#pa system for schools

[mothintheflames]

genuinely amazing that nobody called the cops on Jentry at any point throughout the series

[trahoalai]

everyday I bust my ass to get to music class on time and everyday I show up to a music class that looks like this

[blackstaff-acedemy-announcrments]

Good morning Students. Welcome to the Blackstaff Acedemy! To all wizards and the few sorcerers trying to learn control over their magic, we at the scedemy wish to provide up to date information. This will be the place to find any and all information on class changes, field trips, notable people present, and (much to our dismay) out of bound areas in the school. We've had so many injuries in the past of people walking into hectic mishaps in the weave that this should sort out that problem. In any case, enjoy your time here!

[vivencyglobal]

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[sloasis]

One of my therapists looks like Chappell Roan while the other looks like Elizabeth Lail aka Vanessa from the fnaf movie

[cybergroupahm-blog]

Upgrade your facility’s communication with Cyber Info Electronic Security System’s Wireless Public Address Systems. Discover flexible, scalable, and secure PA solutions for schools, hospitals, malls, and industrial spaces.

[artielu]

Ok, so. The Trump budget. It has already passed the House and now just needs 51 senators to pass it and send it to Trump for signature.

There are 53 Republican senators, 45 Democratic ones, and 2 Independents that vote with the Democrats. VP Vance is a tiebreaker vote.

So to block the bill, at least four Republican senators need to find their spines and the Democrats and Independents all need to keep their spines. This will not happen without direct action from voters.

They are only going to resist this bill if they hear from voters in their states. They do not care if some person from California calls them.

It's really fucking bad for everyone except the ultra-wealthy, surprise surprise.

I'm going to go through some of the features of this budget in reblogs, but trust and believe that it's horrible for the vast, vast majority of Americans, including you.

Highlights include:

Extends the Trump tax cuts passed in 2017. This continues $3.7 billion in tax cuts for the wealthy. If this budget does not pass, these tax cuts will expire and go back up without any action.

$150 billion in additional military spending

Work requirements for Medicaid. "childless adults without disabilities would be required to work 80 hours per month to qualify for benefits.". They expect millions of people to fail to meet work requirements and lose Medicaid.

Planned Parenthood and trans care. "Bans Medicaid from providing funding to Planned Parenthood as long as the organization continued to provide abortions, and would bar Medicaid from covering gender affirming health care to any beneficiaries. "

Reduces SNAP food stamp access that 40 million people use. "mandates work requirements for able-bodied SNAP enrollees who don't have dependents.".

Clean energy "dramatically scaling back many of the tax credits for clean energy."

Border walls and ICE. "$46.5 billion toward completing Trump's border wall. It also allots $5 billion for Customs and Border Protection facilities and more than $6 billion to hire and retain more agents and officers"

Student loans. "cut $330 billion from the student loan system by scrapping several existing repayment options, including the Biden-era SAVE program that based payments on income and household size.". Does anyone want to have student loan payments that you cannot afford?

Guts Obamacare. "Saves $100 billion, but will result in millions of Americans becoming uninsured if they fail to adhere to new paperwork requirements or can no longer afford insurance premiums."

Weakens federal courts that keep using orders that his actions are illegal and unconstitutional. It prohibits courts from enforcing contempt citations for violations of injunctions or temporary restraining orders unless the plaintiff pays a bond. Bonds can be EXTRAORDINARILY EXPENSIVE and are not currently required in these cases. The provision "would make most existing injunctions—in antitrust cases, police reform cases, school desegregation cases, and others—unenforceable," says the god of constitutional law, Dean Erwin Chemerinsky.

So, you folks in red states and you folks in wobbly blue states (PA, NC, etc), you need to call your senators and save us all.

Call every day. Call after hours so you can leave a voicemail and not talk to anyone.

For real y'all, millions of people are going to starve, go broke, and be without medical care if this bill passes. Which is a feature, not a bug, of the Trump administration.

And it will balloon the national debt to pay for these tax cuts for the wealthy.

[johnsoncharlesblogs]

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[marshadowstea]

as of today i have officially been alive for another year. when do i get to go home 🙂🧍

(read the tags or dont idrc but story in there 👇)

[isaacathom]

i think itd be funny if the crew gets invited to a fancy shindig, a high society party, and Gao Xue goes 'okay, everyones got an outfit that works for this, and the general social positions to navigate this, EXCEPT for Zayvia Eskarra, so we need to buy them a nice outfit and teach them about social graces' and then Zayvia is literally the only member of the party who gets into 0 trouble throughout the evening despite not following all the rules Xue told them about.

[pitlanepeach]

The Long Way Home I Chapter Eight

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — The sports day scene really had me in my feels omg.

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

The grass on the main field had been freshly mowed into lines, each one crooked enough to be noticeable. A cluster of teachers stood around with clipboards and stopwatches like they were auditioning for the Olympics, and the school's ancient PA system was making increasingly desperate attempts to stay audible over the wind.

Sports Day at Haileybury was not, as Harper had once assumed, a low-stakes afternoon of novelty races and post-Pimm's bruises. It was a full-scale military operation.

There were tents — tents, plural — each year had their own, flapping slightly in the breeze like they were preparing for battle. Some parents had actually brought champagne in coolers. A drone buzzed overhead. There was a pony somewhere. No one knew why.

Harper stood on the sidelines. It was March now, and at twenty-weeks, there was no hiding the fact that she was pregnant. Unlike the others, who were in their P.E kits, she was in her usual uniform. Blazer, white shirt, plaid skirt, white knee-socks, and black Mary Jane shoes.

She had a whistle on a string around her neck, which she kept fiddling with.

Oscar had insisted she be starter for the boys' 400m. "You'll get the best view," he'd said with a grin, "and you don't even have to run."

Which was, frankly, ideal.

Sam was already moaning. He'd been forcibly signed up for hurdles after one of the Year 11s sprained their ankle falling off a climbing wall during warm-up.

"I'm gonna clip every single one," he declared, stretching dramatically. "I'm gonna eat turf in front of all these people. You're all going to laugh. I'm going to die. This is my legacy."

"Can't be worse than last year," Alfie said, lying facedown on a picnic blanket. "Remember when Jane bit it in the egg-and-spoon and still won?"

"I tripped!" Jane snapped. "And I powered through."

"You ate half the grass on the pitch," Matt said cheerfully.

"Whatever," she muttered. "Still beat all of your times, didn't I? Fucking idiots."

Oscar was off stretching with the other Year 11 and 12 boys, already wearing his signature smug-athlete expression. He lived for this day. Being good at things in front of a crowd was practically his love language.

Harper watched him jog past, the back of his shirt clinging to him just slightly, and felt her cheeks warm. He caught her eye and winked.

"God, you're pathetic," Jane muttered beside her. "You've got that face."

"What face?"

"The 'my super hot Australian boyfriend is about to lap the entire field and I'm sooo going to kiss him afterwards' face."

Harper smirked. "It's a good face."

"I'm revolted."

The PA system crackled again. "Year Eleven boys, to the starting line for the 400 metres, please. Starter, take your position."

Harper shuffled over to the line, earning a round of polite applause just for existing — or possibly because someone mistook her for a teacher.

"Is she blowing the whistle?" A parent whispered nearby.

"She's pregnant, darling. That doesn't make her a criminal," the other replied. "Besides, didn't your Francesca have her little boy when she was here? Fourteen, wasn't she?"

Oscar and the other boys lined up — all long legs, cocky grins, tracksuit bottoms in various stages of removal. One of them started doing the Mobot ironically.

Alfie was muttering what sounded like a prayer. Sam just looked like he was going to throw up.

Harper raised the whistle to her lips and gave Oscar one last lingering look. He gave her a thumbs up. She rolled her eyes, but smiled.

Then she blew the whistle as hard as she could.

And they were off.

Oscar tore down the lane like he'd been fired out of a cannon. Jane whooped. Someone else shouted, "Go on, Whitaker!" and Alfie immediately collapsed onto Harper's chair, dramatically fanning himself.

"G'won Piastri! Bloody run!" Jane screamed.

"Thank Christ I wasn't signed up for that," he said. "Look at your boyfriend's calves. They're like weapons. I'm not built for violence. Or physical exercise.

Harper didn't answer. She was too busy watching Oscar absolutely demolish the field.

He was three body-lengths ahead by the final curve. By the time he crossed the finish line, the next closest runner was still negotiating the last 50 metres.

Oscar skidded to a stop, hands on his head, chest heaving — and then pointed straight at her like a footballer scoring a goal.

Jane stopped cheering in order to gag. "He's so in love with you, it's disgusting," she said. "Please don't shag him behind the scoreboard. This is a family event."

"I'm pregnant," Harper said with a grin. "That makes us a family, doesn't it?"

Jane laughed.

Sam limped over, trailing after Oscar. "Did you see me trip?" He asked. "We're not talking about it. Okay? I'm just putting it out there that the field obviously wasn't flattened enough."

Oscar came jogging back over, red-faced and sweaty. He didn't even pause — just leaned in and kissed Harper full on the mouth like it was the finish line itself.

A few teachers grumbled unhappily. Parents whispered. Their mates hollered and whistled.

"You blew the whistle beautifully," he told her solemnly.

"I'm a natural," she replied, breathless with laughter.

"And I smoked all of them."

"You're a show-off."

"I'm a winner."

She rolled her eyes. "I know that, Piastri. I've seen your trophies."

"I'm gonna kiss you again."

"You're sweaty." She complained.

"Don't care."

And then he kissed her again.

Behind them, the sack race began with someone falling over immediately and landing in a cone. A boy from Year 9 started crying when he got hit by a flying beanbag. There was a faint chant building by the Year 8 tent involving someone's mum and the pony.

Harper just shook her head, leaned into Oscar, and thought, weirdly, that she might actually miss this place when they were gone.

—

The maths revision group (not to be confused with the Harper's Tutors group) had been Alfie's idea. Which was insane, really, because Alfie was objectively the worst at maths after Harper. But apparently he felt that gave him some sort of authority.

"It's all about teamwork," he'd said, dragging desks into a semi-circle like they were in some sort of low-budget TED Talk. "If we all suck, no one feels bad."

"That's not how GCSEs work," Jane said, already bored, perched on the edge of a desk with a highlighter in her mouth.

Oscar sat beside Harper, chewing the lid of his pen and pretending not to glance every three seconds at her workbook like he might be able to absorb her stress through osmosis.

Harper had her revision guide open but had spent the last ten minutes underlining the same heading: Foundation Paper — Non-Calculator Section.

The numbers swam a bit. They always did. Like they had a personal vendetta against her.

"Okay," Sam said, flipping a page in his own workbook. "Let's go over fractions again."

"I will literally walk into traffic," Harper muttered.

"No, you won't," Jane said without looking up. "You'd just miscalculate the angle and the car would miss you."

Alfie howled. "Oi. That's harsh."

Harper gave Jane a glare. Jane gave her a bored thumbs-up.

Oscar nudged her thigh with his knee. "Stop stressing."

"I'm not," she muttered. "My brains just broken."

"Mate," Sam cut in, "if your brain was broken, you'd be one of those people who claps when a plane lands. You're not. You're just maths-thick. It's a very specific kind of issue."

Harper stuck her middle finger up at him.

"This is supposed to be a supportive space." Oscar said, unimpressed.

Alfie was already drawing a diagram on the whiteboard someone had dragged in from the art room. "Right. Improper fractions. They're just fractions that think they're better than you. Like, calm down, you're literally top-heavy."

"I happen to like top-heavy." Jamie, one of the year 11's in her foundation maths class, said.

Sam threw a highlighter at him.

Matt, who'd somehow ended up being the quiet brains of the operation, raised his hand like they were in an actual classroom. "Can I please just explain it properly before Alfie confuses everyone again?"

Oscar nodded. "Please do."

Matt sighed. "Okay. Harper — look. You've got seven halves. That's just three wholes and a half. You already know that. You could do that in your sleep."

"Yeah, but ask me to write it down and I panic," she said. "It's like I know it in my head, but the second I see numbers on a page, it's like they're in a different language."

"That's 'cause school maths is designed by sadists," Sam said. "Don't let it get to you."

Jane reached into her bag and handed Harper a mini packet of Haribo. "Sugar for the brain," she said.

"Thanks," Harper said, taking it. She rested her head on Oscar's shoulder for a second, and he leaned into her just slightly. Just enough to be reassuring, not PDA.

Alfie pointed at the whiteboard. "Okay. Here's the deal. We go over ten problems tonight. If Harper gets through them all without throwing a chair or crying, we reward her with cake from the machine."

"I like that plan," Harper said. She'd perked up a bit at the mention of cake. Oscar laughed when he felt movement beneath his hand. Baby liked the idea of cake too.

"You get cake either way," Jane muttered. "So please throw a chair at him."

Matt rolled his eyes. "Can we just start?"

Later, they were on their way down to the astro for some fresh air. "You're doing better than you think," Oscar said.

Harper didn't say anything. Just unwrapped the cake, tore off a piece, and stuffed it in his mouth before he could keep talking.

"Shut up," she said.

He grinned. "Okay."

—

Oscar had been weird all day.

Not, like, noticeably weird to most people — but Harper could tell. He kept checking his phone and tapping his fingers like his body had extra electricity to burn.

At lunch, he barely touched his chips, which was criminal, and when she asked him if he was alright, he'd just muttered, "Yeah, fine," and went back to staring at his phone.

Now, in the common room, he was pacing.

Actually pacing. Back and forth across the threadbare carpet.

"Osc, what's up with you?" Harper asked finally, closing her science book and watching him with raised eyebrows. "You're making me dizzy." She sighed.

Oscar stopped pacing, spun around, then walked over and just—held his phone out to her.

She blinked at it. "What am I looking at?"

He shoved it closer.

It was an email. Official, professional, with a logo that looked like speed and money and adult careers.

Subject line: BRITISH FORMULA 4 – DRIVER PLACEMENT OFFER (CONFIDENTIAL)

She blinked again. Then looked up at him.

"No way."

Oscar ran a hand through his already-messy hair. "Mark wants me in for trials next month. If I do well, they'll sign me for the junior seat. Full kit. Sponsorship. Real team. Single seater."

Harper's eyes widened. "With TV coverage and contracts and all the posh helmets?"

"Yeah," he said, breathless. "Yeah."

She stood slowly, the email still glowing on his phone in her hand. "Oh my god. That's... huge."

"I know." He stared at her, eyes wild and overwhelmed. "It's insane. I didn't think they were even watching me this season. I thought they were going with the kid from Sheffield."

"Well, apparently not," she said, handing the phone back. "Osc..."

He let out a stunned, choked sort of laugh.

Sam, who had been half-asleep on the sofa under a textbook, sat up and said, "Wait, what? What's happening?"

"Oscar got scouted," Harper said. "British F4."

"No way," Sam said, eyes wide. "Holy shit, that's—wait, do you get free jackets? I want a jacket."

"Mate," Oscar said, sitting down on the arm of the chair like his legs had just remembered they were fifteen and overwhelmed, "I'm going to be a dad. In like... four months. And now I'm getting offered a chance to race across the country every other weekend."

Harper sat next to him. She was quiet for a second. "You want to do it?"

His eyes snapped to hers. "Of course I want to do it."

"Then you should."

"But what about—?"

"You're allowed to have something," she said, before he could even finish the sentence. "We knew that going into this, didn't we? That there'd have to be sacrifices. I want you to do this."

He stared at her like he didn't believe it. "Harper," he said quietly. "I'm not leaving you."

"I know," she replied. "This isn't leaving. This is just... adding something. You don't have to pick between the baby and racing. We'll figure it out. We always do."

Sam clapped dramatically. "Right, well, now that we've sorted your future — someone tell me what the actual fuck simultaneous equations are."

Oscar looked back at his phone. His hands were shaking slightly.

Harper nudged his shoulder. "You're going to be amazing," she said. "And I'm going to be there to watch you win, Osc. As often as I possibly can."

"No promises on the wins," he muttered, but he was smiling now, in that quiet, stunned way that said maybe—for a second—he actually believed he could do both. "But I'll try. For you."

—

There were five of them crammed onto the threadbare rug in front of the common room sofa, surrounded by empty crisp packets, half-finished smoothies, and someone's maths textbook that had been repurposed as a coaster.

"Okay," Jane said, flipping her notebook open like she was taking official minutes. "We've ruled out anything weird and American-sounding, and Alfie's last suggestion was 'Rogue,' so he's on name probation."

"Oi," Alfie muttered, mouth full of Pom-Bears. "It's gender neutral."

"It's also the name of an X-Man," Jane deadpanned. "Not happening."

Harper was lying on her side, head in Oscar's lap, one socked foot lazily nudging Matt's leg every time he got too lost in his book.

"We don't have to pick one today," she said, though she was smiling. "We've got plenty of time."

"No, because if you don't decide soon, Alfie's going to campaign for something unhinged like 'Peach' and convince you that it's cute," Matt said.

"'Peach' is adorable," Alfie said, utterly unbothered.

"Peach Whiatt-Piastri sounds like a cocktail you order by accident in Ibiza," Sam added.

Oscar was quiet. He was playing with the ends of Harper's hair, twisting the red strands absently around his fingers. He hadn't said much since they started this conversation — which, to be fair, had started because Jane had walked in and said, "Right, I've been thinking. If it's a boy, you can't call it anything that rhymes with 'fart.'"

Harper had gone pink and said, "We don't know if it's a boy or a girl yet," and then they'd all gone down a rabbit hole of neutral names, none of which had made it past the group vote.

Now, Sam said, "We could do something badass, like River. Or Ash. That sounds like someone who'd wear leather and be in a boy band."

"I veto both of those names," Jane said.

Oscar let out a soft, distracted, "Yeah. I don't like those either."

Harper shifted slightly and said, "What about something literary? Like a cool author name?"

"Like what?" Matt asked.

"I don't know... Eliot? Or Austen?"

"Isn't Austen a bit on-the-nose?" Sam said. "With you being fancy and everything."

Harper threw a crisp at him.

They went back and forth for another ten minutes. Names got weirder. At one point, Jane suggested 'Moss'. Alfie floated the idea of 'Jelly'. Someone genuinely said 'Cricket'.

Eventually, Harper sighed, turned over to lie on her back and looked up at Oscar.

"You haven't said anything. What do you like?"

Oscar blinked. "I... dunno."

"Well, do you want something traditional or weird?"

"Just something nice, I guess. Something that suits her."

Silence.

Complete, stunned silence.

Matt dropped his can of Pepsi on the floor.

Jane gasped. "Wait. Her?"

Oscar blinked. "Oh. Shit."

Harper slapped a hand over her eyes. "Oscar, oh my God."

"You know the gender?" Sam practically shouted, scrambling to sit up straighter.

"We just found out at the scan on Thursday," Harper said, her face now redder than the KitKat wrapper on the table.

"I can't believe you didn't tell us!" Jane shrieked, half-laughing, half-scandalised.

"You're all so dramatic," Oscar muttered, clearly trying not to laugh. "It's normal not to tell people. We just wanted it to be a secret between us for a while."

"Mate, you're going to have a daughter," Alfie said, eyes wide. "That's so crazy."

"It's not that crazy," Harper argued, sitting up now.

"Oh my God," Jane whispered, pressing a hand to her mouth. "We're going to be aunties and uncles to a tiny little baby girl. We have to buy her tiny Converse. Pink ones!"

"Do babies even wear shoes?" Sam asked.

"I think so," Jane said.

Oscar wrapped an arm around Harper and pulled her in a bit closer, his cheeks still pink. "Sorry. I didn't mean to say it. It just came out."

"I'm not mad," she said softly. "They'd find out eventually. And... it's kind of nice."

Matt was still staring at them. "A girl," he said again.

—

It was a Friday. The sky was low and grey, and Haileybury's quad looked like it had been dunked in dishwater. A breeze kept snapping at the blazers of students crossing between buildings. Harper was halfway through a very dull lunch of jacket potato and beans when the message came down from reception.

Someone was here to see her.

Not her mother. That had been her first question when the note from the admin office arrived.

No — it was a man. Mid-sixties, they said. Said he was her uncle.

"Is he angry?" Harper asked, standing beside the reception desk in her cardigan and too-small school skirt, her satchel cutting into her shoulder. The woman behind the desk — Mrs. Keller, who always looked like she was two sneezes away from retirement — blinked at her.

"Seemed... posh," she said, like it might be a warning. "Said he was your father's brother. Waitin' in the front hall."

Oscar was already there when she arrived — clearly having run the whole way from the library. His tie was half-askew and his hair was sticking up.

"You okay?" He asked. She'd texted him and asked him to meet her there.

"I don't know," she said honestly.

Then they stepped inside.

He was waiting by the mantelpiece, spine straight as a gatepost, coat over one arm. His suit was cashmere. His shoes shone like piano keys. His face — older than she remembered, thinner — broke into a polite, somewhat startled smile when he saw her.

"Harper," he said, approaching.

She blinked. "Uncle Thomas?"

He took her hand, briefly. Warm palm, dry fingers. "It's been years. My God. You look so much like your father."

She swallowed.

"This is Oscar," she said stiffly, stepping aside.

Thomas gave a cordial nod, but didn't hold out his hand. "I know who he is. I've spoken to your mother once or twice recently."

Oscar flushed. Harper tensed.

"I haven't," she said flatly.

"Well," said Thomas. "Then I envy you."

"Why are you here?" She asked. "I haven't seen you in years. Since the funeral, probably."

He exhaled, then reached into his coat. Produced a leather folder, worn but clearly expensive. "I'm here," he said, "because there are some things you weren't told after your father passed away. Things your mother, I suspect, ensured stayed buried. But you're nearly sixteen now, and legally—well, let's just say, some things are coming due."

He opened the folder and pulled out a few pages, slid them into her hands. Old estate paperwork. Land registry documents. Bank account details. And her name — "Lady Harper Grace Whiatt" — right there, typed in thin, haughty letters.

She stared at it. "What is..."

"It is all yours," he said gently. "Left to you by your father. It was meant to become accessible upon your sixteenth birthday, barring any specific contest. Your mother..." He trailed off. "She was aware of your main trust-fund, but your father was worried that she might— well, I'm sure you understand."

Oscar leaned over to glance at the documents. His mouth opened, then shut again.

Harper still hadn't spoken. Her throat felt dry.

"She loved him," she said finally. "My mum. But she hated everything about his family."

Thomas gave a sharp little smile. "Yes, well. She made that abundantly clear. But hate does not negate legal reality."

There was a long pause. Outside, the wind rattled the old glass panes.

"And your, um, baby?" Thomas asked carefully, glancing at her belly, still small but no longer invisible. "Healthy?"

"Yes. Why?" Harper said, eyes narrowing.

"It could complicates things. The trust wasn't written with a... continuation clause. We may need to involve a solicitor."

Oscar stepped forward. "You don't get to use legal language to scare her."

"I'm not trying to scare anyone," Thomas said calmly. "I'm trying to be honest. Your child, Harper, will be entitled to things too. In time."

Harper looked down at the paper again. Her father's name. Her own. Words like "estate" and "trustee" and "inheritance".

Then, in a whisper, "Why didn't you come before now?"

Thomas blinked. His expression cracked slightly. "I was asked not to."

"By my mum?"

He nodded once.

Harper swallowed. Then she folded the paper back into the folder, held it tight to her chest like a shield. "I'm not a Lady. I'm just... I'm just a girl trying to get through her GCSEs. I live in a dorm with a bunch of boys who eat cereal out of mugs. I'm fifteen and pregnant. And now you're telling me that I've inherited... all of this?"

Thomas looked like he didn't quite know what to say.

Oscar put a hand on her back.

Harper looked up at him. She didn't say anything.

"I'll leave the documents with you," Thomas said finally. "And if you need help... I'm not your father, Harper. But I did love him. And I'd like to know you. If you'll let me."

He gave her a shallow bow, then turned and left — expensive shoes echoing off the flagstone floor.

Silence dropped in his wake.

"Did that actually just happen?" Oscar asked.

"I don't know," Harper said, staring down at the folder in her hands. "But I think I just inherited two million pounds and an estate."

Oscar blinked. "That's mental."

"Completely," she muttered. "Absolutely mental."

Then she looked at him and added, "It might... it might make things easier, though. Won't it? You won't have to rely on your parents to keep paying for you to race, Osc." She breathed.

He frowned at her. "It's your money."

"We're a family now. We made that decision together." She said, quietly. "I don't need that much money, Osc. We'll be smart with it. Invest it in your career. Doesn't that make sense?"

She was starting at him so earnestly.

He held her. Leaned down and pressed his forehead against hers. "Think about it."

"I've thought about it." She said. "It's ours. We'll use it to make sure our baby gets the best of everything, and that you get the opportunity to get to the top. Yeah?"

"Yeah. Okay." He whispered. "Okay. This is insane, but... okay."

"We do this together, Osc. Everything." She told him. "The exams. The baby. Your career. My career. I'll be able to pay for a coding course and invest in my own projects." She said. Her eyes were sparkling. "I love you. And we're going to do this together, or not at all."

"Marry me." Was all he said.

She jerked away and laughed. "Shut up. We're fifteen!"

"Marry me." He said again.

She rolled her eyes. "We've got Chemistry in ten minutes, Piastri."

"Okay." He said. He was staring at her and smiling. "Okay, babe. Let's go to Chemistry."

NEXT CHAPTER

[homemadesterekpie]

Stiles getting in big trouble at school because a video starts circulating around of him in a compromising position with a certain young man who’s been under suspicion of murder not too long ago…

it starts with people whispering to eachother whenever he passes them by. but Stiles is kind of used to that by now. ever since fucked up shit started happening in town with him almost always having something to do with it one way or another people tended to talk. but then at lunch, Boyd practically runs to him and grabs him by the arm to drag him out of the cafeteria, Erica and Isaac following behind looking pissed as all hell.

and that makes Stiles pause a second because Boyd never runs unless shit is going down so he just lets himself be dragged to an empty classroom.

Boyd just pulls out his phone pressing play on a video and turns it to show it to Stiles with a vague look of embarrassment on his face.

Stiles looks down at it and yep that’s Stiles alright. Stiles getting his shit rocked by their one and only Alpha.

at first glance it’s not overly explicit, all you see is Derek’s upper body facing away from the camera moving suggestively and Stiles’ face over a tanned shoulder and arms around his neck.

it’s the sounds that truly makes it look as bad is it is. Derek’s grunting is loud on the speakers and Stiles’ little moans sound wrecked and Stiles remembers he did feel absolutely wrecked that time. it had been the first time Derek had fucked him on the counter in the kitchen and Stiles had propped his phone up to catch it all because he may be a little freak but it was only ever meant for his own eyes. But it’s the sounds of their bodies moving together that really and truly puts the last nail in Stiles’ coffin. It’s beyond obscene, the slapping of skin on skin along with the wet sounds…

Stiles tells Boyd to turn it off, red in the face, completely embarrassed. he asks where the fuck did he get it. and Boyd doesn’t beat around the bush and almost kills Stiles on the spot when he says everyone fucking received it on their school email.

Stiles sits down hard on a chair and hides his face in his hands. this is it he’s going to die. his dad is going to fucking kill him and then Derek would kill him too.

Erica asks how could it have been sent to everyone like that. Stiles just shrugs, he can’t think right now. Isaac suggests that maybe someone could have stolen his phone during practice one afternoon?

Stiles’ head snaps up at that and he’s sure that’s it. but who could it be, no one knows the combination of his locker? well Scott knows it but why would he… Stiles stops his line of thoughts because yeah Scott definitely would.

Boyd who’s been watching him closely the entire time asks him what? what is it?

Stiles looks at him, mortified and mumbles that he’s pretty sure Scott might have done it.

Stiles had tried to avoid the whole thing going on with Scott. all they did these days was fight so Stiles just stopped talking to him. they were on a friendship break if you will.

he should have known it would blow up in his face and boy did it blow up.

Erica curses and says she’s going to kill the little shit while Isaac agrees. Boyd rolls his eyes but there’s definitely a murderous glint in them.

Stiles is about to tell them to stand down that he would deal with Scott himself but he’s suddenly called to the principal’s office on the PA system.

Stiles sighs and makes his way to the office like he’s on his death march. the betas follow him and there’s people in the halls who point and laugh at him and Stiles is so humiliated and embarrassed he can’t even manage to roll his eyes at them but the betas must threaten them somehow because they shut up quick and practically run the other way.

his dad is there waiting for him when he walks up to the office and Stiles feels like being one with the floor. he’s talking with the principal who looks serious and disapproving.

he doesn’t look at his dad in the eyes when he approaches, he can’t. the principle tells the betas to go back to the cafeteria but Boyd says they’ll stay right here. Stiles has to give them a look and mouth the words it’s okay for them to back down and walk away.

what he’s not prepared for though is for Derek to show up. they’re about to enter the principal’s office when he enters the double doors of the school like a bat flying out of hell. he looks beyond pissed and Stiles’ stomach drops with dread. but when he spots Stiles, his face softens just a tiny bit and Stiles lets out a small sigh of relief.

his legs move without him noticing and he shuffles towards Derek who strides towards him with purpose and next thing he knows he’s in Derek’s arms, face into his neck and he’s apologizing over and over while Derek shushes him softly.

the principal clears his throat and says this situation is private between the school, Stiles and his father. Derek lets Stiles disentangle himself but doesn’t let him go entirely. Derek stares the principal down for a moment before saying he’s in the video too and as far as he knows that involves him too.

Stiles steals a look at his dad and his face is unreadable and Stiles blanches. because he knows that look. that’s his on duty sheriff face.

in the end they let Derek sit in to which Stiles is grateful. he stands behind Stiles’ seat the entire time, Stiles feeling the heat of him at his back comfortingly.

they try to blame Derek for everything of course but Stiles is adamant that he was the one to take the video and that the video got circulated without his knowledge or consent.

his dad’s unreadable expression cracks at that and he asks Stiles who did it. Stiles stutters when he says he doesn’t know yet. he feels Derek shift on his feet behind him and he knows Derek heard his lie and hell, Boyd probably already texted him their suspicions of Scott being behind it.

his dad doesn’t look convinced but he doesn’t press it, instead he talks with the principal as if Stiles isn’t there.

the principal assures that the emails has been taken down but that they can’t guarantee the students haven’t downloaded the video on their own.

as for punishment Stiles is expelled for a week to which Stiles’ jaw drops because that’s beyond harsh. its not like he beat someone up. and its not like he’s the one who circulated the video. all he did was spread his legs and film it, dammit.

his dad not so subtly imply that he might press charges on Derek for statutory rape and Stiles whips his head to him, face hard. he says with a voice thats just as hard as his face, no, you will not.

his dad turns to him and looks at him like he doesn’t know who’s sitting right there beside him. Stiles repeats that no, he won’t and that Stiles won’t let him. his dad’s chest puffs up in anger, a dangerous warning in his eyes but Stiles doesn’t back down.

the sheriff doesn’t back down either but he goes back to talking with the principal, Stiles tuning them out. Stiles is angry now, his embarrassment completely forgotten.

it’s obvious the main reason why his dad and the principal are being hard on him is because he got caught having sex. and thats humiliating for them and for the school.

suddenly, he feels Derek’s fingers at the back of his neck, just a brush of knuckles and just that small touch is enough for his shoulders to relax.

He doesn’t speak to his dad when finally they’re done and out of the office. the betas are back and waiting for him and Derek. Derek talks with Boyd for a bit while Stiles tells the other two what happened in there. Derek leaves but not before kissing Stiles on the forehead with a hand gripping the back of his neck, comfortingly.

his dad approaches him and looks at the betas awkwardly before telling Stiles lets go we’re leaving but Stiles says he has things to get from his locker and that he’ll be home later. again, it’s the both of them not backing down but eventually the sheriff just walks away and out of the school.

Stiles gets the things he needs from his locker, the betas his shadows and the four of them pile into the jeep and leave. as he drives, Boyd tells him Scott didn’t come to school today but that he’s home though. Stiles makes a turn, taking him away from his usual way home and instead towards Scott’s place.

Scott is on the porch when he turns in the driveway. Stiles tells the betas to stay in the car but they don’t listen to him but they do stay close to the car.

Stiles walks up to the porch and just looks at the guy who was supposed to be his best friend. Now that he’s here, he doesn’t know what to say to him. Scott knows what he did and by the smug look of his face he certainly doesn’t regret it either.

Stiles sighs, exasperated and defeated. this is so stupid. Stiles calls Scott a moron and that whatever his reasons were for doing what he did, all it ended up doing was making Stiles mad and that he doesn’t want to talk to him again and if Scott were to ever show his face to him outside of school, he would let the betas get at him.

with that said, he turns around and walks back to his jeep while Scott sputters a little before starting shouting vile shit at Stiles. the words whore and bitch are thrown in there and Stiles would lie if he said it didn’t hurt to hear those but he refuses to give Scott the pleasure of a reaction. he just gets back into his jeep with the betas and drive away.

he had planned to go home after but he’s more upset than he anticipated so he drives to the woods where he knows Derek will be waiting for them.

as he drives up, Derek is already jogging down towards the jeep and he’s just put it into park when Derek opens his door and pulls him out of the seat to hug him.

he murmurs words in Stiles’ ear. like why did he go see Scott that he would have dealt with him, Stiles didn’t have to go through that. he also apologizes to Stiles that he shouldn’t have let Stiles film them but he can’t say no to him and that he doesn’t want Stiles to fight with his dad, etc, etc. Stiles just holds onto his Alpha tighter, nodding his head into his warm chest.

Stiles knows all of this. Derek would stop the earth from turning if Stiles asked him to and that’s why nothing else matters. he’ll deal with his dad. he’ll deal with the school. he could deal with anything if it meant that at the end of the day he would be back here just like this, in Derek’s arms, right where he belongs.

[7-deadly-cats]

killing me softly | 1

K M S M A S T E R L I S T | N E X T ->

✿ G E N R E ✿ she fell first, he fell harder | slice of life | drama

✿ P A I R I N G ✿ s1!rafe cameron x overthinking!reader (f)

✿ C O N T E N T W A R N I N G ✿ swearing, suggestive language, mention of drug usage (no actual scene)

✿ W O R D C O U N T ✿ 2.1k+

✿ A / N ✿ i haven't written this kind of stuff since like 8th grade (i recently graduated from university sooo yeah) but i kinda felt the urge to go back to writing now and idk. there are so many smut involved fics on here (which isn't bad, i just need more softer slow burn stuff). not saying there won't be any mildly suggestive stuff in future parts hihihihi. also i have no clue how the american school system works (i'm from europe) so pls just accept this lol. anyway, this is for all my introverted and overthinking girlies (who may or may not be kinda insane) <3

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

W E E K O N E // M O N D A Y

Fuck my life.

That was the first thing on your mind as Mr. Smith announced the partners for the upcoming two-week project in art class. In pairs, you were supposed to create a reinterpretation of the Greek gods.

The assignment itself wasn’t the problem. In fact, it actually sounded kind of fun. But your partner? Yeah, that was the real issue.

Fucking Rafe Cameron.

Of all the people in this class, it had to be him.

You didn’t even know why he'd chosen Art in the first place. Rafe was probably the last guy you’d expect to take an art elective—well, right after Kelce Statter.

He'd probably thought it was an easy class to boost his GPA.

Rookie mistake.

Okay, whatever, it was just a small project. You could handle this.

NO, YOU COULDN’T, HOLY SHIT.

The thought of working with Rafe Cameron made your skin crawl. In all your years at Kildare Academy, you'd maybe exchanged two words with him—and that was only because he'd mistaken you for another girl.

"Y/N, right?" Rafe appeared at your desk at the end of class, a bored expression on his face.

Okay, okay, just act normal. Be nice.

You nodded. "Yeah."

Rafe stared at you for a moment, like he was waiting for you to say more. His eyebrows furrowed slightly before he tilted his head. "Cool, okay. Let’s just meet up during lunch break and get this over with."

Did he seriously think you could finish a two-week project in one lunch break?

When he saw the look on your face, he raised his brows in amusement, his tone teasing. "What? You too busy?"

Your cheeks heated up as you shook your head. "No, lunch sounds good."

"Aight, then let’s meet after fifth period." Before you could ask for a place, he turned around and disappeared out of the classroom.

You frowned. This was off to a great start.

Just two weeks, you reminded yourself as you slung your bag over your shoulder and headed to math class.

On the way, you unlocked your phone to text your bestie Cara:

You shoved your phone away and tried to ignore the uneasiness creeping into your stomach.

You didn’t usually have trouble talking to guys but Rafe Cameron was a whole different story. Not because he was "too cool" or some dumb shit like that.

No, Rafe was just... intimidating. Not in that bad-boy, cringe Wattpad kind of way. It was something else, something you couldn’t quite put into words.

He wasn’t arrogant, he was proud. He was loud, but not in the annoying way Kelce Statter was. He wasn’t rude—he just said whatever the hell was on his mind.

He was just ... himself. And yet, somehow he wasn't. It felt like there was a lot more going on beneath the surface.

Maybe that’s what made him so interesting to you. Sure, he had a nice face and a well-known name, no doubt about that. But more than anything, you wanted to understand who he was.

Was he just a blunt person who didn’t give a fuck, or was there more to him than his looks and his last name?

So yeah, maybe a part of you was curious about him, but he had such an overwhelming presence, you wouldn’t even know where to start.

In the past, he'd had a few friends-with-benefits situations, but none of them had lasted long. And that was definitely a path you didn't want to go down. Under different circumstances, maybe you could but you've never even held hands with a guy, let alone kissed one or—yeah, no, not going there.

Okay, chill. Internally, you cursed Cara for fueling your delusions.

You had more important problems right now anyway. Like math class with Mrs. Richman. And no one could claim you were a star student in that subject.

The lesson dragged on, your thoughts constantly drifting. After class, you were supposed to meet Rafe.

Rafe, who had PE right now.

Shit. You tried not to think about a sweaty, heavy-breathing, and—NOPE, NOT NOW.

"Okay, that’s it for today. Don’t forget about the math test next week. But for now, go enjoy the nice weather," Mrs. Richman announced, dismissing the class.

Your hands felt clammy as you got up to leave. What the fuck is wrong with me?

You headed to the restroom and washed your hands. Why were you so nervous about spending one lunch break with Rafe Cameron?

Fuck you, social anxiety.

"Everything okay?" A soft voice pulled you from your thoughts. "You look kinda pale."

You turned to see the pretty face of Molly Crane. Red hair, cute freckles, and a super charming smile. She was one of the few Kooks (if any existed at all) who was genuinely nice.

You forced a smile. "Yeah, yeah, all good. I think I just ate something bad for breakfast."

Molly didn't look convinced. "You sure? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

"Really, thanks, Molly. I’m fine now." With an awkward smile, you excused yourself and headed out—only to realize that, well… great, you and Rafe had never picked a meeting spot.

Brrrt.

Your phone had been buzzing since math class. Of course, it had been Cara.

You rolled your eyes with a smile and texted back.

Should you really wait in front of the gym? That felt weird af. But at the same time, you didn’t want to miss him and end up having an awkward conversation about it in the next art class.

The dining hall would've been the most obvious spot to meet up, but would Rafe actually look for you there?

You pressed your lips together. Fuck it.

Heart pounding, you headed toward the gym.

Good thing your body totally knew how to distinguish between social interaction and actual danger.

When you arrived, you heard muffled voices of the boys inside, along with Coach Brown’s instructions.

Just breathe, it’s just one lunch break, you told yourself. Then again, this was probably how the next two weeks were going to feel.

You held your breath as the gym doors swung open, and a crowd of sweaty—oops wrong, freshly showered—boys streamed out.

You awkwardly stepped to the side, ignoring the curious glances thrown your way.

No sign of Rafe yet. A sick feeling settled in your stomach. Even worse than being here and having to explain HOW you knew that he would be here, would be explaining why you were standing there if he didn’t actually have PE right now.

But then relief washed over you when you spotted Kelce Statter and Topper Thornton. And right behind them—Rafe Cameron.

You tightened your grip on your bag. Okay, okay, I can do this. They’ll probably say bye to Rafe and leave for lunch now.

They didn’t. Great.

When Rafe saw you, something flickered in his gaze that you didn’t want to analyze. You expected him to just walk past you but instead, he headed straight toward you—with Kelce and Topper right behind him.

Just smile. No, not like that, you probably look like a creep. Oh god, okay.

"Yo," Rafe greeted you with a slightly puzzled smile as the three of them stopped in front of you. "Didn't expect you here."

In other words: Did you stalk me or how did you know I was here?

Kelce and Topper eyed you with amusement. This is so unbelievably embarrassing.

Blushing, you pointed at the gym bag slung over his shoulder. "Well, I saw you bringing a sports bag today, and PE is usually scheduled right before lunch ... so I just assumed you’d be here."

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Kelce stifling a laugh. You wanted to disappear from Earth, no from this universe. No way anyone would believe--

"Right," Rafe replied with a lopsided grin. "I would’ve just waited in the dining hall."

So you had been right. And you could've saved yourself this painfully awkward moment. G-r-e-a-t.

"Good thinking though, I guess. The faster we get this project over with, the better."

Shit, did Rafe just compliment you? Then again, why did the last sentence sound like he didn't want to work with you?

You smiled awkwardly. "Exactly."

"You're Y/N Y/L/N, right? Your mom owns Y/L/N Yacht Sales." Topper’s voice cut in, and you were grateful for the topic change.

You nodded. "Yeah."

Was that admiration on Topper’s face?

"Ohh, a business Mommy, I like that", Kelce said, and both Topper and Rafe eyed him with shaking heads.

Topper blinked at him annoyed. "Bro, shut the fuck up for once."

Kelce just laughed.

"My dad bought a Grady-White from you guys recently," Rafe remarked, and your gaze flicked back to his blue eyes.

Jesus, he wasn’t just looking at you—he was staring into your soul. If he was always looking at girls like that you'd gladly be his friends-with-benefits-girl.

You prayed to whatever gods were listening that you didn’t blush. "I remember. A 456 Canyon."

The corner of Rafe’s mouth twitched up. "Yeah, a pretty model."

Your cheeks warmed, and either he didn’t notice, or he chose not to comment on it.

"Oh shit, that sounds like a boat party," Kelce chimed in with a grin and looked at you. "If I were you, I’d have thrown a dozen parties by now. So many possibilities…"

Rafe scoffed amused. "Good thing she isn’t, or her family would be broke by now."

You allowed yourself a small smirk.

„Hey, I’m just saying.“ Kelce raised his hands innocently.

Topper tapped him on the chest with the back of his hand. „Okay, dude, and I’m saying we’re leaving now before you say more stupid shit.“ Then he looked at you apologetically and turned his gaze to Rafe. „See you later.“

Rafe just gave him a short nod, his expression hard to read, before turning back to you with a tired smile as Kelce and Topper disappeared behind the gym. „So, you hungry?“

Why did this situation suddenly feel so… intimate? It wasn’t. Definitely not. There was absolutely no reason to feel weird about this. And yet—standing here alone with Rafe Cameron was… a lot. Maybe it was the way he looked at you—calm, focused, as if he was actually paying attention.

Or maybe it was the damn wet strands of hair falling into his forehead after his shower.

Get a grip.

You nodded quickly, trying not to overthink it. „The cafeteria has quinoa veggie bowls today. Or fries, if you’re not into influencer food.“

Oh God. Was that your attempt at being funny?

Tragic.

Rafe’s lips twitched with amusement. „So, you’re assuming I don’t like quinoa bowls?“

Oh. Oh no.

Heat immediately rushed to your face, and you could feel your cheeks burning. Why the hell did you say that?

„No—I mean…“ You let out a nervous laugh, which sounded more like a weird cough. „Not that you wouldn’t like it, but you’re just more like—uh, not that I’m putting you in a box or anything, but you don’t seem like someone who… uh…“

Rafe raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. „Someone who eats quinoa?“

You sighed. „Forget it. I’m just talking nonsense.“

„No, no, now I’m curious.“ His voice was amused, almost teasing. „How exactly do I seem?“

You swallowed. Shit.

„Uh…“ Your eyes flickered over him for a second—his broad shoulders, the damp strands of hair falling into his forehead, the fresh polo shirt fitting way too well against his body—oh God, wrong direction.

„I just meant…“ Maybe you should just stop talking and dig your own grave. You sighed and smiled awkwardly. „Okay, look, I'm sorry if you’re actually a secret quinoa veggie bowl advocate. I didn’t mean to sound condescending.“

Rafe laughed. Not in a mocking way—no, it was real, warm, which somehow made it worse because it only made you more nervous.

„No, no, I get it,“ he said, shrugging with an amused smile. „I guess I need to work out more if I’m giving off ‘fries guy’ vibes.“

Your eyes widened, and you quickly shook your head. „That’s not what—“

„Relax, I know what you meant.“ He cut you off, tilting his head toward the dining hall. „Come on, you can keep judging me in there.“

I am the most embarrassing person alive, you thought, face still burning.

Still, you fell into step beside him, gripping the strap of your bag a little tighter. Brain, could you please shut the hell up? Thanks.

It didn’t.

Because why did Rafe’s presence feel so overwhelming—in the best way possible? And why did his ridiculously good aftershave still linger in the air between you, like some kind of cruel distraction?

And most importantly—how the hell were you supposed to survive two whole weeks of this?

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K M S M A S T E R L I S T | N E X T ->

[brainmaggotzzzz]

♡Metamorphosis ♡

Hwang Inho x fem!reader oneshot

summary: yn is a sweet broke student and catches the attention of her enigmatic neighbor.

content warning: age gap, being broke, slapping, lowk shit

He had no hope for this world. No faith in humanity. Nothing.

He fully embraced his role as the cold, unyielding Frontman of the brutal games, hidden away from the watchful eyes of the outside world. And yet, in his mind, those games were better than everything beyond the island’s distant shores. At least there, no one suffered from inequality, from the prejudice ingrained in systems crafted by the privileged. Everyone had an equal chance—an opportunity to win and claim the handsome financial prize. And the losers? Well, at least they were put out of their misery. In a way, wasn’t that almost merciful?

Year after year, he orchestrated the games, spoked to the recruiters, and even, on occasion, observed the fresh batch of soon-to-be participants. Then, for six days, he moved to the island, overseeing and controlling the carnage. Like clockwork.

Despite possessing all the wealth a man in a capitalist society could ever desire—more than enough to own a penthouse in Gangnam and indulge in the stereotypical hedonism of the rich—the money was meaningless. He barely touched it. What mattered were his convictions about humanity and the world, beliefs that had remained unshaken.

Until he met you.

You were a broke college student, living in a tiny, rented room. It wasn’t bad, just small—barely enough space for yourself, but it had everything you needed. The only thing you had to share was the kitchen. Some of your classmates were surprised to learn that you lived in such a place instead of a dorm like the rest of them, but the university’s housing was too expensive. At least here, you had fewer distractions—no wild parties, no blaring music. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself to cope.

Most of your neighbors were blue-collar workers, men who spent their days laboring until exhaustion, too tired to cause noise or disruptions. Your next-door neighbor, however, was different. He didn’t seem like a manual laborer. He was much older than you—quiet, polite. But sometimes, as you passed by, you could feel his gaze lingering just a second too long. You never thought much of it.

Every morning before class and every evening after, you had a small ritual: stopping by the nearby 7-Eleven to buy a can of tuna and feeding the stray cats that had made a home next to your apartment complex. At first, they were wary, but soon, they grew fond of you. Now, all it took was a single "pspsps," and dozens would come running. They had, ironically, become your best friends.

Before university, you had imagined a different life—one filled with laughter, weekend parties, and friendships that felt like they belonged in a coming-of-age movie. But reality hit hard and fast. Your classmates already had their friend groups, most of them having known each other since high school. That left you as the odd one out.

Not that you could blame them. You came from a small fishing village, a world away from the convenience and luxury they had always known. While they spoke of designer brands and dined on foreign dishes whose names you couldn’t even pronounce, you found yourself retreating, keeping your distance without even realizing it.

And as you stood there each evening, calling for the cats, you had no idea that someone was watching.

Through the dimly lit window of his apartment, a certain someone observed your every move, routinely.

◇

"Pspsps."

You called out to the cats, kneeling down with a can of tuna in hand. A small smile tugged at your lips as the fuzzy creatures gathered around you, some even jumping onto your lap. To make yourself more comfortable, you set your bag down on the sidewalk, continuing to pet and feed them.

Engrossed in humoring the little furballs, you paid no attention to anything else. It was already late evening, and though a few people still passed by, you remained in your own little world.

That is, until a sudden thud snapped you back to reality.

An elderly woman tripped over your bag, her groceries scattering across the pavement.

You gasped softly, immediately scrambling to help her up. "Oh my god—I'm so sorry, ma’am! So sorry!" You exhaled in a rush, steadying her before quickly gathering her fallen shopping.

The woman barely gave you a chance to collect yourself before launching into a tirade. "You young people! Always causing trouble! My hip is bad—what if it dislocated, huh? Would you take responsibility?!"

"I'm really, really sorry, miss," you repeated, hastily stuffing her groceries back into the bag.

But she wasn’t done. "Do you see what you did?! My rice bag ripped! I can't eat it now! And my fish—ugh, it fell on the ground! It’s unsanitary!"

"B-but they're packaged… it's still okay, right?" You looked up at her with wide eyes, hoping for some mercy.

"No, it’s not!" she snapped. "You have to pay me back!"

You sighed, reaching for your bag where your wallet rested. Great. Now I won’t have enough money for food.

But before you could take out your cash, a figure suddenly stepped forward from behind you.

"That’s enough."

His voice was calm, yet firm—almost reprimanding. You turned your head slightly, eyes widening as your neighbor, the polite yet mysterious man, came into view. Without a word, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and handed the woman several crisp bills.

"S-sir, no need! I-I can—" Your guilt surged to new heights. Not only had an old woman fallen because of you, but now your neighbor—who, judging by where he lived, probably didn’t have much money—was covering your mistake.

But he ignored your protests entirely, slipping the cash into the woman’s wrinkled hand. She shot you one last glare before begrudgingly walking away.

You stared at the ground, embarrassment weighing down on you. "Sir… thank you… you really didn’t have to," you murmured, barely above a whisper.

He regarded you with a composed expression. "You had good intentions. You shouldn’t be financially punished for them." His tone was reassuring, almost gentle.

You offered him a polite smile, bowing slightly.

"Do you often feed those strays?" he asked, curiosity flickering in his gaze.

"Yeah, twice a day. They’re my friends by now," you admitted with an awkward laugh, rubbing the back of your head.

At that, he gave you a small smile—one that lingered just a little longer than expected.

"Very few people do something good without expecting anything in return" he mumbled.

"Feeding stray cats isn't a noble thing" you laugh. "It's just being human" you smile and laugh as if it's the most obvious thing ever, a no brainer, he scans your face for any disingenuous but he can't find anything, he just hums in response.

"Human" he mumbles.

◇

A few days had passed since that encounter.

Every time he saw you from his window—kneeling to feed the stray cats, slipping a coin into a beggar’s hand—he felt... uncomfortable.

You made him uncomfortable.

He could see it clearly—you didn’t have much. He had spotted you in the shared kitchen more than once, fixing yourself instant noodles. Your clothes, worn and slightly oversized, were clearly hand-me-downs, hanging loosely from your frame. Yet, despite your own struggles, you were always so quick to help others.

Why?

Why did you prioritize them before yourself?

Everything about you unsettled him because, for the first time, his beliefs were being challenged. For so long, he had been certain that humans were inherently greedy, selfish creatures—too absorbed in their own survival to spare a glance beyond the tip of their own nose.

But you? You were different.

Was it naivety? Blind optimism? Or perhaps something religious? Maybe you believed that, through your sacrifices, you would be rewarded in the afterlife. That would be the logical explanation, wouldn’t it? Because otherwise, why would anyone be so selfless?

He tried to rationalize it—tried to fit your behavior into the framework of a world he thought he understood.

But he needed to know.

What was it?

What drove you?

◇

You sat on a bench in a nearby park, basking in the warmth of the sun as birds chirped in high-pitched melodies around you. The world around you faded as you became engrossed in your book, flipping through the pages with an almost frantic eagerness—you had always been a fast reader.

"Metamorphosis."

A calm voice suddenly broke your trance.

You flinched slightly, caught off guard, before looking up. Standing beside you was your next-door neighbor.

"My apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you," he said, offering an apologetic smile.

You waved it off with a small laugh. "No biggie."

His gaze flickered to the book in your hands. "You're reading Kafka. Impressive, I’d say."

Scooting over, you gestured for him to sit. He nodded slightly before taking a seat beside you, maintaining a respectful distance.

"I always liked his works," you said, tapping the book’s cover. "This one, Metamorphosis, especially. I suppose I’ve always been drawn to anything that involves insects."

You let out a lighthearted laugh, but he only raised an eyebrow.

"Insects? That’s unusual. Most people are afraid of them." His tone held genuine curiosity.

"Well, not me," you shrugged. "I’ve always thought they were misunderstood. Same with reptiles. But anyway, that’s kind of missing the point of the book."

He chuckled at that, nodding in quiet amusement. Then, after a brief pause, he turned to you, his expression unreadable.

"You know, Miss…?"

"Y/N. My name is Y/N," you said with a smile.

"Well, Miss Y/N," he continued, his tone steady, "the other day, you mentioned feeding the cats because that’s human." He studied you for a moment, as if trying to decipher a puzzle. "Truth be told, it intrigued me—perhaps even annoyed me—because I simply can’t understand your motivations."

You blinked at him before letting out another soft laugh.

"I don’t have any motivations," you admitted. "I just don’t want them to be hungry."

◇

It became a routine.

Mornings started the same—heading out to feed the stray cats before trudging off to class, enduring long-winded lectures that felt more like endurance tests than actual learning. Then, every evening, you’d return to feed the cats again, but this time, with Inho.

Funny thing was, despite talking for three months now, you had only recently learned his name. Until then, you had been calling him Sir—a habit that stuck until one particular evening when the two of you found yourselves at a street food stall, sharing a plate of spicy tteokbokki and discussing everything and nothing.

"So, Y/N, how was class today?" he asked, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"Oh, you know, sir. Just the usual—boredom and political indoctrination," you joked, laughing at your own words.

He simply shook his head, amusement flashing in his eyes.

"You know, Y/N, there’s no need to ‘Sir’ me. Just call me Inho."

There was no doubt that he found you interesting—maybe even enjoyed your company more than he’d admit. But the feeling was mutual. Inho was intriguing. Your long conversations were intellectually stimulating in a way that left you wanting more, and over time, you realized you’d grown… attached.

You weren’t one to openly discuss your financial struggles. When the topic arose, it was usually in the form of a lighthearted joke about surviving on instant ramen, brushing off the reality of it. But something about Inho—his steady gaze, his quiet presence—made you feel vulnerable in a way that didn’t scare you. For once, opening up felt okay.

After feeding the cats—each one now playfully named by you—both of you sat on the same bench where your first real conversation had taken place.

Inho, of course, had insisted on numbering the cats instead of naming them, rattling off designations like Cat One, Cat Two, Cat Three. You had fought against the absurdity of it, firmly believing each of them had unique personalities that deserved equally unique names.

Now, as the quiet evening stretched around you, you finally gave in to the curiosity that had been gnawing at you for weeks.

"Inho?" you mumbled.

He hummed in response, glancing at you, already expecting a question.

"What do you do for work?" you asked, tilting your head slightly.

A small, almost knowing smile crossed his lips. He took a slow breath before answering, "I’m a retired police officer."

Your eyes widened in amusement. "Seriously?! That’s so cool!"

Without thinking, you jumped up, forming finger guns with your hands and pretending to aim at him. "Did you do a lot of pew pew?"

Inho let out a rare, amused laugh at your childlike wonder.

"Not really," he admitted, shaking his head. "In dire situations, I just used a taser."

You hummed, plopping back down beside him with an impressed nod. "Still… so cool."

◇

It was just an ordinary day—feeding the cats, attending your classes, and now, heading home on the metro. You sat on a bench at the station, idly bouncing your leg, anticipation bubbling in your chest at the thought of seeing Inho again later.

Then, out of nowhere, a man in a crisp suit, carrying a sleek leather briefcase, sat down beside you.

"Miss?"

His voice was smooth, polite. You turned toward him, frowning slightly in surprise.

"Would you be up for a game with me?" he asked.

You sighed, already weary of strangers approaching with strange propositions. Shaking your head, you offered a polite smile.

"Sorry, sir, but I’m not searching for Jesus."

The man chuckled, unfazed by your response. "Ma'am, it’s just a simple game of Ddakji. If you win, I’ll give you 1,000 won. If you lose, you give me 1,000 won."

Your brow furrowed. It reeked of a scam—who just randomly approaches someone at a metro station asking to gamble? But… money was tight. The offer, as absurd as it seemed, lingered in your mind.

As if sensing your hesitation, the man smoothly opened his briefcase, revealing neat stacks of cash alongside a set of folded Ddakji tiles. Your breath hitched at the sight—there was a lot of money in there.

You swallowed. "Fine."

He smiled approvingly and handed you a tile, allowing you to choose between red and blue. You picked blue. With an encouraging nod, he placed the red tile on the ground.

"Go ahead," he gestured.

You took a deep breath, gripped your Ddakji tightly, and slammed it onto the floor with all your might.

Nothing.

The tile didn’t even budge.

You sighed, already feeling regret creeping in. You really didn’t have the money for this.

"You don’t have the money, do you?" The man pouted almost teasingly.

You hesitated before nodding, embarrassed.

"Very well then," he said, his tone still disturbingly calm. "Then you can pay with your body. How does that sound, hmm?"

Your stomach twisted into knots.

"S-Sir, what? No!"

Then—a slap.

A sharp, stinging force against your cheek.

Your head whipped to the side, eyes wide in shock. The pain bloomed almost instantly, a burning heat spreading across your skin. Your heart pounded, breath hitching in your throat as you processed what just happened.

"Every time you lose," the man continued coolly, adjusting his tie as if nothing unusual had occurred, "you’ll receive a slap. And every time you win, you’ll receive the money."

With each throw, another slap landed. Then another. And another.

You weren’t good at this game. That much was clear. Each failed attempt was met with a stinging strike, your cheek growing redder and more swollen with each round. Your fingers trembled as you kept picking up the tile, desperate to win just once.

And then—finally—you flipped it.

A triumphant laugh bubbled from your throat as you jumped to your feet, hand instinctively raising to slap the man back. But before you could, his hand shot out, catching your wrist in a firm grip.

His expression remained unreadable as he pulled out a bill and placed it into your free hand.

Breathless, you blinked down at it, your fingers curling instinctively around the money. Your cheek still throbbed, your body still tense, but… you had won.

"If you’re interested in playing simple games like these," the man said, reaching into his pocket, "for a handsome financial prize, give us a call."

He handed you a sleek card, adorned with eerie geometric shapes. Then, just as smoothly as he arrived, he stood and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

You stared after him before hesitantly scanning the card, fingers brushing over its surface.

Then, without thinking, you slipped it into your pocket.

◇

8:00 PM.

You arrived at your usual meeting spot, spotting Inho waiting for you near the bench where you always met after feeding the cats. You smiled and waved, picking up your pace.

"Hey!" you greeted, breathless but cheerful.

He didn't return your smile. Instead, his eyes immediately locked onto your face, scanning it with an intensity that made you pause. His usual composed expression twisted into a deep frown.

"Y/N… what happened to your face?"

There was something sharp in his tone—concern, frustration, maybe even something else. His fists clenched at his sides as if he was holding himself back.

"Who did this to you? Are your classmates bullying you?"

You let out a short laugh, waving off his worries as if it were nothing more than a funny mishap.

"Nothing like that. Just some freak at the metro station offered to play Ddakji with me and slapped me every time I lost. But also gave me money when I won," you explained, chuckling. The absurdity of the situation still lingered in your mind. You reached into your pocket and pulled out the card the man had given you. "Oh, and look—he gave me this."

As soon as the card left your pocket, Inho's entire demeanor shifted. His body went rigid, his breath hitched so subtly you almost missed it, and for the first time since you met him, his carefully maintained mask cracked. His eyes widened—not just in shock, but in something deeper.

Fear.

Before you could even react, his hand shot out and snatched the card from your fingers.

"Hey! What the hell?!" you yelped.

With swift, almost practiced precision, he ripped it to shreds. Tiny fragments of paper slipped through his fingers like confetti before he threw them into the distance as if simply touching them was dangerous.

You stood there, stunned.

"Why did you do that?!" you demanded, glaring at him.

Inho’s jaw tightened, his expression carefully blank now, but his hands were still tense, as if he was fighting an impulse.

"I’ve seen it before," he said, his voice even, almost too controlled. "When I was a police officer. It’s a pyramid scheme, and they recruit young, naive people this way. They promise easy money, but it’s just a scam. Don’t think too much about it."

The explanation sounded logical. Rational. But something about the way he said it… the way he had reacted before he said it, made you hesitate. He wasn’t just warning you—he was protecting you from something. Something you didn’t understand.

Still, you sighed, the fight leaving your posture. Maybe he was right. Maybe it really was just some elaborate scam. The whole thing had felt too good to be true anyway.

"Hm. I guess I’m too naive," you muttered, eyes lowering to the ground, voice softer now.

At your words, Inho’s gaze softened, the tension in his body unraveling ever so slightly.

And then, unexpectedly, his fingers brushed against your bruised cheek.

You froze.

His touch was gentle—barely there at first, almost as if he was testing whether you'd flinch. But then, with slow, deliberate care, his thumb traced over the reddened skin, skimming lightly over the sore area without applying any pressure. The warmth of his fingertips sent a strange, unfamiliar feeling through you.

Your breath hitched slightly, but before you could even process the moment, your body reacted on its own. You leaned into his touch—just a little.

It was instinctive. Natural. And yet, it caught you completely off guard.

"I really wish I could just play kids’ games and win enough money to pay off my student debt," you mumbled, pouting slightly.

The words were spoken half-jokingly, but even as they left your lips, something about them felt strangely… ominous. The mere thought of it was ridiculous, absurd even. But still, the idea lingered.

For a moment, Inho's fingers stilled against your cheek. Just for a fraction of a second. Then, almost as if forcing himself to act normal, he resumed his gentle stroking.

You weren’t used to this.

This kind of tenderness.

He exhaled quietly, withdrawing his hand. "Come on," he said, voice softer now. "Let’s get you something to eat. You must be starving."

Without waiting for your response, he turned and started walking, his posture more rigid than usual.

And after a brief pause, you followed.

◇

A couple of weeks had passed since that evening at the train station when you played Ddakji. The whole ordeal had already begun to fade from your mind. These days, you were spending more time with In-ho than ever. He had made it his mission to ensure you reached class safely and without disturbance, escorting you to and from college every day with unwavering reliability.

He became the steady presence you never realized you needed—the comfort you hadn’t had before. With each passing day, new feelings blossomed toward him. Every morning, he made sure you ate breakfast, knowing your habit of skipping it. He paid close attention to your likes and dislikes, catering perfectly to your taste by buying your meals without fail. He even studied with you.

In-ho had a way of breaking down complex subjects so effortlessly that you never felt ignorant for not knowing something. His vast knowledge fascinated you more and more each day—it was as if he knew everything about everything. His presence became second nature to you, a quiet reassurance you found yourself relying on more than you ever expected.

◇

"Y/N."

A gentle shake.

Your body stirred sluggishly as consciousness dragged you back from the depths of sleep. You flinched awake, moving too fast—smack.

"Ow—!"

Your forehead collided with the desk lamp, sending it wobbling dangerously. Inho's hand was on you instantly, steadying the lamp before it could topple over, his other hand moving to rub the sore spot on your head with a smirk of amusement.

"You really should get some rest," he murmured, his thumb tracing soothing circles against your scalp. "We can finish writing tomorrow."

Only then did you fully register where you were—at your desk, papers sprawled out, a half-written essay glowing on your laptop screen. You had been working on it together, but at some point, exhaustion won, and you had dozed off. He must have left for the store to grab snacks, only to return and find you slumped over the desk.

You barely managed a nod before pushing yourself up and stumbling toward your bed. The mattress welcomed you immediately, its softness pulling you deeper into the haze of sleep.

Inho exhaled with a quiet chuckle and turned toward the door, ready to return to his room.

"Inho."

Your voice, barely above a mumble, stopped him in his tracks.

"Don't go."

His brows lifted slightly in surprise, but he didn’t speak, waiting.

"Stay with me."

You shifted in bed, scooting over to make space for him. There wasn’t much—your bed was small, barely enough for one, but you still made room.

Inho hesitated, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. "Are you sure? This bed is tiny."

Despite his words, he moved closer, cautiously sitting on the edge. There was something hesitant in his posture, like he didn’t want to overstep, didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.

You didn’t let him linger there for long.

Without thinking, your hands reached for him, wrapping around his torso, guiding him down beside you. His body tensed for only a fraction of a second before melting into your hold.

And just like that, his arms were around you.

Warm. Protective. Solid.

His grip was firm but gentle as he pulled you closer, your head now resting against his chest. The steady, rhythmic beat of his heart thrummed beneath your ear, grounding you in a way you hadn't expected.

"You should really find someone your age," he murmured, though there was no real weight to the words.

You groaned sleepily in protest, burrowing deeper into his warmth.

He chuckled, the sound a soft rumble against your ear.

And then, in the drowsy lull of exhaustion, your lips parted, barely whispering—

"But I want you."

The words were so quiet, almost incoherent, but he heard them.

You felt his body still for just a moment before his hand resumed its slow, absentminded stroking along your back.

After a pause, you forced your heavy eyelids open, just enough to glimpse him. The dim glow of the moonlight poured through the window, casting soft shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the curve of his jaw. He looked… beautiful.

Your chest tightened slightly at the thought.

His eyes met yours then, unreadable, but still, his hand never stopped moving—comforting, steady.

"Go to sleep," he murmured, his voice softer now. "You need to be well-rested for tomorrow’s class."

Then, just before you drifted away, you felt it—a press of warm lips against your temple.

A fleeting moment. A quiet reassurance.

Your breathing evened out, your body relaxing entirely against him as sleep reclaimed you.

◇

As morning light filtered through your window, you opened your well-rested eyes—only to feel an immediate sense of wrongness. He wasn’t there. No trace of him anywhere.

Frowning, you scanned the room, your chest tightening with unease. Then, your gaze landed on a small note resting on your desk. You picked it up, your fingers tracing over the elegant handwriting.

"Had some urgent matters. Will be back in six days. —In-ho"

Panic gripped your chest. Had you done something wrong? What happened? Was he okay? A thousand questions swirled in your mind, but none had answers.

You called him—straight to voicemail. Again. And again. Nothing.

Heart pounding, you rushed out of your room, knocking almost desperately on his door. Silence. You returned to your room, checking your phone. Maybe he had texted? He hadn’t.

That day, you didn’t even bother going to class. You just felt… heartbroken. Like the world had collapsed around you, even though he had promised to return in less than a week. You found yourself sitting at your usual bench at the usual hour, waiting. Hoping. Maybe he’d come.

He didn’t.

The days dragged on, each one emptier than the last. The absence of his presence left a hollow ache inside you. But what you didn’t know was that, behind the featureless black mask you weren’t even aware of, he felt the same way.

Now, on the sixth night, you sat on that same bench, waiting. Hours had passed, and there was still no sign of him. Letting out a defeated sigh, the warm night air brushing against your tear-streaked face, you finally stood up, ready to return to your room.

And then—

"Y/N."

The voice made you freeze. Your head snapped around, eyes widening as you met his gaze.

"In-ho."

His name slipped from your lips in a whisper, the tension in your body melting away. He stepped forward, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder.

"Where were you?" you sniffled, gripping the fabric of his shirt tightly, afraid he’d disappear again.

"Shh… I’m sorry. Something urgent came up." His voice was low, soothing, yet distant—hiding something. He wanted so badly to preserve your innocence, to keep you blissfully unaware of the double life he led.

"But why? Where did you go?"

"I’ll explain everything later," he murmured, his fingers tracing slow, comforting circles on your back.

Then, in a whisper, "I missed you."

"I missed you too."

You lifted your head to meet his eyes, and he leaned in.

"May I?"

You nodded, and his lips found yours in a slow, gentle kiss. His hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, as if he could merge into you—hold you forever.

"I’ll give you everything you ever wanted," he murmured against your lips, his breath warm against your skin.

"Everything."

Your breath hitched.

"I love you," you whispered.

He kissed you again, the words I love you slipping between each kiss.

Did he ever explain where he had been? Of course not. He always danced around the truth with effortless ease, never letting you glimpse the dark reality of his world. What mattered to him was that you remained untouched by the knowledge of the Games—that you stayed blissfully unaware.

But did he keep his promise to give you everything?

Absolutely.

He gave you more than everything. More than money could buy—and everything that money could buy. Even though he knew you weren’t superficial, there was something about seeing you surrounded by luxury that satisfied him. You often wondered where the money came from, but before you could press too hard, he always had a perfectly logical explanation.

And you?

You were head over heels for this man—or perhaps for the version of himself he so carefully curated for you.

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[nasa]

NASA Inspires Your Crafty Creations for World Embroidery Day

It’s amazing what you can do with a little needle and thread! For #WorldEmbroideryDay, we asked what NASA imagery inspired you. You responded with a variety of embroidered creations, highlighting our different areas of study.

Here’s what we found:

Webb’s Carina Nebula

Wendy Edwards, a project coordinator with Earth Science Data Systems at NASA, created this embroidered piece inspired by Webb’s Carina Nebula image. Captured in infrared light, this image revealed for the first time previously invisible areas of star birth. Credit: Wendy Edwards, NASA. Pattern credit: Clare Bray, Climbing Goat Designs

Wendy Edwards, a project coordinator with Earth Science Data Systems at NASA, first learned cross stitch in middle school where she had to pick rotating electives and cross stitch/embroidery was one of the options.  “When I look up to the stars and think about how incredibly, incomprehensibly big it is out there in the universe, I’m reminded that the universe isn’t ‘out there’ at all. We’re in it,” she said. Her latest piece focused on Webb’s image release of the Carina Nebula. The image showcased the telescope’s ability to peer through cosmic dust, shedding new light on how stars form.

Ocean Color Imagery: Exploring the North Caspian Sea

Danielle Currie of Satellite Stitches created a piece inspired by the Caspian Sea, taken by NASA’s ocean color satellites. Credit: Danielle Currie/Satellite Stitches

Danielle Currie is an environmental professional who resides in New Brunswick, Canada. She began embroidering at the beginning of the Covid-19 pandemic as a hobby to take her mind off the stress of the unknown. Danielle’s piece is titled “46.69, 50.43,” named after the coordinates of the area of the northern Caspian Sea captured by LandSat8 in 2019.

An image of the Caspian Sea captured by Landsat 8 in 2019. Credit: NASA

Two Hubble Images of the Pillars of Creation, 1995 and 2015

Melissa Cole of Star Stuff Stitching created an embroidery piece based on the Hubble image Pillars of Creation released in 1995. Credit: Melissa Cole, Star Stuff Stitching

Melissa Cole is an award-winning fiber artist from Philadelphia, PA, USA, inspired by the beauty and vastness of the universe. They began creating their own cross stitch patterns at 14, while living with their grandparents in rural Michigan, using colored pencils and graph paper.  The Pillars of Creation (Eagle Nebula, M16), released by the Hubble Telescope in 1995 when Melissa was just 11 years old, captured the imagination of a young person in a rural, religious setting, with limited access to science education.

Lauren Wright Vartanian of the shop Neurons and Nebulas created this piece inspired by the Hubble Space Telescope’s 2015 25th anniversary re-capture of the Pillars of Creation. Credit:  Lauren Wright Vartanian, Neurons and Nebulas

Lauren Wright Vartanian of Guelph, Ontario Canada considers herself a huge space nerd. She’s a multidisciplinary artist who took up hand sewing after the birth of her daughter. She’s currently working on the illustrations for a science themed alphabet book, made entirely out of textile art. It is being published by Firefly Books and comes out in the fall of 2024. Lauren said she was enamored by the original Pillars image released by Hubble in 1995. When Hubble released a higher resolution capture in 2015, she fell in love even further! This is her tribute to those well-known images.

James Webb Telescope Captures Pillars of Creation

Darci Lenker of Darci Lenker Art, created a rectangular version of Webb’s Pillars of Creation. Credit:  Darci Lenker of Darci Lenker Art

Darci Lenker of Norman, Oklahoma started embroidery in college more than 20 years ago, but mainly only used it as an embellishment for her other fiber works. In 2015, she started a daily embroidery project where she planned to do one one-inch circle of embroidery every day for a year.  She did a collection of miniature thread painted galaxies and nebulas for Science Museum Oklahoma in 2019. Lenker said she had previously embroidered the Hubble Telescope’s image of Pillars of Creation and was excited to see the new Webb Telescope image of the same thing. Lenker could not wait to stitch the same piece with bolder, more vivid colors.

Milky Way

Darci Lenker of Darci Lenker Art was inspired by NASA’s imaging of the Milky Way Galaxy. Credit: Darci Lenker

In this piece, Lenker became inspired by the Milky Way Galaxy, which is organized into spiral arms of giant stars that illuminate interstellar gas and dust. The Sun is in a finger called the Orion Spur.

The Cosmic Microwave Background

This image shows an embroidery design based on the cosmic microwave background, created by Jessica Campbell, who runs Astrostitches. Inside a tan wooden frame, a colorful oval is stitched onto a black background in shades of blue, green, yellow, and a little bit of red. Credit: Jessica Campbell/ Astrostitches

Jessica Campbell obtained her PhD in astrophysics from the University of Toronto studying interstellar dust and magnetic fields in the Milky Way Galaxy. Jessica promptly taught herself how to cross-stitch in March 2020 and has since enjoyed turning astronomical observations into realistic cross-stitches. Her piece was inspired by the cosmic microwave background, which displays the oldest light in the universe.

The full-sky image of the temperature fluctuations (shown as color differences) in the cosmic microwave background, made from nine years of WMAP observations. These are the seeds of galaxies, from a time when the universe was under 400,000 years old. Credit: NASA/WMAP Science Team

GISSTEMP: NASA’s Yearly Temperature Release

Katy Mersmann, a NASA social media specialist, created this embroidered piece based on NASA’s Goddard Institute for Space Studies (GISS) global annual temperature record. Earth’s average surface temperature in 2020 tied with 2016 as the warmest year on record. Credit: Katy Mersmann, NASA

Katy Mersmann is a social media specialist at NASA’s Goddard Space Flight Center in Greenbelt, Md. She started embroidering when she was in graduate school. Many of her pieces are inspired by her work as a communicator. With climate data in particular, she was inspired by the researchers who are doing the work to understand how the planet is changing. The GISTEMP piece above is based on a data visualization of 2020 global temperature anomalies, still currently tied for the warmest year on record.

In addition to embroidery, NASA continues to inspire art in all forms. Check out other creative takes with Landsat Crafts and the James Webb Space telescope public art gallery.

Make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of space!