the few where it's possible to be incredibly incompetent at one of the major parts of it (the programming) and it not be noticeable in the end product.

Like, if you're a musician who can't sing or play your instruments worth a damn, that definitely comes across in the final product, no matter how good you are at lyrics or composing.

Making a movie? It doesn't matter how great the script is, if your performers can't act and your cameraman doesn't know which end points towards the action, your movie is going to be noticeably bad.

But games? There are games that have sold a bunch of copies, developed by one person, with brilliant game design, highly playable, not noticeably buggy, but if you look inside them it'll turn out it's just absolute dogshit. They barely are holding up against the strain of just existing.

The kind of game that when the sequel comes out, they just throw it all out instead of reusing any code, because it's all so terrible that it'd be more work to adapt any of it than to just burn it.

That happens so often. But you would never guess it from just playing it. Like, if you think about "badly programmed games" you get things like "skyrim", which is just... Not exactly right.

Skyrim has lots of bugs but that's because it's trying to do so much. It's simulating a huge world with so much interactivity and so many complex interacting systems, that it's almost inevitable that it'll have weird glitches. It'd take so much playtesting and careful bug fixing to make that game glitchless, and they clearly did not do that. The game is known for glitches, but not crashing (unless modded), suggesting their QA approach was "weird unexpected stuff can happen, but the game must continue working".

Or Pokémon red/blue! That game is so glitchy, with so many bugs, but a lot of that is that it is just stuffing way too much game on a tiny cartridge. Its only failing is that of Icarus: it flew too high, too close to the sun, it did too much.

Skyrim and Pokémon gen1 are examples of amazingly coded games, even if they have their glitches.

But there's games that seem to work just fine that are held together with toothpicks and duct tape, at best. They're immensely fragile, and they only work at all because the crash bugs were fixed, painfully and slowly, far more painfully than they would have been if the program had just been designed correctly in the first place.

Just absolute disasters of game programming, but then those games go on to be critically acclaimed and start entire mini-genres because of how influential they were on certain gaming niches.

But you'd never know! That's the weird thing to me.

[citrustan]

slipping through my fingers [1] (myg)

title: will i ever see you again?

pairing: min yoongi x reader genre: dilf!yoongi, exes and co-parents au, angst!, fluff, smut summary: yoongi usually has an explanation for everything. why can't he talk you through this? warnings: [it is important that you read the prologue before this]

It takes you a good five minutes to gather yourself. Yoongi doesn't dare to disturb you.

Still leaned against the wall, you take a few steady breaths.

You don't know why but you don't cry.

The news of him dating another person is enough for you to have an intense breakdown, let alone marrying someone.

This will forever serve as a reminder that you weren't enough for Yoongi.

You kind of just want to go straight to bed. Pretend this never happened. Just deal with it later.

After your break-up, a big part of you always thought you'd end up getting back together. And that no matter how long it takes, Yoongi would be your endgame. He was it for you.

Over the past year, your contact with Yoongi had reduced. He was always busy when you called. Always working.

But now that you think about it, it was you who assumed that he was working. He never claimed he was.

For all you know, he could've been dating.

Pfft. 'Could have.'

He most definitely was.

And he didn't tell you. Not even your friends told you about it.

You don't know what's worse.

You're pushing yourself away from going into a dark place. Where you begin to wonder.

The only question that refuses to budge is: What does she have that you don't?

In all honesty, you wish he never told you. You don't want to know what type of a person his future wife is. You do not want to know if they'd have children together. You do not care if they buy a house together, or if they already have one. You don't want to know.

And you don't want to think about what it'd do to Nao.

When you begin to truly register the possible consequences of Yoongi's marriage, you feel anger. It spreads through your veins in a millisecond.

Had Nao already met this woman? You doubt that because she never told you about it.

Would it be confusing for her to understand what's going on?

Is that woman going to be parenting your child too? You violently shook your head. You won't allow that.

You are her only mother.

The pressure in your chest only deepens the more you think about this.

Yoongi has stolen your peace.

How are you to move on from this? And you hadn't even confronted half of the thoughts you're having. The anger never subsides.

He's going to send you right back to therapy.

"_____?" Yoongi comes looking for you.

You cannot afford to lose your composure in front of him. You don't want to give him more reasons to be grateful for your break-up.

You had to step away for just a bit longer, "I'll be right back."

You were about to turn and hide in your room when you feel Yoongi yanking your arm back.

With a surprised yelp, you pull it back just as forceful.

"Talk to me." Yoongi pleaded with his eyes.

No.

"I...-" You trail off. The words were caught in your throat. I don't want to see you again, ever.

This was such a disaster.

How does one move on from this?

"_____. I'm sorry." He tried again.

Yoongi had it all planned. He was going to sit you down and ease it in on you.

Instead, he chickened out and ended up dropping a bomb on you out of nowhere.

He's usually the more composed one out of the two of you, and he screwed it up.

You sigh, "I don't know why you're apologizing."

After a moment, you swiftly walk away from Yoongi and peek into the living room.

Nao's attention is still on the movie.

"Has she met Nao?"

Yoongi shook his head profusely, "I wanted your permission first."

At this you're confused.

Unable to separate your emotions, you sarcastically laugh. "My permission to let your daughter meet her father's future wife?"

It's like a bell ringing in your mind. Your laugh transitions into a bit of a manic one, "What if I told you no? What happens then?"

Yoongi kept his calm, "Then she won't meet her now." You scoff.

Immediately, you give in, having no interest in continuing this conversation. "Then do whatever you want. She's your daughter too. I can't make decisions for you."

You start to walk away from him when he stops you, "_____. Let's just... talk."

“I don’t want to.” You sternly announce.

This would be a lot easier to handle this if he just got mad at you. It’d be easy to hate him if he were being unreasonable. In all honesty, even then you’d probably never be able to truly hate him.

“_____, I’m sorry,” Yoongi softly brings your attention to him. His eyes were directed towards your feet.

It doesn’t phase you. His blanket apology for whatever happened doesn’t make up for anything.

You want to ask him what he was apologising for. But you don’t really want to go there. Not in front of Nao.

You cannot subject her to this instability anymore than you already have.

“Ask your daughter if she wants to meet your wife,” you spat, “Not me.”

Yoongi knew you were angry. He also knew exactly why. Still, he can’t bring himself to talk you through it. It’s too soon. He needs to let it simmer.

As much as you don’t want him to think (know) that you’re just bitter for very obvious reasons, that ship has already sailed.

You don’t think you can do a whole lot to salvage it. Might as well ride it out for now.

With the risk of sounding pathetic, you turn your body towards him. “How come you’re marrying someone else?”

Yoongi’s mouth opens and closes a few times before he sighs deeply.

“_____...” He coos, “I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt you.”

There's a pause, a moment where the air seems heavy.

The noises from the TV sound muffled. Time slows down for you to hold yourself together.

“I don’t want you to ever doubt yourself, _____.”

That’s not under his control. Hell, you yourself can’t help it.

“I don’t,” you lie.

“I want you to know that it wasn’t an easy decision. I just… She broke me. I don’t know how but I changed.”

…

That’s what you get for respecting his boundaries.

This is a slap in your face. He better not be saying what you think he is.

“She convinced you?” You question him pointedly.

So, you could’ve ‘broken’ him too? So much for not being an overzealous girlfriend slash baby mother.

“No! I just changed my mind about-“

You wouldn’t let him finish, “No.”

“No?” Yoongi was starting to get a little agitated.

“I… don’t want to know.”

“Okay. That’s okay. Let’s talk tomorrow,” Yoongi agreed.

The two of you take a little break from the almost heated conversation you just had.

“I’ll finish up in the kitchen. Are Mimi’s bags packed?”

“Yeah, just need to get her toothbrush after she’s done.”

Your ex-boyfriend’s nickname for your daughter was Mimi, and you preferred Nao. Nao prefers Nao too but she’d never break her daddy’s heart like that.

He gives your arm a subtle squeeze as he moves past you to get back to the kitchen.

You head to Nao’s room to get her bag as she excitedly follows you in.

Turning to her, you tilt your head towards her, “Did you turn the TV off?”  

“Yes! And I unplugged the wire.”

“Good girl.” You give her a genuine smile.

You don’t know what your future is going to look like with Yoongi’s wife in the picture. What if Nao doesn’t like her? What if she doesn’t like Nao?

Your heart drops at the thought of them having a kid. What if she pushes Yoongi to leave you and Nao?

No, he’d never. You’ve got to give him more credit than that.

Wait.

Is she pregnant? Is that why he wants to marry her?

You were pregnant too.

You already know you’re going to kick Taehyung’s ass for not warning you about this new woman in Yoongi’s life.

“MOMMY.” Nao’s scream brings you back.

“I’m sorry! Mama’s here. W-” - “Daddy’s calling.”

Okay. Deep breaths.

“Go on ahead, I’ll bring you your bag.” You then instruct her to brush her teeth at her dad’s.

Nao hugs your waist, burying her head into your side. It tickles a little.

Then, she runs off to find her father.

Soon, you follow her and drop her bag by the door.

Yoongi reappears from the kitchen, drying his hands with a paper towel. He stops in front of you and waits as Nao jams her feet into her pink Crocs.

Seemingly in deep thought, you stand by them. You don’t want to end tonight on a weird note. Even though you’re hurting, you can’t let him see it. For so long, you just assumed you’d find your way back to each other even though you never actively put effort into it.

Now, it seems downright outlandish.

Your next moves are not to save face but an attempt to actually move forward.

“Yoongi!” You call out to him as if he were miles away.

A little startled, he raises a brow at you in question.

“You should introduce them.” You nod, mostly to yourself.

At this, his expression changes. It’s softer and… almost aching.

“And congrats.” You added shyly. “You deserve to be happy.”

Your vision began to blur.

NOOOOOOOOOO. Not now. Please. PLEASE.

You gulp and smile. Yoongi knows the smile. He begins to extend his arms, inching towards you, as if he were about to embrace you.

“Mommy.” Nao winks, blows you a kiss, and runs out of the apartment, breaking whatever moment the two of you just had. You scrunch your brows at the now-empty doorway.

Yoongi scoffs in amazement.

“You should go,” you urge him out of the door, not allowing him to respond to you. “Now. Bye.”

Yoongi simply allows you to push him out, still a little stunned by the two of you.

“Make sure she does her math homework!” You get the last word in as you slam the door in his face.

Had your daughter not distracted you, you don’t know what you’d have done.

₊˚.🎧 ✩｡ underwater by red velvet ₊˚.🎧 ✩｡

note: these song recommendations go great w the story!! u should give it a listen :*

thank u for all the love and attention you've given to this little project 😍

[rayroseu]

The Halloween Ceremony of Briar Valley is very similar to the Lantern Festival in Tangled.

The Lantern Festival was created after the mysterious kidnapping of Baby Rapunzel and the purpose was everyone in the kingdom lights up lanterns in the sky in hopes for the safe return of their princess.

In TWST, I think this festival was created in Briar Valley after the death of Meleanor, and Briar Valley faes lights up lanterns in hopes that her "leftover egg" be finally hatched.

For \~400 years it isn't just Lilia wishing for the stars for Malleus to be born, everyone in Briar Valley prayed for Malleus to hatch safely as well

His birthday is a holiday because it was celebrating the newlyborn dragon but this Lantern Festival of BV is on Halloween because it commemorates Meleanor's death and the desperation of the people for Malleus to 'exist.' That's why now that he's born, it's his duty to light up the lanterns as to imply that he made the "miracles come true/answered the wishes of his people."

Lilia tells this tale on his Halloween Vignette that Malleus is still a kid and an amateur in magic.

So, I'm thinking that this incident was probably a major trauma for Malleus seeing that he harmed his people by destroying houses as people flee away from him in fear that they'll be hurt by him... on the day that's supposed to celebrate his existence after long centuries of praying, he repayed it as first by displaying how powerful and terrifying he is even as a child.

As if he didn't already experience almost killing the castle servants by freezing them to death as a baby... Imagine the first life lesson you'll learn after learning how to walk was "to control your power so that it won't harm others." (What General Lilia implied to him after he cheered him up).

I don't really view that Malleus genuinely likes being all powerful, that's why he craves companionship, because majority of his childhood composed of his own people almost getting killed by him.

Malleus probably feels guilty to convert such The Lantern Festival/Halloween Ceremony into a tragedy. This was a ceremony where people should be glad he's here but how can one be genuinely glad to "have him" after the massive fire incident... 😭

"It will forever be carved in Briar Valley's History"... Unlike the freezing castle incident which happened in private... This was a public disaster where he's always going to be reminded by the scene of Briar Valley burning up because of his flames every Halloween...

That's why when he says this "Halloween is very special", he means it profoundly. It's kind of like a "revised memory" from a Halloween day where people were actually happy and celebrating, and why prior to the Halloween Event, he was so adamant that it should be 'perfect'...

I think there's a tragic tone that Malleus is basically a perfectionist because he often caused disasters when he was a child.

[poppletonink]

Best Quotes From 'If We Were Villains'

"You can justify anything if you do it poetically enough."

"You can't quantify humanity. You can't measure it - not the way you mean to. People are passionate and flawed and fallible. They make mistakes. Their memories fade. Their eyes deceive them."

"I don't know, it's like I look at you and the sonnets make sense. The good ones, anyway."

"Do you blame Shakespeare for any of it?" The question is so unlikely, so nonsensical coming from such a sensible man, that I can't help but suppress a smile. "I blame him for all of it."

'She says, “Were you in love with him?” “Yes,” I say, simply. James and I put each other through the kind of reckless passions Gwendolyn once talked about, joy and anger and desire and despair. After all that, was it really so strange? I am no longer baffled or amazed or embarrassed by it. “Yes, I was.” It’s not the whole truth. The whole truth is, I’m in love with him still.'

'I need language to live like food - lexemes and morphemes and morsels of meaning nourish me with the knowledge that, yes, there is a word for this. Someone else has felt it before.'

'Below was the motto: Per aspera ad astra. I'd heard a variety of translations, but the one I liked best was Through the thorns to the stars.'

"We cracked up. [...] But we didn't really shatter until we were all back together again."

'The clock on the mantel struck twelve, and we stirred, one by one, like seven statues coming to life.'

'Actors are by nature volatile - alchemic creatures composed of incendiary elements, emotion and ego and envy. Heat them up, stir them together, and sometimes you get gold. Sometimes disaster.'

[scripted-downfall]

I swear, with every danmei book I read, the protagonist gets ever more oblivious. I mean, I started out with Wei WuXian of all people, sitting there not knowing that he's pining over his best-bro-bestie (who's also pining over him) until he decides ya know what? marriage bow time! Because that is a completely logical progression!

But then! There's Xie Lian! Who has a mfing Calamity-level ghost pining over him for 800 years --- casually building elaborate temples for his celebrity crush while said disaster god burns down his house --- and who makes out with Hua Cheng "fOr SpIriTuAl PoWeR" on the regular, and who regularly runs across strange characters with one eye covered, a strange red-based colour scheme, and a strange devotion to him, only to run into a certain strange one-eye-covered, red-schemed, devoted Ghost King... and who not only doesn't connect the red-coloured dots, but also comes to the completely sensical conclusion that see how well I can resist the wily temptations of *women*? clearly, the only reason I can't resist the wily temptation that is Hua Cheng is that Guoshi never considered that hot men exist! and also regularly tries "not to bother him" while the latter is vibing --- in the literally vibrating sense --- in Paradise Manor waiting for gege to ask him for help.

AND THEN. Because that! Wasn't! Enough! There's fucking SHEN QINGQIU. (I'm finally reading SVSSS! I finished book 3 and am tracking down 4 now!) Who spends three fricking books simping after Binghe like there's no tomorrow (which, to be fair, he doesn't think there is) because oh holy shit, he's such a white lotus, look at how pure and handsome and powerful, oh god oh fuck, yes he's going to kill me but at least I have the honour of being killed by The Luo Binghe, I'm so lucky, holy shit, wait why isn't he putting together a harem of women?!?!? he's plenty hot and powerful and badass enough??!?!?! and also insists to the very end that oh, no, sir, I'm completely straight. As a ruler. I invented rulers, actually. Because of how straight I am.

AND THEN!! IT SOMEHOW GOT WORSE?!?!? Because I made the mistake of starting The Husky and His White Cat Shizun. And Mo Ran is... well, he puts the "moron" into his name, that's for damn sure. I mean, at least he knows he's into guys from the beginning, but like. My guy. You cannot sit here and say "Obviously, Chu Wanning and I shared a deeply intense hatred" and then wax poetic about how hot and elegant and calm and composed he is for two paragraphs with any degree of credibility At All.

(I'm Thriving. Never before have I had four fixations unlocked at once. My sanity is struggling, but my mind is buzzing and the world is fast.)

[chernabogs]

Styx, Fae, and Malleus—Oh my!

Okay I'm writing this more as a marker for myself because I keep breaking my brain with connecting C6 to C7, but I've included my notes down below to kind of trail through how things might go with the next C7 update. Since the Shroud brothers are back in business, we'll be seeing a lot more of Styx's hand too, so I also wanted to collect as much information (canon) as I can on them too. Because I just think they're neat, and combining all the information makes them that much neater!

Warning for a long-ish post.

All About Styx (Up to C7, April 2024)

Styx, originally serving as just the Watchman before the Age of Gods (which Malleus discusses in C6 part 18),

is an independently operating institution (non-government affiliated) that specifically focuses on research pertaining to blot. According to the welcome video narrated by Idia’s mother and father, Styx covers the following:

Safe use of technomantic technology

Magical power analysis

Preservation of ruins and mage stones

Blot emission reduction

Post OB treatment

Magical disaster prediction systems

Maintaining phantom databases

Styx operates off of the Isle of Woe, an area mostly inaccessible to outsiders due to its status as being below the ocean and only accessible via the Oceanus Gate. Styx is seemingly composed of multiple units and teams, including the Hex Team, with most of the employees living in the residential block of Oceanus and using chariots (technomantic vehicles) to get to the tower. Another unit that Styx controls are the Charon members. These appear to be the equivalent of armed forces under Styx’s command. They specifically act as retrievers of over blotted mages, or more specifically the phantoms involved in the overblot. Magic Marshals and the Arcane Response Unit often handle overblot cases, but in extreme incidents, Charon members step in.

It’s mentioned that they also arrive regardless of if they have authorization from the government of the location the overblot is occurring. 

Regarding the technomantic equipment mentioned, this is what Styx seems to mainly use for all operations, likely due to the nature of its research. Technomantic technology has an ability to almost entirely nullify magic. Although not 100% effective, it was enough to even make Rooks UM limited, forcing him to only track the kidnapped students when there were second breaks in the tech. This tech was also used on the overblot students, with Riddle stating that it’s equivalent to his UM (C6 part 26). 

The tower that Styx operates out of is a large structure located in the centre of the ancient city that was originally attached to the Kingdom of Heroes. Within this tower, Styx keeps phantoms preserved frozen in the lower layers. This area is referred to as Tartarus and hosts approximately 10,000 subjects split into 12 levels. A-class are considered exceedingly dangerous phantoms, according to Ortho. Sector 12 is where the original Phantoms are housed, known as the ‘Titans’. These are three phantoms that have been sealed in Tartarus by the original Jupiter family members since the Age of Gods. 

The system designed to preserve these phantoms is known as the Cerberus System. This encapsulates the entire Isle, not just Styx. According to Idia, mages are taken and housed for testing in this region before being wiped by Lethe, another system operated by Styx that re-wires memories and implants false ones. Interestingly, Lethe works differently on fae than humans due to fae’s long lifespans. Idia states that it’s hard to adjust what information to remove and rewrite without making it obvious that there was an erasure. He does mention Malleus by name when discussing this, but not Lilia. 

All About The Fae in Briar Valley (Up to April 2024, JP Spoilers)

Fae appear to live broadly across Twisted Wonderland, but a large majority do reside in Briar Valley (other additions such as Fairyland/Land of Fairy have been mentioned and seem to host diurnal fae. More of this can be found in the fairy gala events. Diurnal fae are considered to herald the coming of spring with this gala, which ties in with later discussions about fae and nature). Various species were also noted to exist, including:

Dragon fae (note: Dragons are mentioned to have arrived for Meleanor during her youth, however after her passing a decade later it appears that Dragons have either gone underground or extinct across the broader Twisted Wonderland area)

Raven fae

Bat fae

Crocodile fae

Subcategories of crafter fae and the likes exist too, but don’t quite count as species 

There appears to be a hierarchy of value among fae. In one conversation by a Senate member (in Chapter 7, release 6), Lilia is referred to in derogatory terms due to his status as a bat fae. It is unknown if this bias is strictly the Senate member, Briar Valley, or if it spreads across broader fae populations. Fae also appear to have monarchies, although the only two known so far are the Queen of Fairyland and the Draconia Family. Fae also appear to age at different rates (Malleus states infant fae often take 30 years to walk, and it took him 20 years alone to gain his 2-legged form). 

Due to Briar Valley being the major focus of C7, we’ll look at fae in this region specifically. 

For context, constant conflict has arisen between fae and humans, specifically within Briar Valley. A major conflict and large plot point in C7 so far is the conflict between Briar Nation (former name of Briar Valley) and the Silver owls. The Silver Owls, run by Henrik, carried out mining operations throughout Briar Nation without permission from the royal family. Despite the name Silver Owls, it should be noted that they are also called Iron Ones due to their iron weapons and armor. According to Briar Nation soldiers, Silver Owls recklessly endangered fae by driving wildlife into villages in addition to colonizing the region. The Silver Owls (Henrik in particular) are aiming to attain Princess Glow. Henrik stated that he wanted it for his father (unlikely, lbr). Princess Glow appeared to be a gem associated with the Draconia Family that was capable of performing miracles like healing incurable ailments. It’s unknown if this is factual or not, but Meleanor does appear to put value on the gem when discussing it with Lilia. 

Conflict with the Silver Owls extended across several regions in Briar Nation, including:

Verdant Moors (outside the present day borders—confirmed by Sebek in C7)

Canyon of Howling Winds (also called Valley of Howling winds in some translations)

Mystical Mountain/Forbidden Mountain

Thunderclap Mountains

Cape Sunrise 

Tenebrae Forest/Dark Night Forest

Crimson plain

Dragon’s Tail Mountains 

Wild Rose Palace 

Black Scale Palace 

Dragon Capital City (surrounding Black Scale Palace)

Cradle Tower

Note: present day Briar Valley is situated farther up north and is said to have a cold climate for the most part, including particularly harsh winters (confirmed by Silver in release 4 of C7). Double note: Names may be susceptible to change with EN release. 

The conflict ended with Meleanor and Levan (Malleus’ parents) allegedly dead. Fae ceased intermingling with humans likely after this conflict according to Lilia in C6 part 18, leaving to heavy deficits in the validity of history surrounding the fae. This also means that a lot of human history books miss history that fae may have personally experienced or have to share (as spoken by Trein and Lilia). 

In terms of powers, fae in Twisted Wonderland seem to rely on nature a great deal for their magical abilities. Idia’s father discusses the extent of what some fae can do due to their connection with ancient magic, including mentioning how fae have had control over climate change and diastrophism since the Age of Myths (presumably predating the Age of Gods). Malleus’ ability to alter the world in a designated area falls under this category. He is stated to have magic tied to the earth itself. Idia’s mother also mentions that fae can also draw magical energy from nature itself, building on Idia’s fathers statement about how fae’s magic directly connects to the earth. Generally, fae with elemental connections can do this, which proposes the idea that Malleus has such an ability. 

It also appears that fae can lend this magic to humans. The Knight of Dawn frequently calls upon the blessings of diurnal fae to aid him in his fights throughout C7 (note: he says 'fairy guardians', so this could be just this specific instance). 

So… what’s up with chapter 7, as of April 2024? (JP Spoilers)

Well… Malleus over blotted. Inconvenient, absolutely. Fortunately, his grandmother snitched and gave all of his information over to Styx, allowing them to formulate somewhat of a plan to use.

We know specifically that the Arcane Response Unit is unable to get access to Malleus through the thorns because, should the thorn wall be penetrated or collapse, it will kill whoever is caught inside of it. At the moment, ARU is likely on the borders of Malleus’ thorn wall while Ortho (acting as a stand-in Charon member, in this case) deals with the issue. Anyone who gets too close to the thorns (fae or human) are also being sucked into the barrier. 

Silver, Sebek, Yuu and Grim are currently travelling through various dreams. This allowed some insight on fae (see Fae in Briar Valley for more) as well as the abilities that they possess. Ortho has pulled the group into Idia’s dream, stating that Malleus is using all resources to keep Lilia asleep. Ortho was able to penetrate into the barrier using a counter-spell barrier and ethereal slicers, in addition to a magical cannon honed by Styx. 

We also know it’s confirmed that Malleus needs to either voluntarily end his spell or die in order to actually cause the barriers to drop. 

What might happen, then? (JP Spoilers)

Who knows! Yana likes to keep us on our toes. That being said, one of the biggest takeaways that came from this is the technology (technomantic) that Styx has access to, as well as what fae seem to rely on to continually use their magic. Styx’s access to technology that can almost entirely nullify magic in combination with their isolation from ‘nature’ (based on the brutalism architecture their facility had) could be two avenues of mitigating Malleus enough to at least let the students get an upper hand. 

However, Styx also did confirm that their technomantic equipment was not having as good of an effect on Malleus’ barrier as they anticipated. If technomantic equipment were to be used on Malleus, it would need to be something advanced, like Ortho’s Cerberus gear, but on a larger scale. Ortho has already shown that Malleus’ magic is ineffective when faced with the type of tech that Ortho is equipped with, positing the idea that this can be an avenue to take. In the battle with Ortho, Malleus does appear to freeze up and misses a hit. 

The comment about Malleus needing to break the spell himself was emphasized a lot in this section. Styx confirmed they’ll reach out to Queen Maleficia to see if she can persuade Malleus to drop the spell, but they’re also convincing the dreamers to persuade Malleus as well. 

So… it seems like a triple whammy of tech, Maleficia, and guilt tripping as a way to take Malleus down. Exciting!!

[hd-junglebook]

It's Always Been You

Part 3

Previous Chapter ... Next Chapter

Word Count - 4,855

A:N this isn't exactly what I pictured for this chapter, but it goes into more detail about their feelings. Which idk about you, but I have been dying to figure out.

Y/N stepped out of the apartment building, the cold night air whipping at her face and stinging her tear-stained cheeks. She took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to compose herself as she made her way down the sidewalk, her heels clicking against the pavement.

As she approached the curb, she saw a sleek grey Mercedes parked along the street, its engine idling softly. The driver's side door opened, and a tall, handsome man stepped out, a concerned expression on his face as he hurried to greet her.

"Hi," he said, his voice warm and slightly hesitant. "Are you alright? I got scared you were gonna ditch me out here."

Y/N forced a laugh, the sound hollow and brittle to her own ears. She felt a pang of guilt at the concern in his voice. If only he knew how close she had come to canceling.

How the thought of walking back into that apartment and facing Jack again made her stomach churn with a sickening mixture of heartbreak and humiliation.

She swallowed hard, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill over once again.

But she couldn't bring herself to do it, couldn't bear the thought of spending another night alone in her room, crying herself to sleep over a man who would never love her the way she wanted him to.

So instead, she pasted on a smile, straightening her shoulders with false bravado, hoping that the dim streetlights would hide the redness of her eyes and the tremor in her hands.

"No, no, I wouldn't do that," she said, her voice falsely bright. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a nervous habit.

"I'm sorry if I kept you waiting. I just had a little trouble finding my keys." The lie tasted bitter on her tongue.

Liam studied her face for a moment, his blue eyes searching hers. His brow furrowed with concern. "Are you sure? You look upset." He reached out tentatively, his fingertips grazing her arm in a comforting gesture.

Y/n hesitated, chewing on her lower lip as she debated whether to tell him the truth. She had only matched with Liam a while ago, and the last thing she wanted was to burden him with her problems.

But there was something about his gentle, caring demeanor that made her feel safe and understood. She met his gaze, seeing only kindness and warmth reflected back at her.

"It's nothing," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. She averted her gaze, focusing on a crack in the sidewalk. "Me and my roommate just had a disagreement. Happens all the time." The words felt flimsy, a poor attempt to downplay the depth of her pain.

Liam's expression softened, and he reached out to take her hand in his. His touch was warm and comforting, a stark contrast to the icy cold that surrounded them.

"I'm sorry, Y/N. I hope tonight makes you feel better." He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in a soothing gesture.

Y/N nodded, blinking back fresh tears. She drew in a shaky breath, trying to compose herself. "I'm sure it will Liam." She managed a small, grateful smile, hoping it reached her eyes.

The man smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he held out his hand to her. "No worries," he said, his voice warm and reassuring.

"I'm just glad you're here. I've been looking forward to this all week." His excitement was palpable, his eyes sparkling with anticipation.

Y/N felt a flicker of warmth in her chest at his words, a tiny spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, this night wouldn't be a complete disaster.

She hesitated for a brief moment before placing her hand in his, letting him help her into the car, the leather seats cool and smooth against her bare legs. The simple chivalrous gesture made her feel cared for, a welcome change from the emptiness that had consumed her.

As they climbed into the warmth of the Mercedes, Y/N felt a flicker of something she hadn't felt in a long time: hope. Maybe, just maybe, Liam could help her forget about Jack, even for a little while.

She glanced over at him as he settled into the driver's seat, admiring the strong line of his jaw and the way his hands gripped the steering wheel with easy confidence.

they drove away from the curb, Y/N leaned her head back against the headrest, her eyes drifting closed as she tried to block out the memory of Jack's words, the look of pity and regret on his face as he shattered her heart into a million tiny pieces. She forced herself to take deep, even breaths, focusing on the present moment and the possibility of a fresh start.

.…

Jacks POV

Jack stormed back into the apartment, slamming the door behind him with a force that rattled the walls. His heart heart throbbed violently, a nauseating mixture of anger, jealousy, and regret churning in his stomach as he replayed the conversation with Y/N over and over again in his mind.

He paced the length of the living room, his hands clenched into fists at his sides as he tried to calm the rage that threatened to consume him. The apartment felt too small, too cramped, the walls closing in on him as he struggled to breathe past the lump in his throat.

Everywhere he looked, he saw reminders of Y/N - the soft grey blanket she always curled up with on movie nights, the stack of her favorite books on the coffee table, the framed picture of the two of them at graduation, their arms around each other and their smiles wide and carefree.

He picked up the picture and stared at it for a long moment, his heart aching. He couldn't believe that everything was over. They had been together for so long, he couldn't imagine his life without her. He threw the picture across the room, where it shattered against the wall.

He sank down on the couch, his head in his hands.

With a growl of frustration, Jack snatched up his phone, his fingers shaking as he opened the tracking app and searched for Y/N's location. He knew it was wrong, knew that he had no right to invade her privacy like this, but he couldn't help himself. He needed to know where she was, needed to know that she was safe.

The app showed her moving through the city, the little red dot that represented her weaving through the streets at a steady pace. Jack watched it for a long moment, his heart clenching with every passing second, before he finally tore his eyes away, disgusted with himself.

He stalked into the kitchen, his mind racing as he tried to think of something, anything, to distract himself from the pain that threatened to tear him apart.

His eyes fell on the recipe box that Y/N had brought with her when she moved in, the faded index cards inside filled with her grandmother's handwriting and the smells of childhood memories.

Before he knew what he was doing, Jack pulled the box open and flipped through the cards, his fingers tracing the loops and whorls of each letter.

He stopped at a card that had 'Grandma's Best Chocolate Chip Cookies' written in large, loopy letters. It was Y/N's favorite recipe, the one she always used to make when she was feeling down or just wanted to fill the house with the scent of home.

Jack was pulling out ingredients, his hands moving on autopilot as he measured and mixed and stirred, his movements slow and deliberate. He measured the flour and sugar, added the butter and eggs, and then stirred in the chocolate chips.

The smell of vanilla and cinnamon filled the air, the warm, comforting scent of Y/N's favorite cookies wrapping around him like a hug.

Jack took a deep breath, willing himself to calm down. He could do this. He could make these cookies, and maybe, just maybe, it would help him to feel a little bit closer to Y/N.

But even as he worked, his mind wouldn't let him rest. He kept seeing the look on Y/N's face as he told her he didn't feel the same way, the way her eyes had filled with tears and her lips had trembled with the effort of holding back a sob.

He kept hearing the sound of her heels clicking on the floor as she walked away from him, the finality of it like a knife to the heart.

The cookies came out of the oven, golden brown and perfect, but Jack barely noticed. He was too busy pacing the length of the kitchen, his phone clutched in his hand as he checked Y/N's location over and over again, watching as the little red dot moved further and further away from him.

The hours ticked by, the night deepening outside the windows as Jack lost himself in his thoughts. The apartment was a mess, the kitchen counter covered in flour and sugar and dirty mixing bowls, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

All he could think about was Y/N, and the way he had ruined everything with his cowardice and his fear.

Finally, as the first rays of dawn began to peek through the curtains, Jack collapsed onto the couch, his body exhausted and his heart heavy with the weight of his mistakes.

He closed his eyes, the image of Y/N's tear-stained face burned into his mind like a brand, a reminder of everything he had lost and everything he had thrown away.

Jack knew that he had no one to blame but himself, knew that he had let his own insecurities and doubts get in the way of something that could have been beautiful.

And now, as he lay there in the silence of the empty apartment, the smell of vanilla and cinnamon still lingering in the air, he couldn't help but wonder if he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

…

Jack stood at the edge of the rink, his eyes glued to his phone as he refreshed Y/N's location for what felt like the hundredth time that day.

Three days had passed since their argument, three days since she had walked out of the apartment and out of his life, and he still hadn't heard a word from her.

He had texted her countless times, his messages ranging from frantic apologies to desperate pleas for her to come home. But every time, he was met with silence, the little blue checkmarks next to his messages taunting him with their unresponsiveness.

The sound of skates scraping against the ice jolted him out of his thoughts, and he looked up to see Nico gliding towards him, a concerned expression on his face. Jack quickly shoved his phone into his pocket, hoping that his teammate hadn't noticed the way his hands were shaking.

"What's wrong with you, Jack?" Nico asked, his thick Swiss accent making the words sound even more blunt than they already were. "Did you break up with your girlfriend again?"

Jack flinched at the question, his heart clenching painfully in his chest. If only it were that simple, he thought bitterly. If only he had a girlfriend to break up with, instead of a best friend he had driven away with his own stupidity and cowardice.

"No," he said, his voice rough and hoarse from lack of sleep. "It's not that. It's... it's Y/N."

Nico's eyebrows shot up in surprise, his eyes widening as he took in the dark circles beneath Jack's eyes and the gauntness of his cheeks. "Y/N?" he repeated, his voice laced with confusion. "What happened with Y/N?"

Jack sighed, his shoulders slumping as he ran a hand through his hair. He hadn't told anyone about the argument, hadn't wanted to admit to the world how badly he had screwed things up.

But standing there on the ice, with Nico looking at him with such concern and understanding, he felt the words spilling out of him before he could stop them.

"I messed up," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I told her I didn't feel the same way about her, and now she's gone. She hasn't come home in three days, and she won't answer any of my texts or calls. I don't know what to do."

“You idiot,” he said, but his voice lacked any real malice. “Why would you say something like that to her? You know how much she cares about you.”

“I know,” Jack said miserably. “I just... I panicked. I didn't know what to say, and I didn't want to hurt her. But I guess I did anyway.”

Nico was silent for a moment, his eyes searching Jack's face as if he were trying to read the truth behind his words. Finally, he spoke, his voice gentle but firm.

"Jack," he said, his hand coming up to rest on his teammate's shoulder. "I know you care about Y/N, but you can't keep doing this to yourself. You need to give her space, need to let her come to you when she's ready."

Jack shook his head, his eyes stinging with the threat of tears. "I can't," he said, his voice cracking with emotion. "I can't lose her, Nico. She's my best friend, the most important person in my life. I don't know how to be without her."

Nico sighed, his eyes softening with sympathy. "I know," he said, his voice almost tender. "But you can't force her to forgive you, Jack. You have to let her come to that decision on her own. And in the meantime, you need to focus on taking care of yourself. You're no good to anyone if you're running yourself into the ground like this."

Jack knew that Nico was right, knew that he couldn't keep going on like this. But the thought of letting go, of giving up on the one person who meant everything to him, made his chest ache with a pain that felt almost physical.

"I don't know if I can do that," he said, his voice barely audible over the sound of his own heartbeat. "I don't know if I'm strong enough."

Nico smiled, his hand squeezing Jack's shoulder in a gesture of comfort and support. "You are," he said, his voice filled with quiet confidence.

"You're one of the strongest people I know, Jack. And you're not alone in this. Your team is here for you, and we'll support you every step of the way."

Jack felt a rush of gratitude at his teammate's words, a tiny flicker of hope sparking to life in his chest. He knew that the road ahead would be long and difficult, that there would be days when the pain would feel like too much to bear.

But with his friends by his side, and the memory of Y/N's smile to guide him, he knew that he could find his way back to the light, no matter how dark the path might seem.

"Thanks, Nico," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Nico grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Probably drive yourself crazy," he said, his tone teasing. "But that's what friends are for, right?"

Jack laughed, the sound weak and watery, but genuine, nonetheless. And as he stepped back onto the ice, his skates cutting through the smooth surface with a newfound sense of purpose.

…

y/n’s POV

Y/N sat on Liam's couch, her phone clutched in her hand as she scrolled mindlessly through her social media feeds. The apartment was quiet, the only sound the distant hum of the shower running in the bathroom. She tried to focus on the pictures and posts flashing across her screen, but her mind kept drifting back to the one person she was trying so hard to forget.

Jack.

The name echoed in her mind like a heartbeat, a constant reminder of the pain and heartbreak she had left behind. It had been three days since she had walked out of their apartment, three days since she had last seen his face or heard his voice.

And yet, he was still there, lurking in the corners of her mind like a ghost she couldn't shake.

She knew that she was just using Liam as a distraction, a way to numb the ache in her chest and forget about the hole in her heart. But he was a good one, always there with a smile and a joke whenever she needed it most.

Whenever she found herself slipping back into thoughts of Jack, Liam would appear at her side, his presence a comforting reminder that she wasn't alone.

Y/N sighed, her fingers hovering over her phone screen as she debated whether to check Jack's social media. She knew it was a bad idea, knew that seeing his face would only make the pain worse. But a part of her couldn't help but wonder what he was doing, couldn't help but hope that maybe, just maybe, he was thinking of her too.

Before she could give in to the temptation, the sound of Liam's voice broke through her thoughts.

"I'm gonna hop in the shower, Y/N," he called out, his footsteps echoing down the hallway as he grabbed some clothes from his bedroom.

Y/N looked up from her phone, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Okay, don't take too long," she called back, her voice light and teasing.

She heard the bathroom door click shut, and then the sound of the shower turning on, the water pattering against the tiles in a steady rhythm. Y/N leaned back against the couch cushions, her eyes drifting closed as she tried to push away the thoughts of Jack that still lingered in her mind.

But even as she sat there, surrounded by the warmth and comfort of Liam's apartment, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing. The ache in her chest was still there, a constant reminder of the love she had lost and the friendship she had left behind.

Jack's absence left a void that no amount of distraction could fill, and Y/n was beginning to realize that she needed to confront her feelings head-on. The sound of running water filled the room, Y/n closed her eyes, steeling herself for the inevitable confrontation with her emotions.

Her phone pinging broke the silence of his living room. "can’t wait to see you! mom and I gonna pick you up from the airport." The text from Luke read.

Y/N's heart sank as she read the text message, the words on the screen a stark reminder of the life she had left behind. In the whirlwind of emotions and distractions of the past few days, she had completely forgotten about their planned weekend trip back to Michigan.

She cursed under her breath, her mind already racing with the logistics of packing and getting to the airport on time. A glance at the clock on the wall told her it was already 10:30, and she knew that Jack would likely be home by now, probably wondering where she was and why she hadn't come back.

With a sigh, Y/N threw her phone into her purse and made her way over to the bathroom door. She hesitated for a moment, her hand hovering over the wood as she debated what to say. Finally, she knocked softly, her voice barely audible over the sound of the running water.

"Hey Liam," she called out, her tone apologetic. "I totally forgot I have a weekend trip to pack for. I need to head out."

There was a pause, and then the sound of the shower curtain being pulled back. Liam peeked his head out, his hair damp and his skin glistening with water droplets. He had a small smile on his lips, but Y/N could see the disappointment lurking in his eyes.

"Oh, okay," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "Do you need a ride? I can take you."

Y/N hesitated, the offer tempting in its simplicity. It would be so easy to let Liam drive her home, to put off the inevitable confrontation with Jack for just a little while longer.

But she knew that she couldn't keep running forever, knew that eventually, she would have to face the music and deal with the consequences of her actions.

"No, that's okay," she said, her voice soft but firm. "I can take a cab. I don't want to put you out."

Liam shook his head, his smile widening. "Don't be silly," he said, his tone light and teasing. "I was just getting out anyway. Let me drive you back home."

Y/N felt a rush of gratitude at his words, a warmth spreading through her chest at the kindness and generosity of his offer. She knew that she was lucky to have him in her life, knew that he would always be there for her, no matter what the future might hold.

"Okay," she said, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Thank you, Liam. I really appreciate it."

Liam grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Anything for you, Y/N," he said, his voice filled with a fondness that made her heart ache. "Just give me a minute to get dressed, and we'll be on our way."

Y/N nodded, her throat tight with emotion as she watched him disappear back into the bathroom. She knew that the road ahead would be long and difficult, that there would be moments of doubt and uncertainty.

And as she stood there, waiting for Liam to emerge from the bathroom, she couldn't help but feel a flicker of hope igniting in her chest.

Maybe, just maybe, the journey ahead would lead her back to the place she had always called home, back to the love that had always been waiting for her, just out of reach.

…

The hallway was shrouded in darkness, the only light coming from the soft glow of the emergency exit sign at the end of the corridor. Her footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor, each step bringing her closer to the door of the apartment she shared with Jack.

Y/N's heart raced as she stepped out of the elevator, the familiar scent of home filling her nostrils.

Liam followed close behind her, his presence a comforting warmth at her back. Y/N could feel the heat of his body radiating through the thin fabric of her shirt, and for a moment, she allowed herself to lean into him, to draw strength from his solid, steady presence.

But just as they were about to reach the door, Liam's hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around Y/N's wrist and pulling her back towards him. She let out a gasp of surprise, her heart leaping into her throat as she spun around to face him.

In the dim light of the hallway, Liam's face was shadowed, his features obscured by the darkness. But Y/N could still see the glint of his eyes, the curve of his lips as he smiled down at her. His breath ghosted across her cheek, warm and slightly sweet, like he had just taken a sip of hot cocoa.

Y/N's heart raced as Liam pulled her closer, his arm wrapping around her waist like a coil of heat. The hallway was shrouded in darkness, the only light coming from the soft glow of the elevator buttons behind them.

The air was thick with the scent of stale cigarette smoke and the faint aroma of cleaning products, a sharp contrast to the warm, spicy scent of Liam's cologne.

His face was mere inches from hers, his eyes dark and intense in the dim light. Y/N's heart pounded in her chest, the sound so loud that she was sure he could hear it too.

"I had a great few days with you," Liam murmured, his voice low and husky. His fingers trailed up her spine, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. Y/N shivered, her skin tingling with a mixture of anticipation and nerves.

She knew that she should pull away, knew that this was a dangerous game to play. But there was something about the way Liam looked at her, something about the heat in his gaze and the strength of his touch, that made her feel alive in a way she hadn't felt in a long time.

The world around them seemed to fade away, the sound of the elevator and the hum of the fluorescent lights receding into the background.

All Y/N could focus on was the warmth of Liam's body against hers, the way his fingers tangled in her hair and his breath mingled with her own.

She didn't hear the soft ding of the elevator arriving on their floor, didn't hear the sound of footsteps echoing down the hallway. All she could hear was the pounding of her own heart, the rush of blood in her ears as Liam leaned in closer, his lips hovering just above her own.

Her head was spinning, her heart pounding with a mixture of anger, frustration, and desperation. It was time to stop chasing after a dream that would never come true, time to stop pining for a man who would never see her as anything more than a friend.

And in that moment, something inside her snapped. Before she could think twice, Y/N reached up and grabbed Liam's face, pulling him down to her level and crashing her lips against his.

The kiss was hot and hungry, filled with all the pent-up frustration and longing that had been building inside her for so long. Y/N poured everything she had into that kiss, every ounce of emotion and desire and desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, she could find with Liam what she had always wanted with Jack.

But even as Liam's arms wrapped around her waist, even as his tongue tangled with hers and his hands roamed over her body, Y/N knew that it wasn't enough.

The spark that she felt with Jack, the electricity that crackled between them every time they touched, was conspicuously absent.

Kissing Liam was nice, but it didn't set her soul on fire the way Jack's mere presence did.

Finally, Y/N pulled back, her chest heaving and her lips swollen. She looked up at Liam, her eyes searching his face for some sign of the connection she so desperately craved.

But all she saw was a man who cared for her, who wanted to be there for her, but who could never make her feel the way Jack did.

"I'll see you when I get back, Liam," she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion. "Three days. And I’ll come home."

Liam's face softened, his hands coming up to cup her cheeks. "Okay, Y/N," he murmured, his voice gentle and understanding. "Don’t forget about me." And so, with a final, shuddering breath, Y/N pulled back from Liam's embrace, her eyes shining with a new determination.

"Y/N?"

Y/N's shoulders tensed, her heart leaping into her throat as she spun around to face the source of the sound. And there, standing at the end of the hallway, his face a mask of shock and hurt, was Jack.

The sight of him hit her like a punch to the gut, the air rushing out of her lungs in a sharp gasp. He looked tired and worn, his hair disheveled and his eyes rimmed with red.

Even in the dim light of the hallway, she could see the pain etched into every line of his face, the betrayal and confusion swirling in his gaze.

"Jack," she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. "What are you doing here?"

But even as the words left her lips, she knew they were a mistake. She could see the anger flashing in Jack's eyes, the way his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

In that moment, she knew that whatever fragile peace they had managed to maintain over the past few days was about to come crashing down around them.

The hallway suddenly felt too small, the walls closing in on her like a vice. The scent of cigarette smoke and cleaning products was overwhelming, making her head spin and her stomach churn. And still, Jack stood there, his gaze boring into hers like a laser, his presence a physical force that she could feel in every cell of her body.

Y/N opened her mouth to speak, to try to explain or apologize or beg for forgiveness. But before she could get a word out she thought back to their fight. The things jack had said to her in this same cover of darkness.

Jack brushed past, his steps leading him into the apartment, the door slamming shut behind him with a resounding thud. Y/N felt like she had been punched in the gut, the air rushing out of her lungs in a sharp gasp.

…

Tag List <3

@favsrachz @jacktoria4ever @bunbunbl0gs @ivy-34 @rebelatbay

[lovelykhaleesiii]

Can I put this in as a request? 🤭

omg omg omg I imagined this too!!! how hot would it be fucking him on the way to his coronation in that little ass carriage + that bumpy road ughh. the thots I had during that scene, UNHOLY!

Merciless or Ruthless?

PAIRING: Aegon ii Targaryen x Wife!fem!Reader

WORDS: 2,019.

WARNINGS: degradation kink, name-calling, praise kink, breeding/pregnancy kink, brief mentions of implied pregnancy, mentions of p in v sexual intercourse, slight exhibitionism, swearing.

A/N - I may have gotten slightly carried away with this. but he deserves it <3 hope you enjoy lovely x

The inevitability of death could be a comforting notion of peace to some, and yet marks a heavy burden of loss, sorrow and responsibility on others. King Viserys, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhonyar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, or more commonly dotted as Viserys the Peaceful, had passed peacefully in his sleep.

His death was one that many held their breaths anticipating in the final previous months, considering the haste deterioration of the king's ill health. Nonetheless, during these months of anticipation, whispers of preparation had begun to churn behind the back of the sickly King, plans to anoint his eldest son, your dearly beloved husband, Aegon the Second of His Name, as King of the Realm.

Regardless of such talks, Aegon remained blissfully oblivious to it all. Relishing in the banquets and spoils of royalty, he remained keen and satisfied as Prince, and from time to time, expressed the notion of respecting his elder half-sister, Rhaenyra, as the rightful Queen.

It was only with you, that Aegon openly delved deeper into his reluctance of being adorned as King, expressing a distaste for the role and the heavy burden.

"I have no wish to rule...Only to wine, dine and fuck you senseless and raw, till you are practically dripping of me."

As his faithful and devoted wife, you ultimately respected and supported his well wishes. No desire to dissuade him further, despite the conniving tactics employed by his mother and grandsire, who often urged you to encourage him to seek and accept the duty of the Crown. You denied their efforts, remaining stagnant to Aegon's choice.

That was until Viserys' death began to ignite a ripple of chaos...

"A-Aeg... You've been distant all morning. Talk to me, my love."

You had awoken beside Aegon that morning, although he was not the same... His last few pending hours as Prince, before his looming coronation, was he to be anointed as King. Having quarrelled tirelessly against his grandsire, mother and liege council, he was outnumbered and ultimately defeated... More so, it was after his discrete one on one talk with Ser Criston, that seemed to shove Aegon into accepting his fate, without even so uttering a rebuttal.

"I am not fit to rule, Y/N... Everyone knows it, I know it. This is going to be a disaster, and Nyra, I-"

He pauses as his breath hitches in his throat, gulping as he composes himself, his lilac eyes swell, glistening in the streaks of sunlight, yet no tears fallen: his lounged body swayed in motion to the rocking carriage.

"-I know what is expected of me, but I doubt myself."

"Aeg- It is just nerves, my dear. We'll take it step by step, day by day, I promise-"

Reaching out, your arm stretches over as you lean towards your Targaryen husband. Your gentle hand firmly holding his, as your thumb caresses his pale skin. The colour in his face has faded, except for the dark circles embedded beneath his lower lash line. Despite your encouraging words, and half-hearted smile, you earned a simple shrug and huff, as Aegon continued to longingly look onwards towards the bustling crowds gathering and trodding towards the Hill of Rhaenys.

"Please Aeg- Is there anything I can do in my power, my love? I cannot bear to see you in such a miserable state for longer."

Silence remained still for a few sparing seconds, before Aegon's tiresome eyes sparked with a familiar yearn. Flickering from your seated position towards your entwined hands, taking a deep breath before he dared to speak.

"Do me the honour, of fucking me one last time as a Prince. Do it for me, as a gift to your King."

You could not deny, nor did your body try to hide it, you were taken aback in shock by his demand.

"Right now? Here? Aeg- Can this not wait for after the coronation, mayhaps back in bed-"

"Please, Y/N... Unorthodox I know, but when have we not been? It would really help to calm my nerves, baby. If I could just feel you, let me be with you. You always know how to make me feel better."

Exhaling a defeated sigh, you lean back, pulling aside a curtain shading a small window through the carriage, and see there is still much a way ahead, along with all the disrupting foot traffic.

Carefully standing up as you felt your stance unsteady attempting to pull up the rich, silk layers of your custom gown up. The cobbled road beneath the wheeled carriage strewed with potholes and uneven surfaces, made it near impossible to stand still. Immediately your hand instinctively reaches, latching and gripping onto Aegon's sturdy shoulder, as he remains comfortably seated. His arm reaches over to you, supporting your waist, as your other hand grips onto his forearm, as you nestle yourself atop his wide lap, as he slightly readjusts himself.

"Is this what you wanted, hmm? Want your pretty, little wife's cunt on your cock to make you feel better? You are worse than the whores out there-" You head tilts gesturing towards the Street of Silk in passing by, often where your young husband would venture during his bachelor days. Your fingers begin to find their way to his tussled, short hair, pulling at his platinum strands. Although he was dressed and prepped dutifully this morning, it still looked somewhat unkempt. You pursue his soft lips, eager as you delve in for a kiss, Aegon succumbing to it, trying desperately to hold for as long as possible, before you break apart, both of you breathless.

His familiar taste tinged with the essence of wine lingering, etched on your lips as you savour it, your focus remaining solely on one another. Each of your hands remain gripped to his shoulders, your body weight atop of Aegon's kept him steady during the rocky ride, as you swayed in motion. The haste, harsh turns made you grind against your husband's clothed lap: sensing a brewing, hungry twitch growing more blatant beneath your bare, throbbing cunt.

"I can feel you stirring, handsome... Such a needy Prince today, aren't you? Gods help me, when you are crowned King. I shall be at your beckon call day and night," You breathlessly utter closely into the elder Prince's ear. Aegon's rough hands firmly clutched at your hips, guiding your natural movements, as you buck backwards and forwards against his larger frame. The friction was palpable, as the heat infused between your inner thighs over his crotch.

"That you will be. I'll have you bent and fucked stupid over that fucking throne when I want... The only perks I shall relish in as King. Keeping you safe and sated," Aegon lowly whispered, an almost fearsome growl echoed in his throat.

"Is that so? Ugh- I must say, dear husband... To see you crowned and seated almighty on that throne, ordering us subjects below you. I might just faint at the sheer sight."

A snarling chuckle escaped his plump lips, as his hands glided over towards your front, pulling the hem further up, exposing your undergarments. Without so much as a warning, and with such swift strength, Aegon tore the piece of fabric apart.

"Just the thing I needed to cheer me up, and look at you--"

Aegon's thick digits teasing at your arousal, gently encircling your entrance as he attempted to pry you open, before hungrily licking your sweet taste off his fingers.

"Already making such a wet mess, who exactly is the whore now? I've barely touched you, and your body desperately craves for my cock, huh?"

"Mhmm-" You whimper, as Aegon elevated himself, unbuttoning his clean trousers, his stiff cock lively springing into action.

"Tell your King exactly what you want, baby... Tell your King and I shall listen. Mayhaps I will be merciful and grant you what you desire, or be ruthless."

His hard, strained cock, red and glistening enticingly with his pre-cum oozing at the tip, appeared aching for release. Teasingly stroking at the entrance of your moist folds, feeling its pulsating throbs against the sensitive skin of your cunt, was enough to send you into overdrive.

As you instinctively lifted yourself up slightly off of Aegon's lap, readying yourself to plop yourself back down, Aegon's grip over your waist, held you steady and preserved.

"Not yet, baby... Use your words. I need to hear it from you first. Can't just let you roam around and do as you please now. You think you get some sort of special treatment?"

"A-Aeg, please-" You had mindlessly moaned: the rugged motions of the carriage persisted, the unsteadiness plunging you back down against Aegon's lap, as you nestled for support. His cock thrashed against your velvet folds, earning a sly smirk on his behalf and a helpless moan from yourself.

"Words, princess."

"Y-Your cock, my King. I-I want you to f-fuck me rough and hard, till I'm nice and round with heirs for m-my King."

"Fuck. That's it, baby-" Satisfied, Aegon's hands effortlessly lifted you once more momentarily, before having you plunge down over his cock. Its wide, intimidating girth was a sensation you could never quite adjust to, naturally stretching your silky walls, clenching tightly over his thudding cock.

"Let me fuck my heir into you now, and let it be known that you carry the offspring of the King. These tits will swell ample with milk for the babe and for I-" He breathlessly growls, as his lips softly suckle at your cleavage, his hands once more ventured, fingers pulling at your corset fabric, before roughly pulling apart the seams: busting your breasts more open, enough to shed any last remaining source of modesty.

"-These hips will grow wide to carry and birth a whole damn litter. This precious stomach, may the Gods be good, will swell greatly in the moons to come. Fuck me, you will be such a heavenly Queen."

Aegon's frame now moving against the uphill, rocky drive naturally his cock followed his motions delved deep inside of you, striking at your cervix. Whimpering moans of pleasure and pain, coaxed in your voice chiselled through the carriage, layered with Aegon's heavy breathing.

"You w-will be s-such a good King, such a g-good father, as you have been an honourable husband. P-Putting my needs first."

"S-Say more, precious-" Aegon sternly proclaimed, his tone growling louder, as his large hands had subtly snaked their way towards your backside, rough palms [tarnished from training] kneading at your plush flesh.

"You are the rightful King. I devote my entire being, my entire existence to you, Aeg. Forever bound to you, I am at your disposal. Love me, ch-cherish me...F-Fuck me."

With all the swaying, harsh motions from the carriage itself alongside the sensual love-making, Aegon's cock released all the tension from the anticipation, the buildup from your touch, that he desperately needed. Reaching his ultimate peak, in return spoiling you with a climatic apex.

The moments that followed timely, had forever changed the course of history itself...

Aegon had been crowned and accepted by the realm as King. And as he spoke like a true, honest ruler, the Gods saw fit as they did anointing your husband, and you began to swell healthily with child in the months that followed. It was widely known however, that the conception of the King's soon to be heir, was poetically the day its father was crowned.

"As tense as we all were for Aegon, it seemed you two were rather ugh- eager for the coronation... If the Gods blessed the Queen with child now, then we shall be thankful for the holy plans of the Seven," Alicent, the Dowager Queen, had reminisced over the intimate family dinner that night.

Regardless, it took time for Aegon to grow accustomed to the heavy burden and responsibility of having to rule Seven Kingdoms. And yet he did so willingly, so long as you had remained dutifully by his side. That, he forever was eternally thankful for.

general taglist [bold means I could NOT tag you] - @evenstaris @bel-bottoms @fan-goddess @malfoytargaryen @hightowhxre @bibli0thecary @m1ndbrand @connorsui @elegantsplendour @randomdragonfires @sylasthegrim @arcielee @s-we-e-t-t-ea @sahvlren @aemondtargaryensrider @watercolorskyy @hypnos-daughter-certified

Aegon ii taglist - @who-told-you-this-was-butter @f4ll-for-you @amiraisgoingthruit @bucknastysbabe @jawline-of-steel

credit for dividers - @/firefly-graphics